Chapter 1 THE MAGNET ATTRACTING--A WAIF AMID FORCES
When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in Van Buren Street, and four dollars in money. It was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret at parting characterised her thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages now being given up. A gush of tears at her mother's farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the flour mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as the familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and the threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home were irretrievably broken. 
To be sure there was always the next station, where one might descend and return. There was the great city, bound more closely by these very trains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very far away, even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours--a few hundred miles? She looked at the little slip bearing her sister's address and wondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now passing in swift review, until her swifter thoughts replaced its impression with vague conjectures of what Chicago might be. 
When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forces which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the simpler human perceptions. 
Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but not strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of the middle American class--two generations removed from the emigrant. Books were beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book. In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet, though small, were set flatly. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and subject--the proper penitent, groveling at a woman's slipper. 
"That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little resorts in Wisconsin." 
"Is it?" she answered nervously. 
The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had been conscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass of hair. He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a certain interest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and a certain sense of what was conventional under the circumstances, called her to forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of the individual, born of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. She answered. 
He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable. 
"Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are swell. You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?" 
"Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City. I have never been through here, though." 
"And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed. 
All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side of her eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey fedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain. 
"I didn't say that," she said. 
"Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of mistake, "I thought you did." 
Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing house--a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a still newer term, which had sprung into general use among Americans in 1880, and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are calculated to elicit the admiration of susceptible young women--a "masher." His suit was of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time, but since become familiar as a business suit. The low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes." His fingers bore several rings--one, the ever-enduring heavy seal--and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole suit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the order of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first glance. 
Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put down some of the most striking characteristics of his most successful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were the first essential, the things without which he was nothing. A strong physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. A mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. His method was always simple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet with a young woman once and he would approach her with an air of kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading, which would result in most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If she showed any tendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie, or if she "took up" with him at all, to call her by her first name. If he visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over the counter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusive circles, on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. If some seemingly vulnerable object appeared he was all attention--to pass the compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car, carrying her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the hope of being able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, a footstool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things which he could do. If, when she reached her destination he did not alight and attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation, he had signally failed. 
A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. There is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel which somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on the way downward he will get no glance from her. There is another line at which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line the individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of her shoes. 
"Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your town. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man." 
"Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their show windows had cost her. 
At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city. 
"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you relatives?" 
"I am going to visit my sister," she explained. 
"You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard. They are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York--great. So much to see--theatres, crowds, fine houses--oh, you'll like that." 
There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected her. She realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth. There was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual with his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight. 
"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at one turn of the now easy conversation. 
"I don't know," said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the possibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind. 
"Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes. 
There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and beauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the many little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion--had she ever had one--would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily. 
"Why do you ask?" she said. 
"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock at our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round." 
"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether I can. I shall be living with my sister, and----""Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and a little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your address there?" 
She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip. 
He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the centre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do. 
He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett, Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet. 
"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father's side." 
She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter from a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for," he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake." There was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected with such a place, and he made her feel that way. 
"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write. 
She looked at his hand. 
"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson." 
He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be at home if I come around Monday night?" he said. 
"I think so," she answered. 
How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how his luring succeeded. 
She could not realise that she was drifting, until he secured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded something--he, that he had gained a victory. Already they felt that they were somehow associated. Already he took control in directing the conversation. His words were easy. Her manner was relaxed. 
They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains flashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they could see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward the great city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some big smokestacks towering high in the air. 
Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the open fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army of homes. 
To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening--that mystic period between the glare and gloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for the weary! What old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the soul of the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free. I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song-these are mine in the night." Though all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they may not always express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil. 
Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the city and pointed out its marvels. 
"This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the Chicago River," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With a puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. "Chicago is getting to be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder. You'll find lots to see here." 
She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of terror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but feel a little choked for breath--a little sick as her heart beat so fast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that Columbia City was only a little way off. 
"Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door. They were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her hand firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten his trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip. 
"I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Let me carry your grip." 
"Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather you wouldn't be with me when I meet my sister." 
"All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in case she isn't here, and take you out there safely." 
"You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such attention in her strange situation. 
"Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They were under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train moving at a snail's pace. The people in the car were all up and crowding about the door. 
"Well, here we are," said Drouet, leading the way to the door. "Good-bye, till I see you Monday." 
"Good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand. 
"Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister." 
She smiled into his eyes. 
They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A lean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform and hurried forward. 
"Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was embrace of welcome. 
Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the hand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement. Her sister carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil. 
"Why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, and mother?" 
Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the gate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He was looking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sister he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only Carrie saw it. She felt something lost to her when he moved away. When he disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she was much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.
Chapter 2 WHAT POVERTY THREATENED--OF GRANITE AND BRASS
Minnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then being called, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited by families of labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were still coming, with the rush of population pouring in at the rate of 50,000 a year. It was on the third floor, the front windows looking down into the street, where, at night, the lights of grocery stores were shining and children were playing. To Carrie, the sound of the little bells upon the horse-cars, as they tinkled in and out of hearing, was as pleasing as it was novel. She gazed into the lighted street when Minnie brought her into the front room, and wondered at the sounds, the movement, the murmur of the vast city which stretched for miles and miles in every direction. 
Mrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie the baby and proceeded to get supper. Her husband asked a few questions and sat down to read the evening paper. He was a silent man, American born, of a Swede father, and now employed as a cleaner of refrigerator cars at the stock-yards. To him the presence or absence of his wife's sister was a matter of indifference. Her personal appearance did not affect him one way or the other. His one observation to the point was concerning the chances of work in Chicago. 
"It's a big place," he said. "You can get in somewhere in a few days. Everybody does." 
It had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get work and pay her board. He was of a clean, saving disposition, and had already paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out on the West Side. His ambition was some day to build a house on them. 
In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie found time to study the flat. She had some slight gift of observation and that sense, so rich in every woman--intuition. 
She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of the rooms were discordantly papered. The floors were covered with matting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet. One could see that the furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together quality sold by the instalment houses. 
She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began to cry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his reading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came out here. He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up in his offspring. 
"Now, now," he said, walking. "There, there," and there was a certain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice. 
"You'll want to see the city first, won't you?" said Minnie, when they were eating. "Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park. 
Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to be thinking of something else. 
"Well," she said, "I think I'll look around tomorrow. I've got Friday and Saturday, and it won't be any trouble. Which way is the business part?" 
Minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the conversation to himself. 
"It's that way," he said, pointing east. "That's east." Then he went off into the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the lay of Chicago. "You'd better look in those big manufacturing houses along Franklin Street and just the other side of the river," he concluded. "Lots of girls work there. You could get home easy, too. It isn't very far." 
Carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood. The latter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it, while Hanson concerned himself with the baby. Finally he jumped up and handed the child to his wife. 
"I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed," and off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall, for the night. 
"He works way down at the stock-yards," explained Minnie, "so he's got to get up at half-past five." 
"What time do you get up to get breakfast?" asked Carrie. 
"At about twenty minutes of five." 
Together they finished the labour of the day, Carrie washing the dishes while Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. Minnie's manner was one of trained industry, and Carrie could see that it was a steady round of toil with her. 
She began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to be abandoned. He could not come here. She read from the manner of Hanson, in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the flat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of toil. If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his paper, if he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, what would they expect of her? She saw that she would first need to get work and establish herself on a paying basis before she could think of having company of any sort. Her little flirtation with Drouet seemed now an extraordinary thing. 
"No," she said to herself, "he can't come here." 
She asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in the dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got out Drouet's card and wrote him. 
"I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait until you hear from me again. My sister's place is so small." 
She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She wanted to make some reference to their relations upon the train, but was too timid. She concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crude way, then puzzled over the formality of signing her name, and finally decided upon the severe, winding up with a "Very truly," which she subsequently changed to "Sincerely." She scaled and addressed the letter, and going in the front room, the alcove of which contained her bed, drew the one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and sat looking out upon the night and streets in silent wonder. Finally, wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for the night and went to bed. 
When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Her sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room, sewing. She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfast for herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which way to look. The latter had changed considerably since Carrie had seen her. She was now a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of life coloured by her husband's, and fast hardening into narrower conceptions of pleasure and duty than had ever been hers in a thoroughly circumscribed youth. She had invited Carrie, not because she longed for her presence, but because the latter was dissatisfied at home, and could probably get work and pay her board here. She was pleased to see her in a way but reflected her husband's point of view in the matter of work. Anything was good enough so long as it paid--say, five dollars a week to begin with. A shop girl was the destiny prefigured for the newcomer. She would get in one of the great shops and do well enough until--well, until something happened. Neither of them knew exactly what. They did not figure on promotion. They did not exactly count on marriage. Things would go on, though, in a dim kind of way until the better thing would eventuate, and Carrie would be rewarded for coming and toiling in the city. It was under such auspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look for work. 
Before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the sphere in which her future was to lie. In 1889 Chicago had the peculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresome pilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible. Its many and growing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame, which made of it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all quarters, the hopeful and the hopeless--those who had their fortune yet to make and those whose fortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climax elsewhere. It was a city of over 500,000, with the ambition, the daring, the activity of a metropolis of a million. Its streets and houses were already scattered over an area of seventy-five square miles. Its population was not so much thriving upon established commerce as upon the industries which prepared for the arrival of others. The sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of new structures was everywhere heard. Great industries were moving in. The huge railroad corporations which had long before recognised the prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land for transfer and shipping purposes. Street-car lines had been extended far out into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth. The city had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regions where, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone--a pioneer of the populous ways to be. There were regions open to the sweeping winds and rain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long, blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow board walks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at far intervals, eventually ending on the open prairie. 
In the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district, to which the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. It was a characteristic of Chicago then, and one not generally shared by other cities, that individual firms of any pretension occupied individual buildings. The presence of ample ground made this possible. It gave an imposing appearance to most of the wholesale houses, whose offices were upon the ground floor and in plain view of the street. The large plates of window glass, now so common, were then rapidly coming into use, and gave to the ground floor offices a distinguished and prosperous look. The casual wanderer could see as he passed a polished array of office fixtures, much frosted glass, clerks hard at work, and genteel businessmen in "nobby" suits and clean linen lounging about or sitting in groups. Polished brass or nickel signs at the square stone entrances announced the firm and the nature of the business in rather neat and reserved terms. The entire metropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air calculated to overawe and abash the common applicant, and to make the gulf between poverty and success seem both wide and deep. 
Into this important commercial region the timid Carrie went. She walked east along Van Buren Street through a region of lessening importance, until it deteriorated into a mass of shanties and coal-yards, and finally verged upon the river. She walked bravely forward, led by an honest desire to find employment and delayed at every step by the interest of the unfolding scene, and a sense of helplessness amid so much evidence of power and force which she did not understand. These vast buildings, what were they? These strange energies and huge interests, for what purposes were they there? She could have understood the meaning of a little stone-cutter's yard at Columbia City, carving little pieces of marble for individual use, but when the yards of some huge stone corporation came into view, filled with spur tracks and flat cars, transpierced by docks from the river and traversed overhead by immense trundling cranes of wood and steel, it lost all significance in her little world. 
It was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array of vessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the way, lining the water's edge. Through the open windows she could see the figures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily about. The great streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the vast offices, strange mazes which concerned far-off individuals of importance. She could only think of people connected with them as counting money, dressing magnificently, and riding in carriages. What they dealt in, how they laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguest conception. It was all wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and she sank in spirit inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as she thought of entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking for something to do--something that she could do--anything.
嘉莉的姐姐敏妮住的是公寓，那是当时对占据一个楼面的套房的称呼。公寓在西凡布仑街，是个工人和职员的居民区。这些人来自外地，现在还不断有人搬来。芝加哥的人口以每年五万人的速度骤增。她的房间在三楼。前屋的窗子临街。 一到夜里，杂货店里大放光明，孩子们在街上玩。马车驶过时，车上的铃铛叮当叮当地响起，直到渐渐消失在远处。对于嘉莉来说，这铃声不仅新奇而且令人愉快。敏妮带她走进前屋后，她的目光便投向了窗外灯火通明的马路，对于大城市的各种声音，各种活动和向方圆几英里弥漫的嗡嗡声不由感到新奇惊讶。 
在刚见面的寒暄过后，嘉莉的姐姐汉生太太把婴儿交给嘉莉，就动手去烧晚饭了。她的丈夫问了几句话，就坐下来看晚报。他是个沉默寡言的人，美国出生，父亲是瑞典人，他本人是畜牧场冷藏车的清洁工。对他来说，小姨子来不来，与他无关。她的来到既不使他高兴也不让他恼火。他和嘉莉说的唯一正经话题是在芝加哥打工的机会问题。 
“这里是大地方。”他说，“几天内就能在哪里找个活干，每个人都是这样的。”他们事先已达成默契，嘉莉得找份工作，付伙食费。他为人正直，生活节俭，在很远的芝加哥西区用分期付款的办法定购了两块地皮，已经付了几个月了。他的野心是有朝一日在那地皮上盖起一栋房子。 
趁她姐姐烧饭的空隙，嘉莉打量了公寓。她有那么几分观察的天赋和女性特有的直觉。 
她意识到他们的日子很艰难。房间的墙是拼凑的纸糊的，颜色很不协调。地板上铺的是草席，只有起居间铺了一块薄薄的破地毯。看得出家俱是仓促间凑合起来的，是那种分期付款商店卖的质量很差的货色。 
她手里抱着孩子坐在厨房里，和敏妮在一起，直到孩子哭了。于是她站了起来，来回走动着，嘴里哼着歌哄孩子。汉生被孩子的哭声吵得看不成报了，就走了过来，接过孩子。这里显出了他性格中可喜的一面：他很有耐心。看得出他很喜爱自己的孩子。 
“好了好了，别哭了。”他一边走动一边对婴儿说话，他的声音里带有一点瑞典口音。 
“你一定想先在城里看看，是不是？”吃饭时敏妮说道。“这样吧，我们星期天上林肯公园去。”嘉莉注意到汉生对这个提议不置可否。他似乎在想别的事。 
“不过我想明天先四处看看，”她说。“我还有星期五和星期六两天空闲。这不会有什么麻烦的。商业区在哪里？”敏妮开始解释。但是她丈夫把这个话题包揽了过去。 
“在那边，”他指着东边说道，“在东面。”于是他开始了嘉莉来后他的第一旋长篇大论，是关于芝加哥的城市布局的。 
“你最好到河那边，沿富兰克林街看看那些工厂。”结束时他说，“许多女孩在那里工作。而且从那里回家方便，离这里不远。”嘉莉点点头，又向她姐姐打听附近的情况。她姐姐把自己所知道的那些情况低声地告诉她。这期间，汉生只顾自己逗孩子。最后他跳了起来，把孩子递给他妻子。 
“我明天早上要起早，我得去睡了。”说着他就消失在起居间隔壁的卧室，上床去了。 
“他在离这里很远的畜牧场上班，”敏妮解释说，“所以他5点半就要起床。”“那你什么时候起来准备早饭呢？”嘉莉问。 
“5点差20分左右。” 
她们一起把当天的事情做完。嘉莉洗碗，敏妮给孩子脱衣服，放他到床上去。敏妮的一举一动都显出她惯于吃苦耐劳。 
嘉莉看得出，姐姐的日子就是整天手不停地干活。 
她开始意识到，她必须放弃和杜洛埃的交往。不能让他上这里来。她从汉生的态度和敏妮压抑的神气看出，事实上，从这个公寓的整个气氛看出，这里的生活态度保守，一年到头除了干活，别的一切都是和他们格格不入的。汉生的日子就是每晚在前屋看报，9点上床，敏妮晚一点上床。他们对她的期待会是什么呢？她意识到她必须先找份工作，好有钱付食宿，安顿下来，然后才可以想到交朋友之类的事。她和杜洛埃的那一段小小的调情现在看来似乎出格了。 
“不，”她心里思忖道，“他不能来这里。”她向敏妮要墨水和信纸，那些东西就在吃饭间的壁炉架上。等她姐姐10点上床，她就掏出杜洛埃的名片开始写信。 
“我不能让你到这里来看我。等我下次写信再说。我姐姐家地方很窄。”她寻思着再写点什么，想提一提他们在火车上的那段交情，又不好意思。于是她只笼统地谢谢他在火车上的关心作为结束语。接着她又为如何写署名前的敬语费了一番心思。最后她决定用一本正经的口气写上“此致敬礼”，可是随后她又决定改为比较亲切的“祝好。”她封好信，写了地址，就走进前屋。前屋凹进去的地方摆着她的小床。她把那把唯一的小摇椅拖到开着的窗前，就坐在那里，静静地看着窗外的夜色和街道，心里默默地惊叹。最后她想累了，坐在椅子里感到睡意向她袭来，该上床了。于是她换上睡衣就睡了。 
第二天8点钟她醒来时，汉生已去上班了。她姐姐正在那间吃饭间兼起居间的屋里忙着缝衣服。她穿上衣服，就给自己弄了点早饭，然后她问敏妮该去哪里看看。自从上次分手以后，敏妮变化很大。她现在是个27岁的妇女，虽然还硬朗，却已憔悴消瘦。她的人生观受了她丈夫的影响，所以她现在对娱乐和责任的看法比当初在小地方做少女时还要来得狭隘。她邀请嘉莉来，并不是因为想念她，而是因为嘉莉不满意在老家的生活。嘉莉在这里也许可以找份工作，自食其力。见到妹妹她当然也有几分高兴，但是在嘉莉找工作的问题上，她和她丈夫的看法一致。干什么工作是无所谓的，只要有工资就行，譬如说，一开头每周挣5块钱。他们事先认为她可以做个女店员。她可以进某个大店，在那里好好干，直到——怎么说呢？直到有那么一天喜从天降。他们并不确切知道会有什么喜事，他们并不指望她有提升的机会，也并不完全把希望寄托在结婚上。不过他们朦朦胧胧地感到事情总会有转机，于是嘉莉会得到酬报，不至于白白地到城里来辛苦一常那天早上，嘉莉就是抱着这种美好的愿望出门去找工作的。 
在我们跟着嘉莉到处转悠找工作之前，让我们先来瞧瞧她寄予希望的这个世界。1889年芝加哥有着得天独厚的发展条件，甚至连年轻姑娘也会不畏风险地到这里来碰运气。它的大量经商机会远近闻名，使它成了一块巨大的磁铁，吸引着来自四面八方的人们，有的满怀希望，有的出于无可奈何。有的是来发财的，还有的则是在别的地方碰壁破产以后来的。这个人口五十多万的城市，具有一个成为百万人口大都市的野心，气魄和事业。街道和房屋分布在七十五平方英里的大面积上。 
它的人口激增，不是由于传统的商业，而是由于各种工业。这些工业还在准备容纳更多新来的人。到处可以听到建造新楼的铁锤敲击声。大工业正在迁来。那些大铁路公司看出这个地方的前途，所以早就占下大片土地，用于发展交通运输业务。电车的路轨已铺到周围的旷野，因为已预见到那里会迅速发展。在那些只有零星房子分布的地区，城市也修起了一条一条长长的马路和下水道--这些都是未来繁华闹市的先驱。 
有些开阔地区还没有房子遮风挡雨。然而一到夜里，一长排一长排煤气街灯就亮了起来，灯光在风里摇曳。窄窄的木板人行道向前伸展，这里经过一座房子，隔了老远，又在那里经过一个店铺，最后一直通到开阔的草原。 
市中心是一个大商业中心，还经营批发业务。消息不灵通的人们经常到那里去找工作。每个大一点的商号都单独占据了一座楼，这是当时芝加哥不同于其他城市的地方。它们能这么做，是因为地方有的是。这一来，大多数批发商行看上去气势宏伟。写字间设在一楼，可以清楚地看到街上。大橱窗玻璃现在已很普通，当时刚被广泛采用，给一楼的写字间增添了富丽堂皇的风采。闲逛的人经过这些成套锃亮的办公设施时，可以看到许多毛玻璃，埋头工作的职员，还可以看到穿着笔挺西装干净衬衫的商人们散坐着，或者聚在一起。方石砌成的门口挂着闪光的铜牌或镍牌，上面用简洁谨慎的措辞标明商号的名称和性质。整个都市中心显出一种财大气粗，高不可攀的气势，为的是让那些普通的求职者望而生畏，不敢问津，也为的是让贫富之间的鸿沟显得又宽又深。 
嘉莉怯生生地走进这个重要的商业区。她沿着凡布伦街朝东走，穿过一个不太豪华的地段，继续往前走，房子变得越来越一般，渐渐出现了简陋小屋和煤场，最后到了河边。求职的愿望促使她继续勇敢地往前走，展现在面前的有趣事物又不时使她停住脚步。面对着这些她无法理解的赫赫财势和力量，她不由感到孤独无靠。这些高楼大厦是干什么的？这些陌生的行业和大公司做些什么生意？她能理解哥伦比亚城那个小采石场的性质，它是把大理石切割成小块出售给私人。但是当她看到巨大的石料公司的采石场，看到里面纵横交错的铁路专线和平板车，穿入石场的河边码头，和头顶上方的木制钢制大吊车，她就莫明其妙了。她没有见过世面，当然不明白这些东西的性质。 
那些巨大的火车站调车场，她在河边看到的那些密密排列的船只，还有对岸沿河的那些大工厂，同样让她摸不着头脑。通过开着的窗子她可以看见穿着工作围腰的男男女女在那里忙忙碌碌地走来走去。街上那些高墙耸立的商号对她来说又是一些不可捉摸的谜。那些大写字间就像一些神秘莫测的迷宫，另一头通向远方的大人物。关于那些商界人物，她只能想到他们点钞票，穿华服，和坐马车。至于他们做的是什么买卖，他们如何做买卖，他们的买卖有些什么结果，对这些问题她只有一些最模糊的概念。看到这一切如此了不起，如此宏伟，如此高不可攀，她不禁感到气馁。一想到要走进这么气派的商号找工作，找个她能做的工作--不管是什么工作，她就吓得心怦怦乱跳了。
Chapter 3  WEE QUESTION OF FORTUNE--FOUR-FIFTY A WEEK
Once across the river and into the wholesale district, she glanced about her for some likely door at which to apply. As she contemplated the wide windows and imposing signs, she became conscious of being gazed upon and understood for what she was-a wage-seeker. She had never done this thing before, and lacked courage. To avoid a certain indefinable shame she felt at being caught spying about for a position, she quickened her steps and assumed an air of indifference supposedly common to one upon an errand. In this way she passed many manufacturing and wholesale houses without once glancing in. At last, after several blocks of walking, she felt that this would not do, and began to look about again, though without relaxing her pace. A little way on she saw a great door which, for some reason, attracted her attention. It was ornamented by a small brass sign, and seemed to be the entrance to a vast hive of six or seven floors. "Perhaps," she thought, "they may want some one," and crossed over to enter. When she came within a score of feet of the desired goal, she saw through the window a young man in a grey checked suit. That he had anything to do with the concern, she could not tell, but because he happened to be looking in her direction her weakening heart misgave her and she hurried by, too overcome with shame to enter. Over the way stood a great six-story structure, labelled Storm and King, which she viewed with rising hope. It was a wholesale dry goods concern and employed women. She could see them moving about now and then upon the upper floors. This place she decided to enter, no matter what. She crossed over and walked directly toward the entrance. As she did so, two men came out and paused in the door. A telegraph messenger in blue dashed past her and up the few steps that led to the entrance and disappeared. Several pedestrians out of the hurrying throng which filled the sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. She looked helplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed, retreated. It was too difficult a task. She could not go past them. 
So severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. Her feet carried her mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a satisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made. Block after block passed by. Upon streetlamps at the various corners she read names such as Madison, Monroe, La Salle, Clark, Dearborn, State, and still she went, her feet beginning to tire upon the broad stone flagging. She was pleased in part that the streets were bright and clean. The morning sun, shining down with steadily increasing warmth, made the shady side of the streets pleasantly cool. She looked at the blue sky overhead with more realisation of its charm than had ever come to her before. 
Her cowardice began to trouble her in a way. She turned back, resolving to hunt up Storm and King and enter. On the way, she encountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad plate windows of which she saw an enclosed executive department, hidden by frosted glass. Without this enclosure, but just within the street entrance, sat a grey-haired gentleman at a small table, with a large open ledger before him. She walked by this institution several times hesitating, but, finding herself unobserved, faltered past the screen door and stood humble waiting. 
"Well, young lady," observed the old gentleman, looking at her somewhat kindly, "what is it you wish?" 
"I am, that is, do you--I mean, do you need any help?" she stammered. 
"Not just at present," he answered smiling. "Not just at present. Come in some time next week. Occasionally we need some one." 
She received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. The pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. She had expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold and harsh would be said--she knew not what. That she had not been put to shame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable. 
Somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. It was a clothing company, and more people were in evidence--well-dressed men of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings. 
An office boy approached her. 
"Who is it you wish to see?" he asked. 
"I want to see the manager," she said. He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were conferring together. One of these came towards her. 
"Well?" he said coldly. The greeting drove all courage from her at once. 
"Do you need any help?" she stammered. 
"No," he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel. 
She went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the door for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. It was a severe setback to her recently pleased mental state. 
Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there, seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger. She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed to find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. A bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly eaten, she went out again. It restored her strength somewhat and made her moderately bold to pursue the search. 
In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again encountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to get in. Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice of her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. When the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to by a man at one of the many desks within the near-by railing. 
"Who is it you wish to see?" he required. 
"Why, any one, if you please," she answered. "I am looking for something to do." 
"Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus," he returned. "Sit down," and he pointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall. He went on leisurely writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from the street. 
"Mr. McManus," called the man at the desk, "this young woman wants to see you." 
The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose and came forward. 
"What can I do for you, miss?" he inquired, surveying her curiously. 
"I want to know if I can get a position," she inquired. 
"As what?" he asked. 
"Not as anything in particular," she faltered. 
"Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods business?" he questioned. 
"No, sir," she replied. 
"Are you a stenographer or typewriter?" 
"No, sir." 
"Well, we haven't anything here," he said. "We employ only experienced help." 
She began to step backward toward the door, when something about her plaintive face attracted him. 
"Have you ever worked at anything before?" he inquired. 
"No, sir," she said. 
"Well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to do in a wholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the department stores?" 
She acknowledged that she had not. 
"Well, if I were you," he said, looking at her rather genially, "I would try the department stores. They often need young women as clerks." 
"Thank you," she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of friendly interest. 
"Yes," he said, as she moved toward the door, "you try the department stores," and off he went. 
At that time the department store was in its earliest form of successful operation, and there were not many. The first three in the United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie was familiar with the names of several through the advertisements in the "Daily News," and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManus had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low, and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something. Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance of search, without the reality, gives. At last she inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed "two blocks up," where she would find "The Fair." 
The nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever permanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the commercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. They were along the line of the most effective retail organisation, with hundreds of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the most imposing and economic basis. They were handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons. Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. Each separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction. She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally, and yet she did not stop. There was nothing there which she could not have used--nothing which she did not long to own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. She was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation. 
It must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for a nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold, calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But women are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment. 
Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted in the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiar with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither had she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girls with whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main, some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which added, in the case of the more favoured, a certain piquancy. Their clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever she encountered the eye of one it was only to recognise in it a keen analysis of her own position--her individual shortcomings of dress and that shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and make clear to all who and what she was. A flame of envy lighted in her heart. She realised in a dim way how much the city held--wealth, fashion, ease--every adornment for women, and she longed for dress and beauty with a whole heart. 
On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after some inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends; girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn. 
"Now," said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a roll-top desk near the window, "have you ever worked in any other store?" 
"No, sir," said Carrie. 
"Oh, you haven't," he said, eyeing her keenly. 
"No, sir," she replied. 
"Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. I guess we can't use you." 
Carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the interview had terminated. 
"Don't wait!" he exclaimed. "Remember we are very busy here." 
Carrie began to move quickly to the door. 
"Hold on," he said, calling her back. "Give me your name and address. We want girls occasionally." 
When she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely restrain the tears. It was not so much the particular rebuff which she had just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. She was tired and nervous. She abandoned the thought of appealing to the other department stores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety and relief in mingling with the crowd. 
In her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not far from the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of that imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on with marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. It read, "Girls wanted--wrappers & stitchers." 
She hesitated a moment, then entered. 
The firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one floor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet in depth. It was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions having incandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches. At the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. The former were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil and dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or less worn shoes. Many of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealing bare arms, and in some cases, owing to the heat, their dresses were open at the neck. They were a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop-girls-- careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from confinement. They were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and strong in daring and slang. 
Carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that she did not want to work here. Aside from making her uncomfortable by sidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. She waited until the whole department was aware of her presence. Then some word was sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, the latter rolled up to his shoulders, approached. 
"Do you want to see me?" he asked. 
"Do you need any help?" said Carrie, already learning directness of address. 
"Do you know how to stitch caps?" he returned. 
"No, sir," she replied. 
"Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?" he inquired. 
She answered that she had not. 
"Well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do need a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly got time to break people in." He paused and looked away out of the window. "We might, though, put you at finishing," he concluded reflectively. 
"How much do you pay a week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a certain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of address. 
"Three and a half," he answered. 
"Oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed her thoughts to die without expression. 
"We're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely, looking her over as one would a package. "You can come on Monday morning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to work." 
"Thank you," said Carrie weakly. 
"If you come, bring an apron," he added. 
He walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so much as inquiring her name. 
While the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the price paid per week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's fancy, the fact that work of any kind was offered after so rude a round of experience was gratifying. She could not begin to believe that she would take the place, modest as her aspirations were. She had been used to better than that. Her mere experience and the free out-of-door life of the country caused her nature to revolt at such confinement. Dirt had never been her share. Her sister's flat was clean. This place was grimy and low, the girls were careless and hardened. They must be bad-minded and hearted, she imagined. Still, a place had been offered her. Surely Chicago was not so bad if she could find one place in one day. She might find another and better later. 
Her subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature, however. From all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned away abruptly with the most chilling formality. In others where she applied only the experienced were required. She met with painful rebuffs, the most trying of which had been in a manufacturing cloak house, where she had gone to the fourth floor to inquire. 
"No, no," said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, who looked after a miserably lighted workshop, "we don't want any one. Don't come here." 
With the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and her strength. She had been astonishingly persistent. So earnest an effort was well deserving of a better reward. On every hand, to her fatigued senses, the great business portion grew larger, harder, more stolid in its indifference. It seemed as if it was all closed to her, that the struggle was too fierce for her to hope to do anything at all. Men and women hurried by in long, shifting lines. She felt the flow of the tide of effort and interest--felt her own helplessness without quite realising the wisp on the tide that she was. She cast about vainly for some possible place to apply, but found no door which she had the courage to enter. It would be the same thing all over. The old humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial. Sick at heart and in body, she turned to the west, the direction of Minnie's flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began that wearisome, baffled retreat which the seeker for employment at nightfall too often makes. In passing through Fifth Avenue, south towards Van Buren Street, where she intended to take a car, she passed the door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glass windows of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting at a small desk. One of those forlorn impulses which often grow out of a fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a baffled and uprooted growth of ideas, seized upon her. She walked deliberately through the door and up to the gentleman, who looked at her weary face with partially awakened interest. 
"What is it?" he said. 
"Can you give me something to do?" said Carrie. 
"Now, I really don't know," he said kindly. "What kind of work is it you want--you're not a typewriter, are you?" 
"Oh, no," answered Carrie. 
"Well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here. You might go around to the side and inquire upstairs. They did want some help upstairs a few days ago. Ask for Mr. Brown." 
She hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by the elevator to the fourth floor. 
"Call Mr. Brown, Willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by. 
Willie went off and presently returned with the information that Mr. Brown said she should sit down and that he would be around in a little while. 
It was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the general character of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion of the nature of the work. 
"So you want something to do," said Mr. Brown, after he inquired concerning the nature of her errand. "Have you ever been employed in a shoe factory before?" 
"No, sir," said Carrie. 
"What is your name?" he inquired, and being informed, "Well, I don't know as I have anything for you. Would you work for four and a half a week?" 
Carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was considerable. She had not expected that he would offer her less than six. She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address. 
"Well," he said, finally, "you report here at eight o'clock Monday morning. I think I can find something for you to do." 
He left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found something at last. Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. Her nervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street and discovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with a lightsome step. She noticed that men and women were smiling. Scraps of conversation and notes of laughter floated to her. The air was light. People were already pouring out of the buildings, their labour ended for the day. She noticed that they were pleased, and thoughts of her sister's home and the meal that would be awaiting her quickened her steps. She hurried on, tired perhaps, but no longer weary of foot. What would not Minnie say! Ah, the long winter in Chicago-the lights, the crowd, the amusement! This was a great, pleasing metropolis after all. Her new firm was a goodly institution. 
Its windows were of huge plate glass. She could probably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned--of the things he had told her. She now felt that life was better, that it was livelier, sprightlier. She boarded a car in the best of spirits, feeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. She would live in Chicago, her mind kept saying to itself. She would have a better time than she had ever had before--she would be happy.
一过了河，进入商业区，她就开始东张西望，不知该到哪个商号去找工作把握大些。当她这么打量着那些宽宽的玻璃窗和气派的招牌时，她意识到有人在看她，也意识到人家知道她是干什么的——一个求职者。她以前从未找过工作，所以胆子很校被人看穿她在找活干，让她感到一阵无以名状的羞愧，因此她赶紧加快步子，装出一副有事在身的那种人常有的漫不经心的神气。就这样她走过了好些工厂和批发商号，一眼也没有往里看。最后，走过几条马路以后，她想这样不行，于是她又开始东张西望，不过这一次她没有放慢脚步。走了不远，她看见一个店门，不知为什么这个店吸引了她的注意力。大门口有一块小铜招牌，看来这里是一幢六七层楼大厦的入口。 “也许，”她心里猜测着，“也许他们需要人手。”她这么想着就过了马路，打算进去。走到离大门口还有近两丈的光景，透过窗子她看见一个穿灰格子西装的年轻人。她并不知道这个人与那家商号是否有关系，但是这人正巧朝她的方向看，她被一种羞愧压倒了，立刻心虚地打退堂鼓，急急忙忙走开了。马路对面有一座高大的六层楼建筑，招牌上写的是“风雷皇家公司”。她打量着这家公司，希望又复苏了。这是一家绸缎批发公司，因此雇佣女店员。她可以看见女工们在楼上不时走动。 
无论如何，她决定进这家公司去碰碰运气。她穿过马路，径直向大门走去。但是就在这时，有两个男人走了出来，在门口停了下来。一个穿蓝制服的信差来送电报，跑过她身旁，冲上那几级台阶，就消失在门里。人行道上熙熙攘攘的人流里有好几个人走过她身旁，于是嘉莉又迟疑地停住了脚步。她孤立无援地朝周围看看。看到有人在打量她，她又退却了。这事情太让人为难了，她无法当着这些人的面走进去。 
这么严重的失败使她非常垂头丧气。她的脚带着她机械地往前移动，每前进一步都因为逃离远了一点，心里轻松一点。就这样她走过一个街区又一个街区。每走到一个十字路口，她就在街灯路牌上看看街名：麦迪生大街，门罗大街，拉沙勒大街，克拉克大街，地邦大街，斯台特大街但是她继续往前走，她的脚走在宽阔的石板路上开始酸了。街道明亮干净，这使她有几分欣喜。上午的阳光投射在路上，热度在持续上升，这使马路背阴的那面更让人感到凉爽宜人。她看看头上的蓝天，感到蓝天从来没有像今天这样明媚可爱。 
对自己的怯场，她现在感到有些懊恼了。她转过身往回走，决心回到风雷皇家公司去试试。路上她走过一家很大的鞋子批发公司。透过大玻璃窗，她看见里面有一个用毛玻璃隔开的经理室。就在玻璃隔板的外面，靠街面的大门旁边，有一个头发灰白的先生坐在一张小桌子旁，面前摊着一本大账本。她在这个公司门前徘徊犹豫了好一会儿，但是发现没有人注意到她，她就迟迟疑疑地走进了纱门，自感低卑地站在那里等候。 
“喂，小姐，”那位老先生开口问她，目光相当温和，“你有什么事吗？”“我我是，你们——我的意思是，你们这里要帮手吗？”她结结巴巴地问道。 
“目前不要，”他微笑着回答。“下周什么时候你可以来看看。有的时候我们要雇些人的。”她默默地听了这个答复，又狼狈地退了出去。这样和气的接待使她大感意外。她原来以为事情要困难得多，她以为人家会对她说些冷酷粗暴的话——她也不知道会说些什么。可现在她并没有遭到羞辱，并没有人让她感到自己处境不幸，这一点给她印象深刻。 
这经历使她得到些鼓舞，于是她试探着走进另一家大公司。这是家服装公司。她看见更多的人，这些人衣冠楚楚，四十开外，坐在用铜栏杆围起来的办公桌旁。 
一个仆役向她走来。 
“你想见谁？”他问道。 
“我想见你们的经理。”她回答。 
他跑过去，对三个正聚在一起商量事情的人说了些什么，其中有一个就朝她走来。 
“什么事？”他冷冷地问。这种招呼立刻使她丧失了勇气。 
“你们要帮手吗？”她结结巴巴地问。 
“不要，”他粗鲁地一口回绝，转身走了。 
她尴尬地走了出去，仆役恭敬地给她打开门。她混入人群中，心里感到好受了一些。这次打击使她刚才还兴冲冲的情绪受到严重挫伤。 
她在街上漫无目的地走了一会儿，左看右瞧，看见一个大公司接着一个大公司，就是没有勇气进去提出那个简单的问题。已到中午了，她的肚子也饿了。她找到一个不起眼的小饭店，就走了进去。但是她不安地发现那里的价钱高得吓人，不是她的钱包可以付得起的。她只买得起一碗汤。很快地喝完以后，她就走了出来。她的力气略微有所恢复，所以她继续找工作的胆子也大了一点。 
她走过几条马路，一路上想找个合适的公司试试。就在这时，她来到了风雷皇家公司的门口。这次她鼓起勇气走了进去。有几位先生就在旁边商量着什么，但是没人注意到她。她一个人站在那里，眼睛局促不安地朝下垂着。就在她窘迫得难以忍受时，旁边的栏杆圈里，坐在办公桌旁的先生中有一位向她打了个招呼。 
“你想找哪位？”他问道。 
“嗯，随便哪一位。是这样的，”她回答，“我想找个活干。”“那么，你该见见麦克曼纳斯先生，”他回答。“你坐下吧。”他指指旁边靠墙的一把椅子，又继续慢悠悠地写起来。过了一会儿，一个矮矮胖胖的先生从街上走了进来。 
“麦克曼纳斯先生，”写字台边的那位先生喊道，“这位小姐要见你。”那矮个子绅士朝嘉莉转过身来。她就站起来迎上前去。 
“小姐，找我有什么事吗？”他问道，好奇地打量着她。 
“我想问问这里能不能给我一点事做，”她说。 
“什么样的事呢？”他问。 
“随便什么事都行，”她吞吞吐吐地说。 
“你在绸缎批发行业干过吗？”他追问。 
“没有，先生，”她回答。 
“你会速记或者打字吗？” 
“不会，先生。” 
“你以前在哪里干过吗？”他问道。 
“没有，先生。”她说。 
“那么，你想在这一类批发行找到事情做，几乎是不可能的。你到百货公司试过吗？”她承认还没去过。 
“嗯，如果我是你的话，”他温和地看着她说，“我会到百货公司试试。他们经常雇些年轻姑娘做店员。”“谢谢你，”她说。这一点友好的关切使她心里好受了许多。 
“没错，”当她朝门口走时，他又说，“你一定要去百货公司试试，”说着他就走开了。 
当时百货公司刚刚兴起，为数不多。美国最早的三家百货公司都在芝加哥，是大约1884年创办的。嘉莉从《每日新闻》的广告得知了这几家百货公司的名字，现在她就出发去找它们。麦克曼纳斯先生的话多少使她恢复了业已低落的勇气，她开始萌生了一线希望，也许这条新路子会给她带来点什么。她在街上瞎转悠了一会儿，幻想着能碰巧找到那些百货公司。这种想法是人们在面临那些大感为难却又非做不可的事情时的一般心态。做出一副找工作的样子而实际上并没有真的在找，可以自欺欺人，让人心安理得一些。不过最终她还是向一个警察问了路。警察告诉她，过去两条马路就是‘大商常’百货公司是些庞大的百货零售系统，即使它们有朝一日永久地消失了，也将在我国的商业史上留下有趣的一页。在此之前，世界上从来没见过像零售这样不起眼的行业竟会发展成如此大规模的大买卖。这些店依据最有效的零售组织的原则组建，一个店综合了几百家铺子的买卖。商场的设计和布局既富丽堂皇又经济实用。这些百货商场气派热闹，生意兴隆，雇佣了大批店员，顾客络绎不绝。嘉莉走在热闹的货架之间，被陈列的各种漂亮的首饰、衣服、文具和珠宝吸引住了。各个柜台展出的东西都光彩夺目，令人眼花缭乱，留连难舍，她不由感到每件饰物和珠宝都在向她招手，但是她没有停住脚步。 
这里没有一样商品是她用不上的，没有一件东西是她不想拥有的：那些精美的舞鞋和长统袜，饰有漂亮绉边的裙子和衬裙，还有花边、缎带、梳子、钱包，这一切的一切都激起了她的种种欲望，但她痛苦地认识到这里没有一样东西是她买得起的。她是个求职者，一个无业游民，店员们差不多一眼就可看出她，一文不名，急需就业。 
你不要以为，有人会把她错当成一个神经过敏、多愁善感、容易激动的人，不幸被抛入了一个冷漠无情精于算计缺乏诗意的社会。她肯定不是这种人。不过妇女对于服饰一类的东西特别在意罢了。 
嘉莉不仅对于一切新颖漂亮的妇女服装羡慕不已，而且伤心地注意到那些穿着华丽的夫人小姐们擦身而过，对她视而不见，好像她根本不存在似的。她们推推搡搡，急于去看商场里吸引了她们目光的各种商品。嘉莉不熟悉城市妇女中那些幸运儿们的穿着打扮，她也不知道女店员们的模样和气质。 
现在和她们相比，她觉得自己被比下去了。她们大多数长得不错，有些甚至算得上漂亮，带着一种独立不羁，满不在乎的神气，这给其中的那些幸运儿们平添了几分魅力。她们衣着整齐，许多人服装华丽。每当她和哪个女店员目光相接，她可以看出对方在用尖刻的目光打量她的境遇--她衣着上的缺点和她举止上的那一点儿土气--她认为这点儿土气在她全身都透露出来，人家一眼就能看穿她是个什么人，到此干什么来的，她不由得妒火直冒。她隐隐约约地认识到了城里所拥有的东西--财富、时髦、安逸--妇女企盼的各种各样服饰，于是她一心渴望起那些衣服和所有美丽的玩意来。 
经理办公室在二楼。经人指点，她朝那里走去。在经理室，已有别的女孩比她先来了。她们也是找工作的，但是身上有一股自信和独立的神气，这是因为她们已有城市生活的经验。这些女孩子仔细地打量她，令她浑身不自在。等了大约有3刻钟，轮到她进去了。 
“说吧，你在别的店里干过吗？”一个干脆利索的犹太人问道。他坐在靠窗的翻盖写字桌旁边。 
“没有，先生，”嘉莉回答。 
“噢，你没有，”他说着用锐利的目光打量着她。 
“没有，先生，”她答道。 
“是这样，我们现在需要的是有经验的年轻姑娘。我想我们不能用你。”嘉莉站在那里等了一会儿，不知道这会见是否算结束了。 
“别磨蹭了！”他吼道，“我们这里很忙。”嘉莉慌忙朝门口走。 
“等一下，”他又把她叫了回来，“把你的名字和地址留下。” 
我们有时也用女孩的。” 
等她终于安然地来到外面大街上，她几乎克制不住眼泪往下掉。这倒不单单因为她刚刚受到这番断然回绝，而是因为这一整天奔波的结果太令人失望了。她又累又乏，心里忐忑不安。她不打算到别的百货公司去求职了，现在只是在街上漫无目的地走着，混在街上的人群中，心里感到一阵安全和轻松。 
就在她心不在焉的闲逛中，她转弯拐进了离河不远的杰克生大街。她沿着这条庄严漂亮的大街南侧往前走着，这时一张钉在门上的招贴引起了她的注意。那是张用包装纸写的启示，上面用不褪色墨水写道：“招聘女工——包装工和缝纫工。”她犹豫了一下走了进去。 
这家斯贝杰海姆公司是专门制造男孩帽子的，占据了这幢建筑物的一个楼面，五十英尺宽，八十英尺长。这地方光线很暗，最暗的地方亮着电灯。到处都是机器和工作台。工作台旁许多姑娘和一些男工正在干活。那些姑娘看上去邋邋遢遢，脸上沾着机油和灰尘，穿着单薄难看的布衣，脚上的鞋子不同程度地磨损了。许多人挽着袖子，露出胳膊；有的人嫌热，衣服领口大敞着。她们属于接近最下层的女工阶层--满不在乎，不修边幅，因为整天关在车间里脸色有点苍白。她们可不是腼腆胆小之辈。这是些胆大好奇，说话粗野的泼辣女子。 
嘉莉朝四周打量了一下，感到心烦意乱，不喜欢到这种地方来工作。有人在用眼角打量她，让她感到不自在，但是没有人搭理她。她就这么等着，直到全车间的人都注意到她。于是有人给工头传话，那个工头就朝她走来。这人穿着衬衫，系着围腰，袖子一直卷到肩上。 
“你是找我吗？”他问。 
“你们需要人手吗？”嘉莉已学会了直截了当。 
“你知道怎么缝帽子吗？”他反问道。 
“不会，先生，”她回答。 
“你对这类工作有点经验吗？”他询问道。 
她回答说“没有。” 
“每星期的工钱是多少？”嘉莉试探着问。那人的态度温和，说话其实，使她胆子大了起来。 
“3块半，”他回答。 
“噢，”她听了简直要惊叫起来，不过她忍住了，没有把自己的想法流露出来。 
“我们并不非常需要人，”他含含糊糊地继续说，就像打量一个包裹一样，把她上下打量了一番。“不过你星期一可以来上班。”他补充说，“我会给你安排活的。”“谢谢，”嘉莉无精打采地说。 
“来的话，带一条围腰。”他又加了一句。 
他走开了，撇下她一个人站在电梯旁，甚至连她的名字也没有问一下。 
尽管这车间的外表和每周的薪水对嘉莉的期望不啻是当头一棒，但是在转了一大圈找工作却处处碰壁以后，能找到一份工作总是令人欣慰的。不过，她并不打算做这份工。尽管她的期望很低，她可过不惯这种日子。她以往的日子比这要强得多。她从没做过女工，乡村自由自在的户外生活使她对车间的闭塞和局限不禁反感。她还从来没有在肮脏的环境里生活过。 
她姐姐家的房子也是干干净净的。可这地方低矮肮脏，女工们一个个吊儿郎当，一副老油子的样子。她猜想他们一定思想人品都很坏。不过总算有人向她提供了一份工作。既然她在第一天就能找到一份活，芝加哥看来还是不错的。她也许还可以在别的地方找到一份好一些的工作。 
可是她接下来的经历可不令人乐观。在所有那些环境较好较为体面的企业，人家都用冷冰冰的客气话把她打发走了。 
在另外一些她去求职的地方，人家只雇熟练工人。她到处遭到回绝，让她痛苦不已。最尴尬的一次是在一家服装厂。她来到四楼这家厂去求职。 
“不要，不要，”工头回答。那是个粗暴肥胖的家伙，管着一个光线昏暗的车间。“我们谁也不要，走开！”她的希望、勇气和力气随着下午的逝去也在渐渐消失。她这天一直表现出惊人的毅力和顽强，像她这么努力找工作，照理该有个更好的结果。可每次碰壁以后，在她精疲力尽之余，这个大商业区显得越发的高不可攀，冷漠无情了。看起来她已被摒弃在外，无门可入了。这样的苦苦挣扎实在太艰难，她看来一筹莫展了。熙熙攘攘的人流，有男有女，从她身边匆匆走过。她感到这不断的人流，像生活的滚滚波涛，在奋斗在逐利。 
她尽管并没完全意识到自己像浮在生活大潮上的一棵小草，却充分体会到自己的孤苦无依，无可奈何。她徒劳地四处求职，但却找不到一个她敢迈进去的大门。每次情况总是老样子：她低三下四地请求，人家三言两语把她打发走。她感到身心交瘁，便转身朝西，向敏妮家的方向走。她姐姐家的地址她是熟记在心的。她现在这模样，就和别的求职未得，傍晚回家的失意人一样，步履沉重，无精打采。在经过第五大街，向南朝凡布伦街走，去搭电车时，她走过一家大的鞋子批发行的大门，透过厚板玻璃窗，她看见一位中年绅士坐在一张小写字桌的旁边。在一连串的失意以后，一阵绝望的冲动突然攫住了她。这是人在连受挫折，思想一片混乱时萌生的最后一个念头。她坚决地走进大门，一直走到那个先生面前。那人看着她疲惫的脸，不禁产生了几分兴趣。 
“你有什么事？”他问。 
“你能给我一份活干吗？”嘉莉说。 
“我不太清楚，”他和气地说，“你想要找什么样的事做？你不是打字员吧？”“不是，”嘉莉说。 
“是这样，我们这里只雇佣会计师和打字员。你可以绕到侧门到楼上问问。楼上前两天还需要人手的。你去找布朗先生。”她急忙绕到侧门，乘电梯到了四楼。 
“去叫一下布朗先生，威利。”开电梯的工人对旁边一个小伙子说。 
威利去了一会儿回来，告诉她布朗先生要她坐会儿，他马上就到。 
这地方是货房的一部分，看不出是哪一行的。嘉莉想不出他们做些什么买卖。 
“这么说你想找个工作。”布朗先生在询问了她的来意以后说，“你以前在鞋厂干过吗？”“没有，先生，”嘉莉说。 
“你叫什么名字？”他问道。嘉莉告诉他以后，他又说，“唔，我也不知道我有什么活给你。一周4块半工钱你肯做吗？”嘉莉屡经挫折早已灰心丧气。听了这话不能不感到极大的宽慰。虽然她没想到他出的工钱会低于6块钱，她还是默许了。他就记下她的名字和地址。 
“好吧，”他最后说，“你星期一早上8点到这里报到。我想我还是能给你安排点活做的。”他走开时，她相信自己总算找到了一份差事，于是各种希望又在心里复苏了。热血立刻悄悄地流遍全身，使她的紧张心情松弛下来。她走到外面热闹的街上，感到街上的气氛与刚才大不一样。瞧，行人们一个个步履轻快。她还注意到男男女女都在微笑，断断续续的话语声笑声飘进她的耳朵。周围的气氛是轻快的。人们已结束了一天的工作，从那些大楼里拥出来。 
她看得出他们心情愉快。想到姐姐家，想到等着她的晚餐，她不由加快了脚步。她急急忙忙地走着，虽然疲倦，脚步却不再沉甸甸的了。敏妮知道了，一定会兴奋得滔滔不绝。啊，长长的一整个冬天都留在乏加哥——灯光，人群，种种娱乐！这毕竟是个令人振奋的大都市。雇佣她的那家公司看上去漂亮气派，窗子都是用巨大的厚板玻璃做的。她很有希望在那里干出些名堂。于是她又想到了杜洛埃，想到杜洛埃告诉她的那些东西，感到生活变得美好，轻松，活泼。她兴高采烈地登上电车，感到血液在全身欢快地流动。她心里不断在对自己说，她将住在芝加哥，她将过一种比以往更好的生活——她将会幸福。
Chapter 4 THE SPENDINGS OF FANCY--FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS
For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown speculations. 
Her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which would have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child of fortune. With ready will and quick mental selection she scattered her meagre four-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. Indeed, as she sat in her rocking-chair these several evenings before going to bed and looked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this money cleared for its prospective possessor the way to every joy and every bauble which the heart of woman may desire. "I will have a fine time," she thought. 
Her sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations, though they exhausted the markets of delight. She was too busy scrubbing the kitchen woodwork and calculating the purchasing power of eighty cents for Sunday's dinner. When Carrie had returned home, flushed with her first success and ready, for all her weariness, to discuss the now interesting events which led up to her achievement, the former had merely smiled approvingly and inquired whether she would have to spend any of it for car fare. This consideration had not entered in before, and it did not now for long affect the glow of Carrie's enthusiasm. Disposed as she then was to calculate upon that vague basis which allows the subtraction of one sum from another without any perceptible diminution, she was happy. 
When Hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be a little crusty--his usual demeanour before supper. This never showed so much in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenance and the silent manner in which he slopped about. He had a pair of yellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he would immediately substitute for his solid pair of shoes. This, and washing his face with the aid of common washing soap until it glowed a shiny red, constituted his only preparation for his evening meal. He would then get his evening paper and read in silence. 
For a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and so affected Carrie. Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of the flat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife's mind its subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. Under the influence of Carrie's announcement he brightened up somewhat. 
"You didn't lose any time, did you?" he remarked, smiling a little. 
"No," returned Carrie with a touch of pride. 
He asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play with the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again by Minnie at the table. 
Carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of observation which prevailed in the flat. 
"It seems to be such a large company," she said, at one place. 
"Great big plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. The man I saw said they hired ever so many people." 
"It's not very hard to get work now," put in Hanson, "if you look right." 
Minnie, under the warming influence of Carrie's good spirits and her husband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie of some of the well-known things to see--things the enjoyment of which cost nothing. 
"You'd like to see Michigan Avenue. There are such fine houses. It is such a fine street." 
"Where is H. R. Jacob's?" interrupted Carrie, mentioning one of the theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time. 
"Oh, it's not very far from here," answered Minnie. "It's in Halstead Street, right up here." 
"How I'd like to go there. I crossed Halstead Street to-day, didn't I?" 
At this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts are a strangely permeating factor. At her suggestion of going to the theatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of those things which involved the expenditure of money--shades of feeling which arose in the mind of Hanson and then in Minnie-- slightly affected the atmosphere of the table. Minnie answered "yes," but Carrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly advocated here. The subject was put off for a little while until Hanson, through with his meal, took his paper and went into the front room. 
When they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer conversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they worked at the dishes. 
"I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn't too far," said Carrie, after a time. "Why don't we go to the theatre to-night?" 
"Oh, I don't think Sven would want to go to-night," returned Minnie. "He has to get up so early." 
"He wouldn't mind--he'd enjoy it," said Carrie. 
"No, he doesn't go very often," returned Minnie. 
"Well, I'd like to go," rejoined Carrie. "Let's you and me go." 
Minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go--for that point was already negatively settled with her--but upon some means of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic. 
"We'll go some other time," she said at last, finding no ready means of escape. 
Carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once. 
"I have some money," she said. "You go with me." Minnie shook her head. 
"He could go along," said Carrie. 
"No," returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown the conversation. "He wouldn't." 
It had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and in that time the latter's character had developed a few shades. Naturally timid in all things that related to her own advancement, and especially so when without power or resource, her craving for pleasure was so strong that it was the one stay of her nature. She would speak for that when silent on all else. 
"Ask him," she pleaded softly. 
Minnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie's board would add. It would pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure a little less difficult to talk about with her husband. But if Carrie was going to think of running around in the beginning there would be a hitch somewhere. Unless Carrie submitted to a solemn round of industry and saw the need of hard 
work without longing for play, how was her coming to the city to profit them? These thoughts were not those of a cold, hard nature at all. They were the serious reflections of a mind which invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to such surroundings as its industry could make for it. 
At last she yielded enough to ask Hanson. It was a half-hearted procedure without a shade of desire on her part. 
"Carrie wants us to go to the theatre," she said, looking in upon her husband. Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged a mild look, which said as plainly as anything: "This isn't what we expected." 
"I don't care to go," he returned. "What does she want to see?" 
"H. R. Jacob's," said Minnie. 
He looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively. 
When Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained a still clearer feeling of their way of life. It weighed on her, but took no definite form of opposition. 
"I think I'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs," she said, after a time. 
Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and went below. 
"Where has Carrie gone?" asked Hanson, coming back into the dining-room when he heard the door close. 
"She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs," answered Minnie. "I guess she just wants to look out a while." 
"She oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatres already, do you think?" he said. 
"She just feels a little curious, I guess," ventured Minnie. "Everything is so new." 
"I don't know," said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead slightly wrinkled. 
He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which a young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could contemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with which to do. 
On Saturday Carrie went out by herself--first toward the river, which interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which was then lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently caused it to be made into a boulevard. She was struck with the evidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person on the street worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. She was glad to be out of the flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow, humdrum place, and that interest and joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughts now were of a more liberal character, and she punctuated them with speculations as to the whereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure but that he might call anyhow Monday night, and, while she felt a little disturbed at the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the shade of a wish that he would. 
On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had worn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and her necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and much wearing impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl with the exception of her features. These were slightly more even than common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance. 
It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is used to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home. She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson's life when, half asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six o'clock and saw him silently finishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he was gone, and she, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being just old enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. Her spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange and untried duties confronted her. Only the ashes of all her fine fancies were remaining--ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a few red embers of hope. So subdued was she by her weakening nerves, that she ate quite in silence going over imaginary conceptions of the character of the shoe company, the nature of the work, her employer's attitude. She was vaguely feeling that she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on. 
"Well, good luck," said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They had agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could do it every day--sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item under the circumstances. 
"I'll tell you how it goes to-night," said Carrie. 
Once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the small clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and women generally coming out of doors and passing about the neighbourhood, Carrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine of the morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind astir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a harbourage? In the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day, fears and misgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there is, for a time, cessation even of the terror of death. 
Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then turned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like a walled canon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows looked shiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and women, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She met girls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her diffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the importance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dread at her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, she would not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused her because she did not know something or other? She would be scolded, abused, ignominiously discharged. 
It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that she came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue and entered the elevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor there was no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling. She stood, very much frightened, awaiting some one. 
Presently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recosnise her. 
"What is it you want?" he inquired. 
Carrie's heart sank. 
"You said I should come this morning to see about work--" 
"Oh," he interrupted. "Um--yes. What is your name?" 
"Carrie Meeber." 
"Yes," said he. "You come with me." 
He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the factory proper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking, rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham aprons were working. She followed him diffidently through the clattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and flushing slightly. They crossed to a far corner and took an elevator to the sixth floor. Out of the array of machines and benches, Mr. Brown signalled a foreman. "This is the girl," he said, and turning to Carrie, "You go with him." He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to a little desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre. 
"You've never worked at anything like this before, have you?" he questioned, rather sternly. 
"No, sir," she answered. 
He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but put down her name and then led her across to where a line of girls occupied stools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder of one of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper, by the aid of the machine, he put his hand. 
"You," he said, "show this girl how to do what you're doing. When you get through, come to me." 
The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place. 
"It isn't hard to do," she said, bending over. "You just take this so, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine." 
She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which was eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's shoe, by little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side of the machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp, snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of the upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. After observing a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeing that it was fairly well done, she went away. 
The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her right, and were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw at once that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile up on her and all those below would be delayed. She had no time to look about, and bent anxiously to her task. The girls at her left and right realised her predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid her, as much as they dared, by working slower. 
At this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding relief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum, mechanical movement of the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed, that the room was not very light. It had a thick odour of fresh leather, but that did not worry her. She felt the eyes of the other help upon her, and troubled lest she was not working fast enough. 
Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a slight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before her eyes and fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heart thumped so that she could scarcely see to go on. 
"Start your machine," he said, "start your machine. Don't keep the line waiting." 
This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaved a great breath. 
As the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the need of a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture to stir. The stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she began to feel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her back was beginning to ache. She twisted and turned from one position to another slightly different, but it did not ease her for long. She was beginning to weary. 
"Stand up, why don't you?" said the girl at her right, without any form of introduction. "They won't care." 
Carrie looked at her gratefully. "I guess I will," she said. 
She stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but it was a more difficult position. Her neck and shoulders ached in bending over. 
The spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way. She did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the machine she could hear an occasional remark. She could also note a thing or two out of the side of her eye. 
"Did you see Harry last night?" said the girl at her left, addressing her neighbour. 
"No." 
"You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a mark." 
"S-s-t," said the other girl, bending over her work. The first, silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed slowly along, eyeing each worker distinctly. The moment he was gone, the conversation was resumed again. 
"Say," began the girl at her left, "what jeh think he said?" 
"I don't know." 
"He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin's last night." "No!" They both giggled. 
A youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly, came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leather findings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. When near Carrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girl under the arm. 
"Aw, let me go," she exclaimed angrily. "Duffer." 
He only grinned broadly in return. 
"Rubber!" he called back as she looked after him. There was nothing of the gallant in him. 
Carrie at last could scarcely sit still. Her legs began to tire and she wanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come? It seemed as if she had worked an entire day. She was not hungry at all, but weak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one point where the eye-punch came down. The girl at the right noticed her squirmings and felt sorry for her. She was concentrating herself too thoroughly--what she did really required less mental and physical strain. There was nothing to be done, however. The halves of the uppers came piling steadily down. Her hands began to ache at the wrists and then in the fingers, and towards the last she seemed one mass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position and performing a single mechanical movement which became more and more distasteful, until as last it was absolutely nauseating. When she was wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull- sounding bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the end came. In an instant there was a buzz of action and conversation. All the girls instantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining room, men passed through, coming from some department which opened on the right. The whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, until at last they died away in a low buzz. There was an audible stillness, in which the common voice sounded strange. 
Carrie got up and sought her lunch box. She was stiff, a little dizzy, and very thirsty. On the way to the small space portioned off by wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encountered the foreman, who stared at her hard. 
"Well," he said, "did you get along all right?" 
"I think so," she replied, very respectfully. 
"Um," he replied, for want of something better, and walked on. 
Under better material conditions, this kind of work would not have been so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant working conditions for employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturing companies. 
The place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather--a combination which, added to the stale odours of the building, was not pleasant even in cold weather. The floor, though regularly swept every evening, presented a littered surface. Not the slightest provision had been made for the comfort of the employees, the idea being that something was gained by giving them as little and making the work as hard and unremunerative as possible. What we know of foot-rests, swivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, clean aprons and curling irons supplied free, and a decent cloak room, were unthought of. The washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul places, and the whole atmosphere was sordid. 
Carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water from a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. The other girls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches of those of the men who had gone out. She saw no place which did not hold a couple or a group of girls, and being too timid to think of intruding herself, she sought out her machine and, seated upon her stool, opened her lunch on her lap. There she sat listening to the chatter and comment about her. It was, for the most part, silly and graced by the current slang. Several of the men in the room exchanged compliments with the girls at long range. 
"Say, Kitty," called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in a few feet of space near one of the windows, "are you going to the ball with me?" 
"Look out, Kitty," called another, "you'll jar your back hair." 
"Go on, Rubber," was her only comment. 
As Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar badinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into herself. She was not used to this type, and felt that there was something hard and low about it all. She feared that the young boys about would address such remarks to her--boys who, beside Drouet, seemed uncouth and ridiculous. She made the average feminine distinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness, and distinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely qualities and those beneath notice in overalls and jumper. 
She was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels began to whirr again. Though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. This illusion ended when another young man passed along the aisle and poked her indifferently in the ribs with his thumb. She turned about, indignation leaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only once turned to grin. She found it difficult to conquer an inclination to cry. 
The girl next her noticed her state of mind. "Don't you mind," she said. "He's too fresh." 
Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as though she could hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been so entirely different. All during the long afternoon she thought of the city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings. Columbia City and the better side of her home life came back. By three o'clock she was sure it must be six, and by four it seemed as if they had forgotten to note the hour and were letting all work overtime. The foreman became a true ogre, prowling constantly about, keeping her tied down to her miserable task. What she heard of the conversation about her only made her feel sure that she did not want to make friends with any of these. When six o'clock came she hurried eagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs stiff from sitting in one position. 
As she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young machine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her. 
"Say, Maggie," he called, "if you wait, I'll walk with you." 
It was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was meant, but never turned to look. 
In the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried to make an impression on her by leering in her face. 
One young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of another, grinned at her as she passed. 
"Ain't going my way, are you?" he called jocosely. 
Carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. As she turned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the small desk at which she had applied. There were the crowds, hurrying with the same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. She felt a slight relief, but it was only at her escape. She felt ashamed in the face of better dressed girls who went by. She felt as though she should be better served, and her heart revolted.
接下来的两天，嘉莉沉浸在想入非非中。 她幻想着种种特权和享乐。要是她出身高贵人家，这些想法还切实际一些。在她的想象中，她那可怜巴巴的周薪4块半大洋已经大方潇洒地花了出去，为她买来了种种她想要的东西，种种她一眼看中的东西。真的，那几天夜里临上床前，当她坐在摇椅里愉快地看着下面灯火通明的大街时，这些还没到手的钱似乎已为未来的主人获取种种欢乐和种种女人想要的小玩意开辟了道路。“我会非常开心的，”她想道。
虽然嘉莉把一切可以买到的欢乐都想遍了，她姐姐敏妮一点也不知道她的这些想入非非。她忙着擦洗厨房里的木器和门窗，计算着星期天80美分的开销可以买些什么。那天嘉莉兴冲冲地回到家，因为初次成功而容光焕发。虽然很累，她很想聊聊那些现在感到很有趣的求职经过。可是敏妮只赞许地微微一笑，问她是不是在车费上要花掉一点钱。这是嘉莉没有想到的，不过这一点并没有长久地影响她的情绪。在她当时的心境下，当她模模糊糊算这笔钱的用途时，抽出一笔钱用在别的事情上，一点不让她感到总数有什么减少。她太高兴了。 
汉生7点钟回到家时，脾气不太好——吃晚饭前他通常是这样的。他并没有说什么难听的话，但是当他在房间走动时，他板着一张脸，一言不发，他的神气流露出他的恶劣情绪。 
他有一双心爱的黄色拖鞋。一到家，他就脱下那双结实的皮鞋，换上拖鞋。换鞋和洗脸是他晚饭前的唯一准备工作。他用普通的洗衣皂洗脸，一直洗到脸发出红光才罢手。然后他就拿起晚报，一声不响地看起来。 
对于一个年轻人来说，这实在是一种不正常的性格。这使嘉莉的情绪也受到影响。其实他还影响了整个屋子的气氛。这种事往往都是这样的。在这种气氛里，他的妻子性格变得谨小慎微，处事圆活，竭力避免自讨没趣。嘉莉宣布找到了工作，才使他心情开朗了一点。 
“这么说，你没有浪费一点时间，是吗？”他说着，脸上露出了一丝笑意。 
“当然没有，”嘉莉用自豪的口气回答。 
他又问了她一两个问题，就转过身去逗宝宝，直到在饭桌上敏妮提起来，他们才继续这个话题。 
对工作的看法和将来的前途，嘉莉当然不会把她的想法降格到她姐姐、姐夫那些凡夫俗子的见解。 
“那看起来是个大公司，”她在谈论中说道，“窗子用的是大块厚板玻璃，里面有许多职员。我见的那人说，他们一直雇这么多人。” 
“只要人家看你顺眼，”汉生插进来说，“现在要找份工作不是很难的。”敏妮受了嘉莉好兴致的影响，加上她丈夫今天居然也健谈起来，开始告诉嘉莉那些值得一看的景点——都是不用花钱就可以大饱眼福的东西。 
“你一定要去看看密歇根大街。那里有许多豪华住宅，真是条漂亮的马路。”“约各戏院在哪里？”嘉莉插嘴问道。她问的是一家专演通俗闹剧的戏院，那家戏院当时叫“约各”。 
“嗯，离这里不远，”敏妮回答。“在霍尔斯台街，就在附近。”“我很想去那里看看。我今天走过霍尔斯台街了，是吗？”谈话到了这里略有停顿，没人立即回答她。思想真是一种会蔓延的奇怪东西。一听到她说起戏院，先是汉生的脑子里对这种花钱的玩意大不以为然，于是敏妮的脑子里也产生了同样的想法。感情的这种无声的微妙变化影响了饭桌上的气氛。 
敏妮回答了一声“是的”，但是嘉莉可以感觉到看戏这想法在这个家中是不受欢迎的。这话题就暂时撇下不谈了。直到汉生吃完晚饭，拿上报纸去前屋，她们才重新提起看戏的事。 
她们俩单独在一起，谈话就随便了点。姐妹俩边洗碗碟，边聊着，嘉莉还不时哼两句小曲。 
“如果不太远的话，我想到霍尔斯台街去看看，”嘉莉过了一会儿说，“我们何不今晚去看场戏呢？”“我看史文今晚不会肯去的，”敏妮回答。“他早上要早起。““他不会反对的——他会喜欢看戏的，”嘉莉说。 
“不会的，他不常看戏。”敏妮又说。 
“嗯，可我实在想去，”嘉莉回答。“我们两个去吧。”敏妮想了会儿，不是想去不去，因为她想不去这点是不必斟酌的。她要费心思索的是如何将她妹妹的思路引到别的事上去。 
“我们以后再说吧。”找不出什么推托的理由，她只好这么回答。 
嘉莉马上看出了她反对的原因何在。 
“我还有些钱，”她说，“你和我一起去吧。”敏妮摇了摇头。 
“他也可以一起去的，”嘉莉说。 
“不，”敏妮轻轻说道。她故意把碗碟弄出声响来掩盖她们的谈话声。“他不会去的。”敏妮已有好几年没有见到嘉莉了。这几年嘉莉的性格有了一些发展。她天性胆小，加上她们家没钱没势，所以在个人进取方面，她毫不起劲。可她对欢乐的追求却变得非常强烈，这一点成了她性格中的主要特点。她不想谈别的事，只想谈娱乐。 
“你去问问他嘛，"她轻声恳求道。 
敏妮想的却是嘉莉在他们家搭伙，可以增加些家里的收入。这点钱可以付房租，在和她丈夫谈家庭开销时也要容易些。可是如果嘉莉一开始就想着到处去玩，事情就有点不妙了。如果嘉莉不肯吃苦耐劳，埋头干活，只想着玩乐，那么她到城里来，对他们家又有什么好处呢？她这么想并非出自天性冷漠。她是一个任劳任怨，勤勤恳恳，竭力顺应环境维持生计的人。这些想法是处在这种境遇里的人认真思索的结果。 
她最后作了让步，去征求汉生的意见。她这么做时，满心不情愿，所以很勉强。 
“嘉莉要请我们去看戏，"她进去对她丈夫道。汉生从报上抬起头来，他们交换了一个温和的目光。两人的意思在这一眼中表示得明明白白：“这一点是我们原先没料到的。”“我不想去，"他回答道。"她想去看什么？”“约各剧院的戏，"敏妮说。 
他低下头看报纸，不赞成地摇了摇头。 
嘉莉看到他们对她的提议反应冷淡，心里对他们的生活方式有了一个更清楚的认识，这使得她感到压抑，不过她并没有明白表示反对意见。 
“我想下楼去，在楼梯脚站一会儿，”又过了一会儿，她说。 
敏妮对此没有反对，所以嘉莉就戴上帽子下楼去了。 
“嘉莉上哪里去了”听到关门声，汉生回到吃饭间问道。 
“她说她想到下面楼梯口去，”敏妮说，“我猜想她只是想在外面看看。”“她不该现在就开始想着花钱看戏，你说呢？”他说。 
“我看她只是有点好奇，”敏妮大着胆子说道。“这里的一切对她说来太新奇了。”“我可拿不准是不是，”汉生微微皱起眉头说，然后转身去看宝宝。 
他心里想着年轻姑娘的种种虚荣和奢侈，可是无法理解嘉莉这么一贫如洗怎么也会想到这种事上去。 
星期六嘉莉一个人出去--先朝她感兴趣的河边走去，然后沿杰克生大街回来。大街两侧是漂亮的住宅和草坪，所以这条街后来改成了林荫大道。这些象征财富的房子给她留下了深刻印象，尽管这街上没有一家财产在十万以上。离开公寓到外面走走，使她心情舒畅，因为她已经感到那个家狭隘单调，毫无趣味和欢乐可言。她的思想自由自在地飘浮，当中还不时想到杜洛埃身上，猜测着他现在会在哪里。她不能肯定他星期一晚上是否会来。她一方面担心他会来，一方面又有点盼他来。 
星期一她早早起来，准备去上班。她穿上了一件蓝点子细布旧上衣，一条褪了色的淡咖啡哔叽裙子，和一顶她在哥伦比亚城戴了一夏天的小草帽。她的鞋子也是旧的，领带已经又皱又扁。除了相貌以外，她看上去就像一个普通女工。她比一般姑娘来得美貌。给人一种可爱甜美，端庄动人的印象。 
嘉莉平时在家时往往睡到七八点钟才起床，所以现在要起早可不容易。清早６点时，她从自己睡觉的地方睡眼惺忪地瞥见汉生在外面吃饭间闷声不响地吃早饭，她开始有点理解汉生过的是什么样的生活了。等她穿好衣服，他已经走了，只剩她和敏妮加宝宝在一起吃早饭。宝宝已经会坐在一个高椅上用勺子摆弄碟子。现在事到临头，马上要去从事一件陌生的工作，她的情绪低落了。她的种种美好的幻想如今只剩下一些灰烬--尽管灰烬底下还埋着几颗尚未燃尽的希望的余火。 
她心情压抑，胆怯不安，默默地吃着饭，想象着那个鞋厂的光景，工作的情况和老板的态度。她模模糊糊地认为她会和那些大厂主有些接触，那些态度严肃穿着体面的先生们有时会到她干活的地方转转。 
“好，祝你好运，”她准备动身的时候，敏妮对她说。她们已商量好，还是步行去，至少第一天要步行去，试试能不能每天走去上班—-一星期６０美分的车票在目前的形势下是一笔不小的数目了。 
“今晚我会告诉你那里的情形，”嘉莉说。 
一走到阳光明媚的街上，嘉莉的信心足了一些。马路上来来往往都是上班的人，公共马车上挤满了到大批发行上班的小职员和仆役，乘客一直挤到了车上的栏杆旁。男男女女已出门在外面走动。走在广阔的蓝天下，沐浴着早上的阳光，清新的空气扑面而来，除了绝望无路的人，什么害怕担心有立足之地呢。在夜里，或者白天在阴暗的房间里，强烈的恐惧和疑虑也许会袭上心头。但是一旦到了阳光下，一时间恐怕连死亡的恐惧也会忘记的。 
嘉莉一直往前走，直到过了河，然后转弯拐进第五大街。 
这里的大街就像是一条深深的峡谷，两旁矗立着棕色的石墙和深红色的砖墙。大玻璃窗看上去明亮干净，大量的货车隆隆驶过。到处是男男女女，其中有少男少女。她见到和她年纪相仿的女孩，她们打量着她，似乎对她的畏缩神气有些瞧不起。 
她对这里生活的宏伟气势大感惊叹，也吃惊地想到一个人该需要多少知识和本领才可能在这里干些名堂出来。于是一种唯恐自己干不好的担心悄悄爬上心头。她担心自己学不会，又担心自己手脚慢。其他那些回绝她的单位不就是因为她这不会那不懂吗？他们会说她，骂她，解雇她，让她丢尽脸面的。 
她来到亚当路和第五大街转弯处的鞋业公司，走进电梯，心情紧张得膝盖发软，有点透不过起来。她在四楼出电梯时，看不到一个人影，只见成堆摞到房顶的盒子，中间留出一条条走道来。她心情惶恐地站在那里等待。 
不一会，布朗先生来了。他似乎不认识她了。 
“你有什么事？”他问。 
嘉莉的心直往下沉。 
“你让我今早来上工” 
“噢，”他打断了她，“不错，你叫什么名字？”“嘉莉·米贝。”“不错，"他说，”你跟我来。“他走在头里，穿过盒子堆中间的昏暗过道，过道里弥漫着新鞋子的气味，最后来到一个铁门前，铁门里就是车间了。那是个天棚很低的大房间，里面排列着发出隆隆声响的机器。机器旁，穿着白衬衫蓝围腰的工人正在工作。她怯生生地跟在后面，走过隆隆的机器，眼睛直视着前方，脸上微微有些发红。他们穿过整个车间，到了车间的另一头，然后坐电梯到了六楼。 
在一排排的机器和工作台中间，布朗先生招呼一个工头过来。 
“就是这女孩，”他说，又转身对嘉莉说，“你跟他去。”他转身往回走，嘉莉就跟着新上司到了角落里的一张小桌旁，这小桌是他办公的地方。 
“你以前没有到这种厂里干过，是吗？”他口气严厉地问道。 
“没有，先生，”她答道。 
他似乎因为得跟这种帮工打交道很不高兴，但还是记下了她的名字，然后带她来到一排咔嚓咔嚓响着的机器前，那里一长排女工正坐在机器前的凳子上干活。他把手搭在一个正用机器在鞋帮上打眼的姑娘肩上。 
“喂，”他说，“把你正干的活教给这个姑娘。等你教会了她，就到我这里来。”那女孩听了这吩咐，马上站起来，把自己的位子让给嘉莉。 
“这不难做的，”她弯下腰说道，“你这样拿着这个，用这个夹子把它夹住，然后开动机器。”她一边说着一边示范，用可以调节的小夹子夹住了那块皮，那皮是用来做男鞋右半面鞋帮的，然后推动机器旁的小操纵杆，机器就跳动着开始打洞，发出尖锐的噼啪噼啪声，在鞋帮边上切下小小的圆皮圈，在鞋帮上留下穿鞋带的小孔。女工在旁边看她做了几次以后，就让她独立操作，看到她活儿干得不赖时，就走了。 
那些妻子是操作她右边机器的女工传过来的，经过她这里，然后传到她左边的女工那里。嘉莉立刻看出她必须跟上她们的速度，不然活儿就会在她这里积压下来，而下面工序的人就会停工待料。她没有时间四面打量，埋头紧张地干着她那份活。在她左右两边的女工明白她的处境和心情，竭力想帮助她，所以大着胆子偷偷地放慢了干活的速度。 
她这么手脚不停地干了一会儿。在机器的单调刻板运动中，她的心情松弛了一点，不再提心吊胆，紧张不安了。时间一分钟一分钟地过去，她开始觉得车间里光线不够亮，空气中有浓重的新皮革气味，不过她并不在乎。她感到别的工人在看她，所以唯恐自己手脚不够快。 
有一次，因为有块皮子没有放正，所以她正摸索着重新摆弄小夹子。就在这时，一只大手伸到她面前，替她把皮子夹紧。 
那是工头。她的心怦怦直跳，几乎无法继续干了去。 
“开动机器，”他喊，“开动机器。不要让人家等你。”这话使她头脑清醒过来，于是她又手忙脚乱地继续干下去，紧张得几乎气也不敢喘一口。直到背后的人影移开了，她才深深地透了一口气。 
上午，随着时间的推移，车间里越来越热。她很想吸一口新鲜空气，喝一口水，但是不敢动一动。她坐的凳子既没有椅背也没有踏脚，她开始感到很不舒服。又过了一会儿，她的背开始疼起来。她扭动着身子，微微地从一个姿势换到另一个姿势，但是好不了多久。她开始吃不消了。 
“你为什么不站一会儿呢？”在她右边的女工不用人介绍认识，就和她搭话说，“他们不管的。”嘉莉感激地看了她一眼，说道：“是的，我是想站一会儿。”她从凳子上站起来，站着干了一会儿。但站着干更累人，她得弯着腰，于是她的头颈和肩膀都疼了起来。 
这地方的环境给她粗鲁的感觉。她并不敢朝四周东张西望，但在机器的咔嚓声中，她偶尔听到了一些人们的谈话声，从眼角梢她也注意到一两件小事。 
“你昨晚看见哈里了吗？”她左边的女工对旁边一个人说。 
“没有。” 
“你真该瞧瞧他系的那条领带。哎呀，人人都嘲笑他。”“嘘--”另一个女工发出一声警告，仍埋头做着她的事。 
第一个女工马上闭上嘴，做出一副严肃的样子。工头慢慢地走过来，打量着每个工人。他一走，谈话又继续下去。 
“嘿，”她左边的女工先开口，“你猜他说了些什么？”“我不知道。”“他说他昨晚看见我们和艾迪·哈里斯一起在马丁酒家。”“去他的。”她们两个咯咯笑了起来。 
一个蓬着一头褐色乱发的小伙子左臂下贴着肚子挟着一箩筐制皮工具，顺着机器间的过道，拽着脚步走了过来。走到嘉莉附近时，他伸出右手拧住了一个女工的手臂。 
“呸，松手！”她愤怒地叫了起来，“你这个笨蛋。”他咧嘴一笑，作为回答。 
“操你的！”她还在看着他的背影时，他回头回敬了一句，一点绅士风度也没有。 
嘉莉终于在凳子上坐不住了。她的腿开始疼了，她想站起来，直一直腰。怎么还不到中午？她觉得仿佛已经干了整整一天了。她一点也不饿，可是已经精疲力尽了。眼睛一直盯着打鞋孔的地方，也累得发酸。右边的女孩注意到她坐不安稳的样子，心里为她难过：她思想太集中了，其实她不必这么紧张这么卖劲的。但是她一点忙也帮不上。鞋帮不断地传到嘉莉那里，越积越多。她的手腕开始酸痛，接着手指也痛了，后来全身都麻木酸痛了。她这样姿势不变地重复做着这简单机械的动作，这些动作变得越来越叫人讨厌，到最后，简直让人恶心。她正在想这种苦工怎么没完没了时，从电梯通道那里传来了一阵沉闷的铃声，总算熬到头了。立刻传来嗡嗡的说话声和走动声，所有的女工立刻从凳子上站起来，匆匆走到隔壁房间。不知哪部门的男工从右边的门里走了进来，又穿过车间。转动的机轮声渐渐低下去，最后终于在低低的嗡嗡声中完全消失了。 
车间变得异样的寂静，简直可以用耳朵听到这寂静，而人的声音听上去反而怪怪的。 
嘉莉站起来去拿她的饭盒。她感到全身都僵硬了，头晕乎乎的，口渴得厉害。她向用木板隔开的小房间走去，那里是专门放衣包和午饭的。路上碰到了工头，他瞪眼打量着她。 
“怎么样，”他问，“还能做得来吗？” 
“还行，”她毕恭毕敬地回答。 
“嗯。”他没有什么话好说，就走开了。 
在条件好一些的情况下，这种工作其实并不太累。但是当时的工厂还没有采纳新福利制度，为工人提供舒适的劳动环境。 
这地方弥漫着机油和新皮革的混合气味，再加上楼里污浊陈腐的气味，即使在冷天空气也很难闻。地上虽然每天傍晚都扫一次，仍然杂乱不堪。厂里一丝一毫也不为工人的劳动条件着想。他们只盼福利越少越好，工作越重越好，要能不出钱最好，这样厂里才能赚大钱。我们现在所知道的那些脚踏，旋背椅，女工餐厅，厂方发给的干净工作围腰和卷发器，以及像样的衣帽间，这些东西当时连想也没有想到。洗手间即使不算肮脏，也是粗陋不堪，空气污秽恶劣。 
嘉莉打量着四周。从角落的桶里舀了一铁罐水喝了以后，她想找个地方坐下来吃饭。姑娘们已在窗台上或者男工们离开的工作台上坐下来，每个可以坐的地方都挤着两三个姑娘。 
她太害羞腼腆，不好意思和她们一起去挤，所以就走到她的机器旁，在凳子上坐下来，把午饭盒放在膝盖上。她坐在那，听周围人们的聊天谈论。那些话大部分愚蠢无聊，夹杂着流行的市井喱语。房间里有几个男工隔着老远，在和女工们斗嘴。 
“喂，吉蒂，”有一个对正在窗子旁的几尺空间练习华尔兹舞步的姑娘喊，”跟我去跳舞好吗？”“当心，吉蒂，”另一个喊，“他会把你后面的头发弄乱，让你好看的。”“去你的吧，操蛋。”她只这么回了一句。 
当嘉莉听到男女工人这样随便放肆地打趣揶揄时，她本能地和他们拉开了距离。她不习惯这一类谈话，感到这里有些残忍粗俗的成份在内。她害怕这些小伙子也会对她说下流话--除了杜洛埃，小伙子们个个粗鲁可笑。她照一般女性的目光，用衣着把人分成两类：穿西装礼服的是有身价，有美德，有名望的人；穿工装短衫的是有恶习劣质的人，不值一顾。 
她很高兴短短的半小时过去了，机轮又转动了起来。干活尽管累，她可以避免自己的惹人注目。可这想法马上被证明是错误的。一个青工从过道走来，无所谓地用大拇指戳了一下她的肋部。她气得眼睛冒火，转过身来。但是那青工已走远了，只回过头来一笑。她气得想哭。 
旁边的女工注意到了她的情绪。“别放在心上，”她说，“这小子太放肆了。”嘉莉什么也没说，低头开始工作。她感到她几乎无法忍受这样的生活。她原来想象的工作和这一切天差地远。整个长长的下午，她想到外面的城市，那壮观的市容和人群，那些漂亮的大楼。她又想到了哥伦比亚城，想到老家的好处。３点钟时，她肯定已是６点了。到了４点，她怀疑他们忘了看钟，让大家在加班加点了。工头成了一个魔鬼，不断在旁边巡睃，使她一动不敢动，钉在她那个倒霉的活上。她听到周围人们的谈话，这些话只让她肯定她不想和他们中的任何一个交朋友。６点钟到了，她急忙回家。她的胳膊酸痛，四肢因为坐的姿势不变已经僵硬。 
当她拿着帽子顺大厅出来时，一个年轻的机床工人被她的姿色所吸引，大胆地和她说笑起来。 
“喂，姑娘，”他喊道，“等一下，我和你一起走。”那话是直冲她的方向说的，所以她清楚这是对谁而发，但是她连头也没回。 
在拥挤的电梯里，另一个满身尘土和机油的青工朝她色迷迷地看着，想和她拉关系。 
外面人行道上，一个小伙子正在等人，看见她走过，朝她露齿一笑，“不跟我一起走吗？”他开玩笑地喊。 
嘉莉情绪低落地朝西走。转过街角，她透过大而明亮的玻璃窗又看到了那张小办公桌，她当初就是在那里申请工作的。 
路上到处是嘈杂的人流，他们急急走着，步履中照旧透出充沛的精力和热情。她感到稍稍松了一口气，庆幸自己逃离了那地方。她看见穿着比自己漂亮的姑娘从身边走过，就感到羞愧。 
她认为自己该享有更好的待遇，所以心里很不平。
Chapter 5 A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER--THE USE OF A NAME
Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating around having what he considered a gay time. On this particular evening he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which occupied a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. There--after he visited the resort of Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the imposing Federal Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which he lighted. This to him represented in part high life--a fair sample of what the whole must be. Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He only craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to him a part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble walls and floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional men, seemed to him the proper place for a successful man to go. He loved fine clothes, good eating, and particularly the company and acquaintanceship of successful men. When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to him to know that Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to this same place, or that Henry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only a few tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction, for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some rich young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz of popular commonplace conversation. 
"That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of these gentlemen among themselves, particularly among those who had not yet reached, but hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine here lavishly represented. 
"You don't say so," would be the reply. 
"Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the Grand Opera House." 
When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straighten himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had any vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this stirred it. He would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some day. As it was, he could eat where THEY did. 
His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was another yard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon from a Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented with a blaze of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The floors were of brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of rich, dark, polished wood, which reflected the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gave the place a very sumptuous appearance. The long bar was a blaze of lights, polished woodwork, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancy bottles. It was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy wines, and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country. 
At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and a solid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being some one worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit the Adams Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar. 
Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewd and clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good impression. His managerial position was fairly important--a kind of stewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had risen by perseverance and industry, through long years of service, from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his present altitude. He had a little office in the place, set off in polished cherry and grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather simple accounts of the place--supplies ordered and needed. The chief executive and financial functions devolved upon the owners--Messrs. Fitzgerald and Moy--and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in. 
For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a "Well, old fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship, which improved from the "How do you do?" addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches, who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the "Why, old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those noted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. 
There was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win their good feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the last place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converse longest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time once in a while--to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great American upper class--the first grade below the luxuriously rich. 
Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy appearance pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling salesman--and not one of many years at that--but the firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Company was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood knew Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, in company with several others, when the conversation was general. Drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, and could tell a good story when the occasion required. He could talk races with Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning himself and his experiences with women, and report the state of trade in the cities which he visited, and so managed to make himself almost invariably agreeable. To-night he was particularly so, since his report to the company had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks. 
"Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded. 
Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the bar. 
"Oh, all right." 
"I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?" 
"Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip." 
"Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "What are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar. 
"Old Pepper," said Drouet. 
"A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood. 
"How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood. 
"Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul." 
"George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last week." 
"Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? We had quite a time there together." 
The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer. 
"What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him around here in two weeks." 
"Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet. "Say, he's a gouty old boy!" 
"Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?" 
"Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet. "He won't live much longer. Barely comes down to the office now." 
"Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood. 
"Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet. 
"I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the other members all there." 
"No, he can't injure that any, I guess." 
Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort. 
To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds. It must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious social institution or it would not be. 
Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by his desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might take it, after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things which they satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No evil could come out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. The worst effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly splendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind. That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove the element so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which would remain. The pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion. 
Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless, wandering mental action which it represents--the love of light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure. 
"See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat, his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating. 
"No, where?" said Drouet. 
"There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye, "the man with the silk hat." 
"Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?" 
"That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist." 
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested. 
"Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said Drouet. 
"Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, all right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes. 
"I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet. 
"Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may be something to it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the way," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?" 
"'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time. 
"Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and he drew out his watch. 
The crowd was already thinning out considerably--some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures--for the type of man there represented, at least--the ladies. 
"Yes, I will," said Drouet. 
"Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you," said Hurstwood. 
"Sure," said Drouet, elated. 
"You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added Hurstwood. 
"Not a thing." 
"Well, come round, then." 
"I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked Drouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call on her before I go away." 
"Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked. 
"Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet confidentially, and trying to impress his friend. 
"Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood. 
"That's right," said Drouet, going out. 
Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her unfolding fate.
杜洛埃那天晚上没有去找嘉莉。收到嘉莉那封信后，他就暂时把关于嘉莉的念头丢到脑后。他在城里到处闲逛，照他自己看来，过得很开心。那天晚上，他在雷克脱饭店吃了晚饭。那是一家在当地很有点名片的饭店，占据了克拉克街和门罗街转角处的那幢大楼的底层。然后他又到亚当街的费莫酒家去，那酒家在宏伟的联邦大厦对面。在那里，他斜靠在豪华的柜台上，喝了一杯清威士忌，买了两根雪茄烟，其中的一支他当场点着了。这一些是他心目中的上流社会高雅生活的缩影--所谓管中窥豹，可见一斑，这就算领略了上流社会的生活了。 杜洛埃不是嗜酒如命的人，也不是富人。他只是按照他的理解，追求着高雅生活。目前这些享受在他看来就算得上高级了。他认为雷克脱饭店是功成名就的人应该光顾的地方，因为那里不仅有光滑的大理石墙壁和地板，有无数灯火和值得炫耀的瓷器和银器，更重要的是，有名演员和企业家光顾的名声：他喜欢美食华服，也喜欢和名人要人结识为伍。吃饭时，如果他听说约瑟夫·杰佛生也常到这家饭店吃饭，或者听说当时正走红的演员亨利·易·狄克西就在旁边的餐桌，和他相隔没有几张桌子，这会给他带来极大的满足。在雷克脱饭店，他经常可以得到这类的满足，因为人们可以见到政界要人、经纪人，演员之类和城里那些年轻有钱的花花公子们在那里吃喝，聊天，说些通常的热门话题。 
“那是某某，就在那里。”这些先生们相互之间也经常这么评论，特别是那些渴望有朝一日达到人生的巅峰，可以到这里花天酒地的人们爱这么说。 
“真的？”对方就会这么回答。 
“当然是真的。你还不知道？他是大歌剧院经理。”当这些话落到杜洛埃的耳朵里，他的腰板就挺得更直了，吃得心花怒放。如果说他有虚荣心，这些话就增加了他的虚荣心；如果他有点野心，这些话便使他的野心激发起来：会有那么一天，他也能亮出满把满把的钞票。真的，他要在这些要人名流现在吃饭的地方吃饭。 
他喜欢光顾亚当街上的费莫酒家，也是出于同一个原因。 
以芝加哥的水平看，这实在是一家豪华大酒家。像雷克脱饭店一样，店堂里一盏盏美丽的枝形大吊灯大放光明，把酒家点缀得艳丽典雅。地上铺的是色彩鲜艳的瓷砖，墙壁则是用彩色涂料和贵重的深色木料镶嵌而成，涂了清漆的木料在灯光反射下熠熠生辉，彩色涂料则显得豪华富丽。一排电灯照在抛光的长酒柜台上，上面陈列着彩色雕花的玻璃器皿和许多形状奇特的酒瓶。这真是第一流的酒家，具有昂贵的帘幕，珍奇的名酒，和在全国堪称一绝的酒柜器皿。 
在雷克脱饭店，杜洛埃结识了费莫酒家的经理乔·威·赫斯渥。有人在背后说他是个成功人物，很有名气，交际很广。 
赫斯渥看上去也像个春风得意的人物。他四十不到，体格健壮，举止活跃，一副殷实富有的气派。这种气派部分是由于他服装考究，衬衫干净，身上珠光宝气，不过最重要的是由于他自知身价。杜洛埃马上意识到这是个值得结识的人物。他不仅很高兴认识他，而且从那以后，每当他想来杯酒，或者来根雪茄时，他一定光顾亚当街的这家酒吧。 
可以说，赫斯渥天生是个十分有趣的人物。在许多小事上，他精明干练，能够给人留下好印象。他的经理职位是相当重要的--总管一切，发号施令，不过没有经济实权。他是靠坚持不懈，勤勤恳恳起家的。从一个普通酒店的酒保，经过多年的努力，升到他目前的职位。在这个酒家，他有一个小办公室，是用抛光的樱桃木和花格架隔出的小间。里面有一张翻盖写字桌，保存着酒店的简单账目，不外乎是已订购或还需订购的食物和杂品。主要的行政和财务职责是两个店主费茨杰拉德和莫埃加上一个管收钱的现金出纳负责的。 
大部分时间里，他在店里悠闲地走动，身上穿的是用进口衣料精工制作的高级服装，戴着单粒钻石戒指，领带上别着一颗漂亮的蓝钻石，引人注目的新潮西装背心，一条足金表链，表链上挂着个造型精巧的小饰物和一个最新款式的挂表。他认识成百上千演员、商人、政界人物和一般吃得开的成功人物，叫得出他们的名字，并能用“喂，老兄”和他们亲热地寒暄，这是他获得成功的部分原因。他待人接物，严格掌握亲热随便的分寸。对于那些周薪１５元左右，经常光顾他的酒家因而知道他在店里的地位的小职员和跟班，他用“你好”来打招呼；对于那些认识他并愿意和他交往的名人和有钱人，他用“怎么样，老兄，还好吧”来打招呼。不过对那些太有钱，太有名，或者太成功之辈，他不敢用亲密随便的口气称呼。跟这些人打交道，他使出职业上的圆活手段，用一种庄重和尊严的态度，对他们表示敬意。这种敬意既可赢得他们的好感，又不损他自己的举止和自尊。最后，有那么几个好主顾，既不穷又不富，有名气，又不太成功。和这些人他用的是一种老朋友的友好态度，和他们长时间的恳切交谈。他喜欢隔些天就出去散散心--去赛马场，剧院，参加某些俱乐部的娱乐活动。他养着一匹马，还有一辆轻便马车。他已婚，有了两个孩子，住在靠近林肯公园的北区一幢精美的房子里。总的来说，是我们美国上流社会中一个不讨人厌的人物，比豪富略逊一筹。 
赫斯渥喜欢杜洛埃。杜洛埃为人和气，衣着讲究，这些都很合他的意。他知道杜洛埃只是个旅行推销员--而且干那一行的时间不长--但是巴加公司是一家生意兴隆的大公司，而且杜洛埃在公司里和老板的关系很好。赫斯渥和巴加公司的老板之一加里欧很熟，不时和他以及别的人在一块儿喝一杯，聊聊天。杜洛埃有几分幽默，这对他干的那行大有帮助。 
在必要的场合，他会说个有趣的故事。和赫斯渥在一起时，他聊赛马，聊些自己的趣事和风流艳遇，聊他到过的那些城的生意情况。可以说，他几乎总是很讨人喜欢。今晚他特别讨人喜欢。他给公司的报告得到了好评，新选的样其他很满意，接下来的六周旅行推销行程也已安排好了。 
“喂，你好啊，查理老弟。”当杜洛埃那天晚上８点来到酒馆时，赫斯渥和他打招呼。“情况怎么样啊？”酒店里高朋满座。 
杜洛埃和他握手，露出宽厚和气的笑容。他们一起朝卖酒的柜台踱去。 
“还不错。” 
“我有六个星期没见到你了。什么时候回来的？”“星期五回来的，”杜洛埃说，"这趟旅行收获不校”“真为你高兴，”赫斯渥的黑眼睛带着温暖关切的善意，一改平日那种冷漠和客气的眼神。“今天想喝点什么？”他加了一句。身着白色西装和领带的酒保从柜台后面向他们倾过身来。 
“陈胡椒威士忌，”杜洛埃说。 
“我也来一点，”赫斯渥接口说。 
“这一次能在城里住多久？”他问道。 
“只能住到星期三。我马上要到圣保罗去。”“乔治·伊文思星期六还在这里。他说上星期在密瓦珙城看见你了。”“是啊，我见到乔治了，”杜洛埃回答。“他人真不错，对不对？在密瓦珙我们一起痛痛快快地玩了一回。”酒保在他们面前摆上了玻璃杯和酒瓶。他们俩一边聊一边斟上了酒。杜洛埃给自己的酒杯只斟了七八分满，他认为这样举止得体。赫斯渥只是象征性地倒了一点威士忌，又搀了不少矿泉水。 
“加里埃最近怎么样？”赫斯渥问道。“他有两星期没到这里来了。”“正卧床呢，”杜洛埃叫了起来。“他们都说这位老先生在闹痛风呢。”“不过他当年发了不少财，是吗？”“没错，赚了一大把呢，”杜洛埃回答。“不过他的日子不多了，现在难得到公司写字间转一下。”“他只有一个儿子，是不是？”赫斯渥问道。 
“是啊，而且是个浪荡子。”杜洛埃说着笑了起来。 
“不过，有其他的股东在，我看生意不会受多少影响。”“不会，我想一点也不会受影响的。”赫斯渥站在那里，外套敞开着，大拇指插在背心口袋里，钻石饰物和戒指在灯光的照耀下发出悦目的光采。一眼可以看出，他生活舒适进究。 
对一个不爱喝酒，天性严肃的人来说，这么一个喧闹沸腾、人声嘈杂、灯火通明的地方是一种反常事物，违背了自然和生活的一般常规，就好像一大群飞蛾，成群结队地飞到火光中来取暖。在这里能听到的谈话不会增加人的知识，所以在这方面，这地方一无可取之处。显然，阴谋家会选个比这平静的地方去策划他们的阴谋。政界人物除了交际应酬，不会在这里聚集商量要事，因为隔座有耳。酒瘾这个理由也几乎不能解释人们为什么聚集此处，因为光顾那些豪华酒店的大多数人并不贪杯。但是事实是人们聚到了这里：他们喜欢在这里聊天，还喜欢在人丛中走动，和别人摩肩擦臂而过。这么做总有一些道理的。一定有种种古怪的嗜好和莫名的欲望，产生了酒店这种奇怪的社交场所。不然的话，酒店这种玩意儿就不会存在了。 
拿杜洛埃来说，他来这里，不单纯是为了寻欢作乐，也是为了能跻身在境遇比他强的人们中间摆摆阔。他在这里遇到的许多朋友也许自己也没有下意识地分析过，他们来这里是渴望这里的社交，灯光和气氛。毕竟，人们可以把到这里来看作是领略上流社会生活。他们到这里来，追求的虽然是感官的满足，毕竟算不得邪恶。期望到一间装饰豪华的房子来玩玩，不会产生多少坏处。这类事最大的坏影响也许是在物质欲强烈的人身上激起一种过同样奢华生活的野心。归根到底，这也怪不得豪华布置的本身，要怪得怪人的天性。这种场合诱使衣着一般的人眼红衣着阔气的人，于是他们也想穿阔气衣服，不过这怪不得旁的，只能怪那些受了影响的人不该有这些不实际的野心。把酒这个遭人非议和怪罪的因素去掉，那么没有人会否认酒店具有华丽和热情两大气质。我们现代时髦的大饭店以其赏心悦目而大得青睐，就是明证。 
然而，这些明亮的店堂，穿着华丽的贪婪人群，浅薄自私的聊天，和这一切反映的混乱迷茫和喱徨的精神状态，都是出于对灯光，排场和华服美饰的爱慕。对一个置身于永恒宁静的星光下的局外人来说，这一切一定显得光怪陆离。在星光下，酒店就像一朵灯光构成的鲜花，在夜风里盛开，一种只在夜间开放的奇异璀璨的花朵，一朵散发着芬芳，招引着昆虫，又被昆虫侵害的欢乐玫瑰。 
“你看到那边刚进来的人吗？”赫斯渥朝那个刚进来的人瞥了一眼。那人戴着礼帽，穿着双排扣长礼服，他的鼓鼓的胖脸由于生活优裕而显得红光满面。 
“没看见。在哪里？”杜洛埃问。 
“就在那里，”赫斯渥说着用眼光扫了一下那个方向，“那个戴绸礼帽的。”“喔，不错，”杜洛埃说，他现在装着没朝那里看，“他是谁？”“他叫朱尔斯·华莱士，是个招魂专家。”杜洛埃用眼光看着那人的背影，大感兴趣。 
“他看上去不像是个和鬼魂打交道的人呀，你说呢？”杜洛埃说道。 
“这个我也不懂，”赫斯渥答道，“不过他赚了大钱，这点可不假。”他说着对杜洛埃眨了一下眼睛。 
“我对这种事不太相信，你呢？”杜洛埃问。 
“这种事你没法说，”赫斯渥答道，“也许有一定的道理。不过我自己是不会操这个心的。顺便问问，”他又加了一句，“今晚你要上哪里去吗？”“我要去看《地洞》，”杜洛埃说道。他指的是当时正上演的一个通俗闹剧。 
“那你该走了，已经８点半了，”他掏出了挂表说。 
酒店的顾客已稀落了：有些去剧场，有些去俱乐部，有些去找女人--各种娱乐中最有吸引力的，至少是对于酒店顾客这一类人来说是如此。 
“是啊，我要走了，”杜洛埃说。 
“看完戏再过来坐坐，我有些东西要给你看看，”赫斯渥说。 
“一定来，”杜洛埃高兴地说。 
“你今天夜里没有什么约会吧，”赫斯渥又问了一句。 
“没有。” 
“那就一定来埃” 
“星期五回来的火车上我结识了一个小美人，”杜洛埃在分手时说道，“天哪，真是可爱。我走之前，一定要去看看她。”“喂，别去想她了，”赫斯渥说道。 
“真的，她真是漂亮，不骗你，”杜洛埃推心置腹地说道，竭力想给他的朋友留下深刻印象。 
“１２点来吧，”赫斯渥说道。 
“一定，”杜洛埃答应着走了。 
嘉莉的名字就这样在这寻欢作乐的轻浮场所被人提起。 
与此同时，这小女工正在悲叹自己苦命。在她正在展开的人生初期，这种悲叹将几乎如影附身地伴随着她。
Chapter 6 THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN--A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY
At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report. Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied. 
"Well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, "how did you make out?" 
"Oh," said Carrie, "it's pretty hard. I don't like it." 
There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she was both weary and disappointed. 
"What sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he turned upon his heel to go into the bathroom. 
"Running a machine," answered Carrie. 
It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the side of the flat's success. He was irritated a shade because it could not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be pleased. 
Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie arrived. The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing now that Carrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one relief of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: "Oh, well, stand it a little while. You will get something better," but now this was ashes. She began to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say nothing. She knew that she was to pay four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people. 
Minnie was no companion for her sister--she was too old. Her thoughts were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had any pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed to do all his mental operations without the aid of physical expression. He was as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the other hand, had the blood of youth and some imagination. Her day of love and the mysteries of courtship were still ahead. She could think of things she would like to do, of clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like to visit. These were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was like meeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to call forth or respond to her feelings. 
She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day, that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these two people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what she would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After supper she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was rather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. She wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there. Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go below. 
"Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said Minnie to her husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the dining-room a few minutes. 
"She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said Hanson. "Has she gone downstairs?" 
"Yes," said Minnie. 
"I'd tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks without getting another one." 
Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper. 
"If I were you," he said a little later, "I wouldn't let her stand in the door down there. It don't look good." 
"I'll tell her," said Minnie. 
The life of the streets continued for a long time to interest Carrie. She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a very narrow round, always winding up at points which concerned money, looks, clothes, or enjoyment. She would have a far-off thought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention. 
The first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was the third, was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing there, Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of his presence until he was quite near her. 
"I'm after bread," was all he said as he passed. 
The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson really came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would see what Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in mind than she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put it into her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade of real antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He was suspicious. 
A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie's meditations had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone upstairs before she followed. She had realised with the lapse of the quarter hours that Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a little resentful, a little as if she had been forsaken--was not good enough. She went upstairs, where everything was silent. Minnie was sewing by a lamp at the table. Hanson had already turned in for the night. In her weariness and disappointment Carrie did no more than announce that she was going to bed. 
"Yes, you'd better," returned Minnie. "You've got to get up early, you know." 
The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as Carrie came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during breakfast, but there was not much of interest which they could mutually discuss. As on the previous morning, Carrie walked down town, for she began to realise now that her four-fifty would not even allow her car fare after she paid her board. This seemed a miserable arrangement. But the morning light swept away the first misgivings of the day, as morning light is ever wont to do. 
At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome as the preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on his round, stopped by her machine. 
"Where did you come from?" he inquired. 
"Mr. Brown hired me," she replied. 
"Oh, he did, eh!" and then, "See that you keep things going." 
The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." Carrie had more imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in the matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to the girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience. 
"I'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour. "What with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me health." 
They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She saw that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed accordingly. 
"Hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at noon. "You're a daisy." He really expected to hear the common "Aw! go chase yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by Carrie's silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning. 
That night at the flat she was even more lonely--the dull situation was becoming harder to endure. She could see that the Hansons seldom or never had any company. Standing at the street door looking out, she ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait and idle manner attracted attention of an offensive but common sort. She was slightly taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man of thirty, who in passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned back, and said: 
"Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?" 
Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient thought to reply: "Why, I don't know you," backing away as she did so. 
"Oh, that don't matter," said the other affably. 
She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her own door quite out of breath. There was something in the man's look which frightened her. 
During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two nights she found herself too tired to walk home, and expended car fare. She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. She went to bed one night before Hanson. 
Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her acclimatization had been more gradual--less rigid. 
She would have done better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more of the city which she constantly troubled to know about. 
On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella. Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a quarter of her small store to pay for it. 
"What did you do that for, Carrie?" asked Minnie when she saw it. 
"Oh, I need one," said Carrie. 
"You foolish girl." 
Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either. 
On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars. Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four dollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of satisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan payments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week. She brooded over this until she was in a state of mental rebellion. 
"I'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper. 
"Not alone, are you?" asked Hanson. 
"Yes," returned Carrie. 
"I wouldn't," said Minnie. 
"I want to see SOMETHING," said Carrie, and by the tone she put into the last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased with them. 
"What's the matter with her?" asked Hanson, when she went into the front room to get her hat. 
"I don't know," said Minnie. 
"Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone." 
Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the door. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not please her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she heard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial amusements. They had been happy. On several days it rained and she used up car fare. One night she got thoroughly soaked, going to catch the car at Van Buren Street. All that evening she sat alone in the front room looking out upon the street, where the lights were reflected on the wet pavements, thinking. She had imagination enough to be moody. 
On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty cents in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed with some of the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that they had more of their earnings to use for themselves than she did. They had young men of the kind whom she, since her experience with Drouet, felt above, who took them about. She came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young fellows of the shop. Not one of them had a show of refinement. She saw only their workday side. 
There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter jacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about this, but at last she summoned the courage. 
"I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes," she said one evening when they were together. "I need a hat." 
Minnie looked serious. 
"Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" she suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of Carrie's money would create. 
"I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured Carrie. 
"Could you pay two dollars?" asked Minnie. 
Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions. 
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself. 
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I feel real bad." 
She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish. 
Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was out of work. 
"I don't know," said Carrie; "I'll go down Monday and see if I can't get something." 
If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial than the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about, utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening. Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly she would have to give up and go home. 
On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of places without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about. 
"Well, well!" said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet. He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of sunshine and good-humour. "Why, how are you, Carrie?" he said. "You're a daisy. Where have you been?" 
Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality. 
"I've been out home," she said. 
"Well," he said, "I saw you across the street there. I thought it was you. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?" 
"I'm all right," said Carrie, smiling. 
Drouet looked her over and saw something different. 
"Well," he said, "I want to talk to you. You're not going anywhere in particular, are you?" 
"Not just now," said Carrie. 
"Let's go up here and have something to eat. George! but I'm glad to see you again." 
She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air of holding back. 
"Well," he said, as he took her arm--and there was an exuberance of good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her heart. 
They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room, which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine and substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the window, where the busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved the changing panorama of the street--to see and be seen as he dined. 
"Now," he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, "what will you have?" 
Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed her without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things she saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her attention. "Half broiled spring chicken--seventy-five. Sirloin steak with mushrooms--one twenty-five." She had dimly heard of these things, but it seemed strange to be called to order from the list. 
"I'll fix this," exclaimed Drouet. "Sst! waiter." 
That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro, approached, and inclined his ear. 
"Sirloin with mushrooms," said Drouet. "Stuffed tomatoes." 
"Yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head. 
"Hashed brown potatoes." 
"Yassah." 
"Asparagus." 
"Yassah." 
"And a pot of coffee." 
Drouet turned to Carrie. "I haven't had a thing since breakfast. Just got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you." 
Carrie smiled and smiled. 
"What have you been doing?" he went on. "Tell me all about yourself. How is your sister?" 
"She's well," returned Carrie, answering the last query. 
He looked at her hard. 
"Say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?" 
Carrie nodded. 
"Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? You don't look very well. I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?" 
"Working," said Carrie. 
"You don't say so! At what?" 
She told him. 
"Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott--why, I know that house. over here on Fifth Avenue, isn't it? They're a close-fisted concern. What made you go there?" 
"I couldn't get anything else," said Carrie frankly. 
"Well, that's an outrage," said Drouet. "You oughtn't to be working for those people. Have the factory right back of the store, don't they?" 
"Yes," said Carrie. 
"That isn't a good house," said Drouet. "You don't want to work at anything like that, anyhow." 
He chatted on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes which had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of serving. He appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and silver platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife and fork. As he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suit creaked as he stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour the coffee. He helped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his spirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was a splendid fellow in the true popular understanding of the term, and captivated Carrie completely. 
That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way. She felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the view of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah, what was it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to come in here and dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains, dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine places. He seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at his friendship and regard for her. 
"So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said. "What are you going to do now?" 
"Look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outside this fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her eyes. 
"Oh, no," said Drouet, "that won't do. How long have you been looking?" 
"Four days," she answered. 
"Think of that!" he said, addressing some problematical individual. "You oughtn't to be doing anything like that. These girls," and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls, "don't get anything. Why, you can't live on it, can you?" 
He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie was really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure was evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet looked at her and his thoughts reached home. She felt his admiration. It was powerfully backed by his liberality and good-humour. She felt that she liked him-that she could continue to like him ever so much. There was something even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her mind. Every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the interchanging current of feeling would be fully connected. 
"Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" he said, hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide. 
"Oh, I can't," she said. 
"What are you going to do to-night?" 
"Nothing," she answered, a little drearily. 
"You don't like out there where you are, do you?" 
"Oh, I don't know." 
"What are you going to do if you don't get work?" 
"Go back home, I guess." 
There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow, the influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an understanding of each other without words--he of her situation, she of the fact that he realised it. 
"No," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy filling his mind for the time. "Let me help you. You take some of my money." 
"Oh, no!" she said, leaning back. 
"What are you going to do?" he said. 
She sat meditating, merely shaking her head. 
He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some loose bills in his vest pocket--greenbacks. They were soft and noiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in his hand. 
"Come on," he said, "I'll see you through all right. Get yourself some clothes." 
It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now she realised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck the key-note. Her lips trembled a little. 
She had her hand out on the table before her. They were quite alone in their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it. 
"Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me help you." 
He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At this he held it fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped the greenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to protest, he whispered: 
"I'll loan it to you--that's all right. I'll loan it to you." 
He made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie of affection now. They went out, and he walked with her far out south toward Polk Street, talking. 
"You don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place, abstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression. 
"Come down and meet me to morrow," he said, "and we'll go to the matinee. Will you?" 
Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced. 
"You're not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes and a jacket." 
She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would trouble her when he was gone. In his presence, she was of his own hopeful, easy-way-out mood. 
"Don't you bother about those people out there," he said at parting. "I'll help you." 
Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out before her to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was two soft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills.
那天晚上回到家时，嘉莉感到公寓里的气氛与往日不同。 其实一切都没变，只是她的情绪变了，这使得她对这个家有了新认识。敏妮受了当初嘉莉找到工作时兴奋情绪影响，现在正等着听好消息，而汉生则认为嘉莉有了工作该知足了。 
“怎么样？”当他穿着工作服走进门厅时，他隔着门问嘉莉，她正在隔壁的吃饭间，“今天干得怎么样？”“不好，”嘉莉说道，“这个活太累了，我不喜欢。”她身上流露出的神气比任何话语更明白地表示她又累又失望。 
“干的是什么活？”在转身进洗澡间之前他停留了一会儿，问道。 
“开一台机器，”嘉莉回答。 
显然，他关心的只是嘉莉的工资会增加家庭收入这一点，至于别的他并不关心。他有点恼怒，因为嘉莉那么幸运地找到了工作，却竟然不满意这个活。 
敏妮烧饭时已经不像嘉莉回来前那样兴致勃勃了，煎肉的咝咝声也不像刚才那样听上去令人愉快了：嘉莉已经表示她对工作不满。至于嘉莉，在辛劳一天以后唯一渴望得到的安慰是一个欢乐的家，一个满怀同情接待她的家，能够开开心心地吃一顿晚饭，听到有人对她说上句：“这样吧，再坚持一段时间，你会找到个更好一点的工作。”可是如今这一切都成了泡影。她看出他们对她的抱怨不以为然，他们只希望她不出怨言地继续干下去。她知道她要为食宿付４块钱。她感到和这些人住在一起，生活太枯燥无味了。 
敏妮实在不是她妹妹的好伴侣--她的年纪太大了。她的思想已经定形，安于一板一眼地顺应现实。至于汉生，如果他有什么愉快的想法或者快乐的情绪，至少从表面上是看不出来的。他的思想感情从来不流露出来，他安静得就像一间没人住的房间。而嘉莉呢，她的身上奔流着青春的血液，脑子里充满着幻想。她还没有恋爱，谈情说爱对她来说还是个神秘的谜。她耽于想象，想象她想做的事，她想穿的衣服，她想逛的地方。她脑子里整天想的就是这些事。可是在这里，没有人提起她感兴趣的事，她的情感也得不到共鸣响应，这使她感到事事不顺心。 
她一心只想着白天的遭遇，又要向她姐姐姐夫解释自己的工作，所以把杜洛埃可能来访的事早忘到九霄云外去了。现在看出他们夫妻俩不爱应酬待客的脾气，她希望他还是别来。 
她不知道万一杜洛埃来的话她该怎么办，怎么向他解释。吃过晚饭，她换了衣服。她穿戴齐整时，真是个可爱的小姑娘，长着大大的眼睛忧伤的嘴，她脸上流露出期望、不满和郁郁寡欢的复杂表情。碗碟收拾起来以后，她在屋里转悠了一会儿，和敏妮聊了几句，就决定到楼下去，在楼梯脚站一会儿。如果杜洛埃来了，她可以在那里碰到他。她戴上帽子下去，脸上露出了几分高兴的神色。 
“嘉莉好像不喜欢她的工作。”汉生手里拿着报纸到吃饭间来坐几分钟，敏妮于是告诉她丈夫。 
“无论如何，她应该干一段时间再说，”汉生说道。“她下楼去了吗？”“是啊，”她答道。 
“我是你的话，我会劝她做下去。不然的话，也许会好几个星期找不到活干呢。”敏妮答应和嘉莉说说。于是汉生继续看他的报纸。 
“我是你的话，”过了一会儿他又开口说，"我不会让她到楼下去站在门口。姑娘家站在外面不成体统。”“我会对她说的，”敏妮说。 
街上人来人往，嘉莉感兴趣地久久看着。她不断猜想着那些坐在车上的人要到哪里去，他们有些什么消遣娱乐。她想象的面很窄，不外乎是在跟金钱、打扮、衣服、娱乐有关的事上打转转。她有时也想到遥远的哥伦比亚城，或者懊恼地想到她那天的经历。不过总的来说，她周围马路这小小的世界吸引了她全部的注意力。 
汉生家的公寓在三楼，一楼是个面包店。嘉莉正站在那里，汉生下楼来买面包。直到他走到她身旁，她才注意到他。 
“我是来买面包的，”走到嘉莉身边时，他这么说了一句。 
思想有传染性，这一点现在又显示了出来。尽管汉生确实是下来买面包的，他脑子里却想到，这下他可以瞧瞧嘉莉究竟在干什么了。他怀着这个念头刚走近她，她马上意识到了他的心思。当然她自己也不明白她怎么会想到这一点的，可是她开始打心眼里讨厌他。她明白了她不喜欢他，因为这人疑心病太重。 
思想会影响人对周围事物的观感。嘉莉的思绪被打断了，所以汉生上楼不久，她也上了楼。时间已经过去几刻钟了，她明白杜洛埃不会来了。不知为什么她对杜洛埃有些不满，就好像她受人嫌弃不值得眷顾似的。她上了楼。楼上静悄悄，敏妮正坐在桌旁就着灯光缝衣服，汉生已上床睡了。疲劳和失望使她没有心情多说话，她只说了一声她想上床睡了。 
“是啊，你最好去睡吧，”敏妮答道。“你明天还要早起。”第二天早上嘉莉的心情并没有好起来。她从自己睡的房间出来时，汉生正要出门。吃早饭时，敏妮想跟她聊聊，可是她们之间共同感兴趣的事情并不多。像前一天一样，嘉莉步行去上班。她已经认识到，她的４块半大洋在付了食宿以后，剩下的钱连车费也不够。这样的安排也许会令人伤心，但是早上的阳光驱走了当天最初的疑云愁雾：朝阳总是这样的。 
在鞋厂，她熬过了长长的一天，不像前一天那么累，但是新鲜感也大大地不如前一天。工头在车间巡视时，在她的机器旁停了下来。 
“你从哪里来的？”他问道。 
“布朗先生雇来的，”她回答。 
“哦，是他雇的。”然后他又加了一句，“你要跟上趟，别让人等你。”那些女工给她的印象比昨天还差。她们看来安于命运，只是些庸人之辈。嘉莉比她们多一些想象力，她也不习惯讲粗话。在穿着打扮上，她的眼力和趣味天生高人一筹。她不喜欢听旁边那女工说话，那人可以说是个老油子了。 
“我不打算在这里做了，”那人正在对身旁的女工说，“这里的工资这么低，每天还要干到这么晚，我可吃不消。”她们和车间的男工，不管老少，都很随便，用粗野的话互相斗嘴打趣。那些粗话一开始着实吓了她一跳。她看出她们把她当做同类看待，因此和她说话时用的是同一种口气。 
“喂，”中午休息时一个胳膊粗壮的做鞋底男工对她说：“你真是个小美人。”他以为她会像别的女工那样回敬他：“去，滚你的！”可是嘉莉一声不响地走开了，他讨了个没趣，尴尬地咧着嘴笑着走掉了。 
那天晚上在姐姐家的公寓里，她感到更孤单了--这种枯燥无味的生活越来越难以忍受。她看得出汉生一家很少有客人来访，也许根本就没有客人上门。站在临街的大门口朝外看，她大着胆子往外走了一点儿。她的悠闲的步子和无所事事的神气引起了旁人的注意。这种注意虽然令人生气，其实也平常得很。她正走着，一个３０来岁衣冠楚楚的男人走过她身边，看了看她，放慢了脚步，然后又折转回来对她搭腔说：“今晚出来散散步，是吗？”嘉莉对这种主动搭腔微微吃了一惊。她诧异地看着他，惊慌之余回了一句：“喂，我不认识你。”一边说一边往后退却。 
“噢，那没关系的，”那人和气地回答。 
她不敢再说什么，慌忙退却，逃到自己家门口时已经上气不接下气了。那人的眼神中有一种让她害怕的东西。 
那一星期剩下几天的情况大同小异。有一两个晚上下班时，她实在累得走不动了，只好花钱搭车回家。她身体不壮实，整天坐在那里干活使她腰酸背痛。有一天晚上，她甚至比汉生早上床去睡觉。 
花儿移栽往往并不成功，少女们换了环境也是如此。移栽要想成活，必须有更肥沃的土壤和更良好的生长环境。如果嘉莉不是那么急剧地改变生活方式，而是逐渐地适应新的水土，事情也许会好些。要是她没有这么快找到工作，而有时间多看看她很想了解的城市，她会感到更适应一些。 
第一个下雨天的早上，她发现自己需要一把桑敏妮借了一把给她，是一把褪了颜色的旧桑嘉莉思想上有虚荣心，因此对这旧伞很烦恼。她到一家大百货公司去买了一把新伞，从她小小的积蓄中花掉了１元２角５分。 
“你买这个干什么呀，嘉莉？”敏妮看到新伞就说道。 
“嗯，我要用，”嘉莉说。 
“你呀，真是个傻丫头。” 
嘉莉对敏妮的责备很不以为然，可是她什么也没有说。她想，她可不想做一普通的女工，她们别把她看错了。 
第一个星期六的晚上，嘉莉付了４块钱的伙食费。敏妮接过钱时，良心很不安。但是她不敢少收钱，因为那样的话，她没法向汉生交代。那位可敬的先生乐孜孜地少拿出４块钱用于家庭开销，心里想着要增加投资买地皮。至于嘉莉，她在考虑如何用剩下的这５角钱解决买衣和娱乐的问题。她左思右想，想不出个办法，最后她烦恼得不愿再想下去了。 
“我到街上去走走，”吃过晚饭她说。 
“你不是一个人去吧？”汉生问。 
“是我一个人去，”嘉莉回答。 
“要是我的话，我不会一个人出去，”敏妮说。 
“我想去外面看看，”嘉莉答道。她说最后那几个字的口气par使他们第一次意识到她不喜欢他们。 
“她怎么啦？”当她到前屋去取帽子时，汉生问道。 
“我也不知道，”敏妮说。 
“她该懂点事了，不能一个人在外面跑。”不过嘉莉最终并没有走远。她折回来站在门口，第二天他们到加菲尔公园去玩，但是嘉莉玩得并不开心。她看上去气色不好。第二天在车间里，她听到女工们在添油加醋地谈论她们那些微不足道的消遣。她们星期天玩得很开心。接着一连下了几天雨，嘉莉把车钱用完了。有一天晚上下班时，她去凡布伦街坐电车，全身都淋湿了。整个晚上，她一个人坐在前屋看着外面的街道出神，湿漉漉的路面上反映出灯光。她越想心情越感到忧郁。 
第二个星期六，她又付了４块钱。当她把剩下的５毛钱揣进口袋时，心里感到绝望。她和车间里的有些女工现在已结识，能一块儿说上几句。从她们的谈话中，她得知她们从工资中留下自己花的钱比她多，她们还有小伙子带她们出去玩。不过那些小伙子都属于嘉莉自认识杜洛埃以后不屑理睬的那类人。她讨厌车间里那些轻浮的青工，他们中没有一个举止文雅。当然她所看到的只是他们平常干活时的这一面。 
终于有一天，预示严冬即将来临的第一阵寒流侵袭了城市。寒风使白云在天上疾驰，高烟囱里冒出的烟让风刮得成了一条条薄薄的横幅，一直飘出去很远很远。狂风在街头拐角肆虐，横冲直撞。嘉莉现在面临着冬衣的问题。她该怎么办呢？ 
她没有冬天穿的外套、帽子、鞋子。这事很难对敏妮开口，但她最后还是鼓起了勇气。 
“我不知道我的冬衣怎么办，”一天傍晚她们俩在一起时，她开口说道，“我需要一顶帽子。”敏妮脸色很严肃。 
“那你何不留下一点钱买一顶呢？”她提议说，但是心里很发愁，嘉莉少付了钱以后该怎么办。 
“如果你不介意的话，这一两个星期我想少付一点钱，”嘉莉试探着说。 
“你能付２块钱吗？” 
嘉莉赶忙点头答应了。她很高兴，总算摆脱了这个为难的问题。因为冬衣有了着落心里松了一口气，立刻兴致勃勃地开始核计。她首先需要买一顶帽子。至于敏妮是如何向汉生解释的，她从没问过。他没有说什么，不过从屋里的气氛可以看出他很不高兴。 
要不是疾病打岔，这新安排本来是可行的。一天下午雨后起了寒风，当时嘉莉还没有外套。６点钟从暖和的车间出来，冷风一吹，她不禁打了一个寒噤。第二天早上她开始打喷嚏，到城里去上班使病情加重了。那一天她骨头疼了起来，人感到头重脚轻的。到了傍晚，她感到病得很重了。回到家时，她一点胃口也没有。敏妮注意到她萎靡不振的样子，就问她怎么了。 
“我也不知道，”嘉莉说，“我感到人很难受。”她蜷缩在炉子旁，冷得打颤。上床去的时候，病已不轻了。 
第二天早上，她发起了高烧。 
敏妮为这事很忧愁，不过态度一直很温和。汉生说，也许她该回去住些日子。三天后她能起床时，她的工作当然已经丢了。冬天已在眼前，她还没有冬衣，现在她又失了业。 
“我不知道怎么办，”嘉莉说，“星期一我去看看能不能找个活儿干。”她这次找工作，如果说和上次有什么不同的话，那就是结果更糟。她的衣服根本不适合秋天穿，最后那点钱已经用来买了一顶帽子。整整三天，她在街上转悠，灰溜溜的。敏妮家的气氛很快变得难以忍受，每天傍晚她都怕回到那里去。汉生神情非常冷淡。她知道，目前这局面不能维持多长时间了，很快她就得一切作罢，卷铺盖回家。 
第四天，她整天在商业区奔波，从敏妮那里借了一毛钱在街上吃午饭。她到那些最低贱的地方去申请工作，仍然毫无结果。她甚至到一个小饭店应征当女招待，可是人家不要没有经验的姑娘。她在大群陌生人中走着，彻底地心灰意冷了。突然有人拉住了她的胳膊，使她转过身来。 
“喂，喂，”有人在叫她。她一眼看到这是杜洛埃。他不仅气色很好，而且容光焕发，简直是阳光和欢乐的化身。“嘿，你怎么样，嘉莉？”他说，“你真是个小美人。你上哪里去了？”他的亲切友好像一股不可抗拒的暖流，嘉莉不禁微笑了。 
“我出来走走。”她说。 
“你瞧，”他说，“我看到你在马路对面，我就猜是你。我出来正想上你那儿去。不管怎么说，你好吗？”“我还好，”嘉莉微笑着说。 
杜洛埃上下打量着她，看出嘉莉有些变化。 
“嗯，”他说，“我想和你聊聊。你没有要上哪里去吧？”“眼下没有，”嘉莉说。 
“那我们上那里去吃点东西。天哪，见到你真是太高兴了。”和兴致勃勃的杜洛埃在一起，嘉莉感到心里轻松了，感到有人在关心她，照顾她，所以她高高兴兴地同意了他的提议，尽管还稍稍带点矜持的神气。 
“来吧，”他说着挽起了她的手臂。他说这话时情意拳拳，使她心里感到很温暖。 
他们穿过门罗街，来到老温莎餐馆。那家餐馆当时是家很舒适的大饭店，烹调手艺高超，服务热情周到。杜洛埃选了一个靠窗子的桌子，从那里可以看到街上喧闹的景象。他喜欢不断变化的街景，边吃着饭，边看着行人，同时也让行人看到自己。 
“好了，”他等嘉莉和自己舒舒服服坐定以后，开口说道，“你想吃些什么？”嘉莉看着招待递给她的大菜单，并没想去点什么菜。她很饿，菜单上的东西更激起了她的食欲，但是她注意到那上面的价格很昂贵。“嫩烤仔鸡--７角５分；嫩牛排配蘑菇--１美元２角５分。”她曾模模糊糊听人说起过这些东西，可要从菜单上点这些菜，有些不可思议。 
“我来点吧，”杜洛埃叫了起来。“喂，招待。”那招待是个胸脯宽阔的圆脸黑人。他走近桌子，侧耳听候吩咐。 
“嫩牛排配蘑菇，”杜洛埃说道，“西红柿塞肉。”“是，"黑人点头应道。 
“土豆肉酱。” 
“是。” 
“芦笋。” 
“是。” 
“再来一壶咖啡。” 
杜洛埃转身对嘉莉说：“吃了早饭到现在，我还没有吃过什么东西呢。我刚从洛克岛回来。我正要去吃午饭就看到了你。"嘉莉开心地笑了又笑。 
“你这一向在做些什么？”他继续说，“跟我说说你的情况。 
你姐姐怎么样？” 
“她很好，”嘉莉说。她只回答了他后面那个问题。 
他仔细地打量着她。 
“我说，”他又问，“你生病了，是吗？” 
嘉莉点点头。 
“哎呀，这太糟糕了，是不是？你看上去气色不好。我刚才就觉得你脸色有点苍白。你在做些什么？”“在上班，”嘉莉说。 
“真的！在哪里？” 
她告诉了他。 
“罗·摩斯公司--那家商号我知道。在第五大街那里，是不是？那是家很抠门的商号，你干吗上那里干活？”“我找不到别的工作，”嘉莉坦白相告。 
“这太不像话了，”杜洛埃说，“你不该给这种人干活的。他们的厂就在高店后面，是吗？”“是的，”嘉莉说。 
“那家商号不好，”杜洛埃说。“无论如何，你不应该在那种地方干活。”他滔滔不绝地说着，问问这个，讲讲那个，一会儿谈谈自己的情况，一会儿又告诉她这家饭店有多棒，一直讲到招待托着大托盘回来，里面装着刚才点的美味佳肴，还冒着热气。杜洛埃在布菜招待上很拿手。他坐在铺着白桌布摆着银餐盘的桌子后面，舒展着手臂，举刀拿叉，显得潇洒大方。用餐刀切肉时，他手上好几个戒指熠熠生辉，引人注目。他伸手去拿盘子，撕面包，或者倒咖啡，他身上的新衣服就发出窸窣声。他给嘉莉挟了满满一大盘菜，态度又那么热情，让嘉莉感到温暖，使她完全变了一个人。他确实是人们通常认为的那种漂亮角色，所以把嘉莉完全迷住了。 
这个追求幸福的小骑士，毫无愧色地接受了这新的好运。 
她稍稍感到有些不自在，但是这大餐厅使她宽心，看看窗外那些服装华丽的人流，也似乎令人振奋。啊，没有钱是多么让人苦恼！能有钱到这里来吃饭多么开心！杜洛埃一定是幸运儿。 
他有机会坐火车旅行，穿得起这么漂亮的衣服，又身强力壮，能在这么漂亮的地方吃饭。他看上去真是个堂堂男子汉，这么一个人物竟然向她表示友谊和关怀，使她不胜诧异。 
“这么说，你因为生病，所以丢了工作，是吗？”他说，“你现在打算怎么办呢？”“到处找工作啊，”她回答。一想到谋生的必要，像个紧追不舍的饿狗，等在这豪华大餐厅的外面，她的眼中掠过一丝忧愁。 
“噢，不！”杜洛埃说，“那怎么行。你找了多久了？”“四天了，”她回答。 
“想想看！”他说，讲话的神气像是在对某个有疑问的人演讲，“你不该做这种事情的。这些姑娘们，”他手一挥，把所有的女店员和女工都包括了进去，“是不会有什么出息的。你总不能靠此生活吧，对不对？”他的态度，像个哥哥。当他驳够了做苦工的念头以后，他的思想转到了别的上面。嘉莉真是漂亮，即使眼下穿着简朴的衣服，她仍显得身材不凡，她的眼睛大而温柔。杜洛埃注视着她，眉目传情。她感觉到了他的倾慕。他的倾慕，加上他的慷慨大方，愉快和气，使她认为自己喜欢上了他--她会一直这么喜欢他的。她的心里还有一股比喜欢更深厚的感情暗流。他们的目光不时相接，交流和沟通了他们之间的感情。 
“你留在市中心和我一起去看戏，好吗？”他说着，把他的椅子挪近了一些，那桌子本来就不大。 
“嗯，我不能，”她说。 
“你今晚有什么事吗？” 
“没事，”她情绪忧郁地说。 
“你不喜欢你现在住的地方，是吗？” 
“我也不知道。” 
“如果找不到工作，你打算怎么办呢？”“我猜想，得回老家去。”她这么说时，声音几乎没有颤抖。不知怎么，他对她的影响会有这么大。他们不用说话，就互相了解了-—他理解她的处境，而她明白他理解这个事实。 
“不，”他说，“你不能回去。”一时间他心里充满了真正的同情。“让我帮助你，我给你钱。”“噢，那不行！”她说着，向后一靠。 
“那你怎么办呢？”他问。 
她坐在那里沉思，只是摇了一下头。 
他非常温柔地看着她，就他天性而言，实在是温柔之极了。在他的西装背心口袋里有些零碎票子--绿颜色的美钞。 
它们软绵绵的没有沙沙声。他的手指握住了这些钞票，把它们捏在手心。 
“来，”他说，“我来帮你渡过难关。给你自己买些衣服。”这是他第一次提到衣服的问题，这使她想起自己寒酸的衣服。他用自己直来直去的方式一下子说到了点子上。她的嘴唇禁不住微微颤抖。 
她的手放在桌子上。他们俩坐的角落里没有旁人。他把自己大而温暖的手放在她的手上。 
“来吧，嘉莉，”他说，“你一个人能有什么办法呢？让我来帮助你吧。”他温柔地握着她的手，她想把手抽出来，可是他握得更紧了。于是她不再抗拒，他把手上的钞票塞进她手心里。当她想要推辞时，他在她耳边轻声说：“算我借给你的--那没关系的。算我借给你的。”他强迫她收了下来。她现在感到一种感情的纽带把他们联系在一起。他们从饭馆出来，他一路说着话，陪她一直朝南边的波克街走去。 
“你不想和那些人住在一起吧？”走在路上时，他边想心事边问道。嘉莉听见了他的问话，不过没有太注意。 
“明天到市中心来见我，好吗？”他说，“我们一起去看下午场的戏。”嘉莉开始推托了一会，但最后还是同意了。 
“你什么也别做。给自己买一双漂亮的鞋子和一件外套。”她几乎没去考虑自己的尴尬处境。直到分手以后这个问题才开始困扰她。和他在一起，她和他一样乐观，认为一切都好解决。 
“不要为那些人烦恼，”分手时他说，“我会帮你的。”嘉莉离开他时，感到似乎有一个强有力的胳膊向她伸来，帮她把一切麻烦赶跑。她接受的是两张软软的，漂亮的１０元绿色钞票。
Chapter 7 WHAT POVERTY THREATENED--OF GRANITE AND BRASS
THE LURE OF THE MATERIAL--BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF 
The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and comprehended. When each individual realises for himself that this thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due--that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped privilege--many of our social, religious, and political troubles will have permanently passed. As for Carrie, her understanding of the moral significance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. The old definition: "Money: something everybody else has and I must get," would have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she now held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt that she was immensely better off for the having of them. It was something that was power in itself. One of her order of mind would have been content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of money, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that in some cases it could have no value. Even then she would have had no conception of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would, undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the inability to use it. 
The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt ashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket! Now she would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She would get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and--until already, as in the matter of her prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice the purchasing power of her bills. 
She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart--out of a realisation of her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl. Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My God, mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what was considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about it. There would have been no speculation, no philosophising. He had no mental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. In his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp. Deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and baffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as helpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if you will, as she. 
Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could have hornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in one strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a Shakespeare would have said "my merry child"; old, drinking Caryoe thought him a clever, successful businessman. In short, he was as good as his intellect conceived. 
The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens. She has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored fear of poisons. "He keepeth His creatures whole," was not written of beasts alone. Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of self-protection, strong in all such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of Drouet. 
When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. By George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that. Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He would go around to Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him feel light of foot as he thought about her. 
Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie knew that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than this point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think of no way of explaining. 
"How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day. 
Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be in the line of her feelings at least. So instead of complaining when she felt so good, she said: 
"I have the promise of something." 
"Where?" 
"At the Boston Store." 
"Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie. 
"Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie disliking to draw out a lie any longer than was necessary. 
Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture. 
"If you shouldn't get it--" she paused, troubled for an easy way. 
"If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home." 
Minnie saw her chance. 
"Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow." 
The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep her any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not blame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she was glad she had Drouet's money. 
"Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that." 
She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life out there--she almost exclaimed against the thought. 
She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she explain where she even got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy. 
She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning, Drouet would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't be. The Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet she did not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on her getting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful. She began to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all so clear when she was with Drouet. Now it was all so tangled, so hopeless--much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance of aid in her hand which she could not use. 
Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have had another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and hunt for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and tell him. At this decision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress. 
Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep away all thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing it was to have. How plenty of it would clear away all these troubles. 
In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank. What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so often. It would be the same old story. She walked on and on, and finally did go into one place, with the old result. She came out feeling that luck was against her. It was no use. 
Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about its long window display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts, she who was so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and get her new things. Now for relief from distress; she thought she would go in and see. She would look at the jackets. 
There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. When Carrie began wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this mood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery, where before she had hurried on. Her woman's heart was warm with desire for them. How would she look in this, how charming that would make her! She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. If she would only make up her mind, she could have one of those now. She lingered in the jewelry department. She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains. What would she not have given if she could have had them all! She would look fine too, if only she had some of these things. 
The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. Still she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would like better. She went about among the glass cases and racks where these things were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she thought of was the proper one. All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to herself the actual condition. At last the noon hour was dangerously near, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return the money. 
Drouet was on the corner when she came up. 
"Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the shoes?" 
Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board. 
"I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money." 
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me. Let's go over here to Partridge's." 
Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the points that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him. 
"Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here," and Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off State Street, in Monroe. 
"I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled in a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear those things out there. They--they wouldn't know where I got them." 
"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?" 
"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily. 
"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?" 
Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if he could. "Why are you going home?" he asked. 
"Oh, I can't get anything here." 
They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively. 
"They can't," said Carrie. 
"I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take care of you." 
Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend. 
"What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by the words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. "There isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something." 
Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its upholstered depths a young lady. 
"What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no subtle undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing at all of the things he thought worth while. 
Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could do. They would be expecting her to go home this week. 
Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy. 
"Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it. I'll loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can get yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you." 
Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt more than ever the helplessness of her case. 
"If I could only get something to do," she said. 
"Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if you go away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get you a nice room? I won't bother you--you needn't be afraid. Then, when you get fixed up, maybe you could get something." 
He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no doubt of that. She seemed to have some power back of her actions. She was not like the common run of store-girls. She wasn't silly. 
In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he--more taste. It was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head unconsciously in a dainty way. 
"Do you think I could get something?" she asked. 
"Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'll help you." 
She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly. 
"Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go over here to Partridge's and you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room for you. You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show to-night." 
Carrie shook her head. 
"Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You don't need to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there." 
She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over. 
"Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said. 
Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of new things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the influence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like the one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand it seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the improvement. She looked quite smart. 
"That's the thing," he said. 
Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks. 
"That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it." 
"It's nine dollars," said Carrie. 
"That's all right--take it," said Drouet. 
She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back and the purchase was closed. 
From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was fitted for shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, said, "Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings. 
"To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt." 
In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. 
Since she had not done these, there was a way out. 
Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister." He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will be here in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased. 
When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street. 
Carrie left her things. 
"Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?" 
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. 
"Why not?" 
"I don't want to leave them so." 
He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the flat. 
"Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you get along." 
She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her about a little and then help her get something. He really imagined that he would. He would be out on the road and she could be working. 
"Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get whatever you want and come away." 
She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her determination was hardened. 
"So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story of the Boston Store. 
Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she answered. 
"I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie. 
Carrie said nothing. 
When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He washed in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans were considerable, and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong. 
"Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson. 
"No." 
He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that was all. Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring. 
Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to know that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson particularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became of her. 
After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb her, and wrote a little note. 
"Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going to stay in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be all right." 
In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said: 
"I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could scarcely prevent her voice from trembling. 
Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance. 
"Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said. 
"Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this." 
She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little bedroom, wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under Minnie's hair-brush. 
When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and wondered what they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her deed affected her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up the lighted step, and then affected to stroll up the street. When she reached the corner she quickened her pace. 
As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife. 
"Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked. 
"Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more." 
He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to poke his finger at it. 
Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits. 
"Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him. "Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car."
关于金钱的真正意义，还有待人们的解释和理解。金钱不是代表掠夺来的特权，而只代表一个人应得的报酬，即诚实劳动的回报。只有在这种场合才可以接受金钱。如果人人都能认识到这些，我们许多社会问题，宗教问题和政治问题就会一劳永逸地解决了。至于嘉莉，她对金钱的道德意义的理解和一般人一样肤浅，并没有更高明一点的见解。“金钱是某种别人已经有了我也必须有的东西，”这个古老的定义可以充分表达她对这个问题的全部看法。现在她手里拿着的就是一些金钱--两张软乎乎的１０元绿色钞票。这两张票子让她感到自己的境遇好多了，这东西本身就是一种权力。有她这种想法的人，只要能得到一大捆钞票，就是被抛在荒岛也会甘心情愿的。只有长时间的挨饿以后，她才会明白，在某种情况下，金钱可能一点用处也没有。即使在那时候，她也不会明白价值的相对性。毫无疑问，她会感到很遗憾，拥有了巨大的购买能力却用不上。 这可怜的女孩在和杜洛埃分手时非常地激动。她有点羞愧，因为她没有勇气拒绝而接受了他的钱。可是因为她的需要实在太迫切了，所以她又很高兴自己收了钱。现在她可以买一件漂亮的新外套了！她还要买一双漂亮的带暗扣的鞋子，还要买长统袜子，买裙子，买--就像当初核计如何花她没到手的薪水一样，她现在想要的东西超出了这些钱的购买力的２倍还不止。 
她对杜洛埃的长处有了充分的评价。像人们普遍的看法一样，她认为他是个热心肠的好人。他没有一点恶意，他给她钱是出于好心，出于理解她急需用钱。当然对一个穷小子，他出手不会这么大方的。但是我们不能忘记，照常理，一个穷小子当然不会像一个穷丫头那样能够打动他的心。女性这个因素影响了他的情感，他的性欲是天生的。然而任何一个叫化子只要让他看见了，只要那人说声：“天哪，先生，我饿坏了。”他一定会很乐意地掏出适当的钱来打发他，然后把这事忘在脑后。他不会再去推论，再去作哲理的探究。他的思维活动也不配用推论和哲理这两个字眼，当他衣冠楚楚，身体壮实时，他是个欢乐的无忧无虑的人。就像飞蛾扑灯一样追逐着声色享乐。但是如果他一旦失去了工作，再受些捉弄人的社会势力和命运的摆布和打击，他会像嘉莉一样束手无策--如果你愿意这么说的话，像她一样孤苦无靠，无可奈何，一样的可怜巴巴。 
至于他喜欢追女人这一点，其实他并不想伤害她们，他并不认为他想和她们建立的那种关系会伤害她们。他喜欢追女人，喜欢她们拜倒在他的魅力之下，这并不是因为他是个怜酷无情，心地阴暗，诡计多端的恶棍，而是因为他天生的欲望驱使着他这么做，这是他的主要乐趣。他爱虚荣，爱吹嘘，像个傻丫头一样迷恋漂亮衣服。就像他能轻易讨得一个女店员的欢心一样，一个真正老谋深算的恶棍会同样轻易地把他骗了。作为一个推销员，他的成功要归于他的对人和气恳切以及他服务的那家公司的声誉。他在人群中活跃地走动，像一盆火一样热情，不过他并没有可以称得上智慧的才华，没有一种可以称得上高尚的思想，也没有一种永恒持久的感情。古希腊女诗人萨福夫人会叫他一头猪，莎士比亚则会叫他：“我的贪玩的孩子。”他的酒鬼老板加里欧老爹认为他是个聪明成功的商人。 
简言之，他照自己的理解是个好人。 
他胸襟坦荡，具有值得称道的优点，这可以从嘉莉拿了他的钱这一点看出。没有一个老奸巨滑，心怀叵测的家伙能够在友谊的幌子下让她收下一毛钱。天生愚笨的人并不像我们想的那样容易上当受骗。造物主赋予野外的走兽以本能，一遇到突如起来的危险威胁就逃之夭夭。花栗鼠愚蠢的小脑袋里却有天生的对于毒药的恐惧。“上帝保全他所创造的万物，”这并不是只就野兽而言。嘉莉不聪明，因此就像一头愚蠢的绵羊一样，情感强烈。自我保护的本能在这种人身上通常是很强烈的。但是杜洛埃的接近如果说激起了一点自卫本能的话，那也是微乎其微的。 
嘉莉走后，他庆幸自己获得了她的好感。老天啊，让年纪轻轻的姑娘这样饱受折磨，太不像话了。冬天要来了，还没有御寒的衣服，太惨了。他要到费莫酒家来根雪茄。他想到她，脚步也变得轻漂漂了。 
嘉莉兴高采烈地回到家。她几乎无法掩饰自己的高兴。不过这笔钱又带来了一些为难的问题。敏妮既然知道她没有钱，她怎么能去买衣服呢？一回到公寓，这个问题就明朗了。没办法的，她无法向敏妮解释的。 
“今天有什么结果？”敏妮问道，她指的是白天找工作的事。 
那种嘴上说一套心里想一套的骗人花招，嘉莉一点也不会。所以即使掩饰搪塞，她也得找个和她心情一致的借口。现在她的心情既然那么好，她不能假装抱怨，所以她就说：“有点眉目了。”“在哪里？”“在汉斯顿商店。”“真的有希望吗？”敏妮追问道。 
“叫我明天去听消息，”嘉莉说。她不喜欢把谎言拖长到不必要的地步。 
敏妮能感觉到嘉莉的欢乐情绪，她想眼下是个适当时机，可以向嘉莉解释汉生关于她的芝加哥之行的看法。 
“如果你找不到工作的话--”她停了下来，不知道该怎么开口。 
“如果我不能马上找到工作的话，我想得回家了。”敏妮赶快不失时机地说：“史文觉得冬天还是回去的好。”嘉莉立即明白了她的处境。她失了业，他们不愿意再留她住了。她不怪敏妮，也不很怪汉生。现在，当她坐在那里惦量着这些话时，她庆幸自己拿了杜洛埃的钱。 
“是的。”过了一会儿她又说，“我早有这个打算了。”不过她没有告诉敏妮，回家这件事引起了她本能的强烈反感。哥伦比亚城，那地方有什么适合她的事呢？那种单调狭隘的生活她早就烂熟了。芝加哥这个伟大神秘的城市仍像磁铁一样吸引着她，她所看到的那一小部分揭示了它的无限机遇和前景。一想到要离开这个大城市，回哥伦比亚过以前那种乏味可怜的生活，她厌恶得几乎要叫了出来。 
这天她回来得早，就走到前屋去想心事。她该怎么办呢？ 
她无法买了新鞋子在这里穿。这２０元钱中她还得留下一点当回家的路费，因为她不想问敏妮借路费。但是她怎么向敏妮解释钱是从哪里来的呢？但愿她能挣到足够的钱摆脱这个困境就好了。 
她反复想着她的为难的处境。明早，杜洛埃会期望她穿上新外套，可这是做不到的。汉生一家想叫她回老家，她想离开他们，却不想回老家。她没有找到工作却有了钱，他们会如何看她呢？她现在感到拿了杜洛埃的钱好像是件很可怕的事，于是她开始羞愧。她的处境让她沮丧不快。和杜洛埃在一起时，一切都那么简单。而现在一切都纠结在一起，理不出一个头绪--事情比原来还要糟糕，因为她尽管有了一笔可以解决生活问题的钱，却没法用这笔钱。 
她的情绪非常低落，所以吃晚饭时敏妮猜想她这一天又是白跑了。嘉莉最后决定要把钱退回去。拿钱是不对的，明早她要去市里找工作。到中午时，她将按他们的约定去见杜洛埃，把一切都告诉他。一想到这个决定，她的心就往下沉，最后她又成了原先那个痛苦忧伤的嘉莉。 
说来奇怪，当她把钱握在手里时，却感到一点安慰。虽然她已经做了那个让她伤心的决定，可以不用再去想这件事，这２０元钱似乎仍是个奇妙可喜的东西。啊，钱啊钱，有了钱是多么好埃只要有了大把的钱，一切烦恼就会消失了。 
第二天清早，她起早出了门。她找工作的决心不算小，但是口袋里这笔伤脑筋的钱并没有使找工作的事情轻松些。她走进批发行商业区，但是每当她走到一个商号，打算进去申请工作时，她的勇气就消失了。她心里骂自己是胆小鬼，不过她已经申请了这么多次，结果还不是一样。所以她继续往前走，走了又走，最后终于走进了一家商号。结果还是老样子。她出来时感到命运在和她作对，因此一切努力都是徒劳的。 
没有怎么考虑，她就信步到了第邦街。大商场就在这里，门口散放着运货的小车，还有长长的一列橱窗和成群的顾客。 
这些立刻使她改变了思路，她不再去想那些让她厌烦的问题。 
她原先就是打算到这里来买新衣服的。现在为了解愁，她决定进去瞧瞧。她很想看看那些外套。 
有时一个人手头尽管有钱，又受欲望的驱使想买一样东西，可是他也许受了良心的阻止，或者心里拿不定主意，所以在心里不断掂量权衡，并不急于去买。世界上再没有比这种要买没买的中间状态更令人愉快了。嘉莉在店里那些漂亮的陈列其中间转悠，她的心情就是这样。她上次来这里时，这地方给她留下了很好的印象。现在，她在那些漂亮的东西面前不再匆匆走过。她在每样东西面前停留，女性的心热烈地企盼着得到它们。要是穿上这件的话，她会显得多可爱埃啊，那一件又会使她多迷人啊！她来到女胸衣柜台，看到那些做工精美，颜色缤纷，有花边装饰的胸衣时，停下了脚步，陷入丰富的遐想。只要她能拿定主意，她现在就可以买上一件。在珠宝柜台，她又久久逗留，欣赏着那些耳环，手镯，饰针和金链条。要是能够拥有这一切，又有什么代价她会舍不得付出呢。只要她也戴上几件这类首饰，她同样会看上去雍容华丽。 
最吸引她的是那些外套。她刚走进店里，就一眼看中了一件黄褐色的小外套，上面缀着大大的珠母钮扣。这种款式这年秋天很新潮。不过她仍打算多看看，瞧瞧有没有比这件更好的。她在陈列衣服的玻璃橱和货架中间走来走去，满意地认为她看中的那件确实是最合适的。她犹豫不决，拿不定主意，一会儿想使自己相信，只要她愿意，她马上可以把那件衣服买下来，一会儿又想起了自己的实际处境。快到中午了，她还是什么也没买。现在她该去见杜洛埃，把钱还给他。 
她到那里时，杜洛埃正站在街上转弯的地方。 
“哈啰，”他说，“咦，你买的外套呢？”他又朝下看着她的脚，“还有鞋子呢？”嘉莉本想转弯抹角地将话题引到她的退钱的决定去，可是杜洛埃这么一问，把她原先想好的那一套全打乱了。 
“我是来告诉你，我--我不能拿那些钱。”“嗯，是这么回事埃”他回答。“这样吧，你跟我来，我们一起上帕特里奇公司去。”嘉莉和他一起走着，不觉把种种疑虑和无奈都忘得精光。 
和他在一起，她就无法去考虑那些严肃问题，那些她想向他解释明白的事情。 
“你吃过午饭了吗？肯定没吃过。来，我们进这里面去。”说着杜洛埃转身走进门罗街上靠近斯台特路的一家布置漂亮的餐馆。 
“我不能拿这笔钱。”他们在一个舒适的角落坐下来，杜洛埃点了午饭以后，嘉莉说道，“我在我姐姐家没法把那些东西穿出来。他们--我不能让他们知道这些东西是从哪里来的。”“那你打算怎么办？”他微笑了，“不穿衣服过冬吗？”“我想我得回老家去，”她没精打采地说。 
“来，别想了，”他说。“这事情你已经想得太多了。我来告诉你怎么办。你说你在那里没法穿这些衣服。你为什么不租一间带家俱的房间，把衣服在那里先放一个星期呢？”嘉莉摇了摇头。嘉莉像别的妇女一样，对这种提议持有异议，所以她还需要有人说服她。而他则必须竭力消除她的疑虑，为她扫清前进的道路。 
“你为什么要回去呢？”他问。 
“你瞧，我在这里什么活也找不到。” 
“他们不肯留你住了吗？”他直觉地问道。 
“他们留不起，”嘉莉说道。 
“我来告诉你怎么办，”他说，“你跟我来，由我来照顾你。”嘉莉听着他说，没有提出反对。在她目前的特殊境况下，杜洛埃的话像是替她打开了一扇门，因此她觉得很中听。杜洛埃的性情和爱好，看来和她挺投合。他干净、漂亮、衣着考究、富有同情心，对她说话像一个老朋友。 
“你回到哥伦比亚城，又能干些什么呢？”他继续说道。他的话使嘉莉脑海里浮现出家乡那小地方枯燥单调的生活场景。“那里什么也没有。芝加哥才是大有可为的地方。你在这里可以找个好房间住下来，买点衣服，然后可以找个事做做。”嘉莉看着窗外繁华的马路。外面就是令人惊叹的大城市，只要你有钱，一切是多么美好。一辆华丽的马车从窗前经过，由两匹精神抖擞的棕红大马欢快地拉着，马车里面的座垫上坐着一位年轻的小姐。 
“你回去的话，有什么好处呢？”杜洛埃问道。他的话里并没有什么隐晦的暗示。在他看来，她一旦回去，就没有机会得到那些他认为有价值的东西。 
嘉莉一动不动地坐着，看着窗外。她在想她还有没有什么办法。姐姐他们是希望她这星期回去的。 
杜洛埃把话题一转，开始谈她想买的衣服。 
“为什么不给你自己买一件漂亮的小外套呢？这是少不掉的。钱算是我借给你的，你不用担心拿了我的钱。你可以给自己找间漂亮的房间，我不会伤害你的。“嘉莉明白杜洛埃指的是什么，可是没法表达自己的想法。 
她感到再没有比眼下的处境更为难的了。 
“要是我能找个什么事做就好了，”她说。 
“你如果留下来，”杜洛埃继续说道，“你也许会的。可是你如果走了，那就找不到事了。他们既然不让你再住下去，为什么不让我帮你找个好房间呢？我不会打扰你的--你不用害怕。然后等你安顿下来，你也许会找到个活的。”他看着她秀丽的脸蛋，思路变得活跃敏捷起来。在他看来，她真是一个可爱的小人儿--这一点是不庸置疑的。她的一举一动都透出一种魔力。她和那些普通女工不一样，她没有傻气。 
其实，嘉莉的想象力比他更丰富。趣味也更高雅。她情感细腻，所以落落寡欢，感到凄凉孤独。她的衣服虽然普通却很齐整，她的头不自觉地微微扬起，显出天然的风韵。 
“你认为我能找到事做吗？”她问。 
“当然啰。”他说着伸手给她的杯子倒上茶，“我会帮助你的。”她看着他，他朝她安抚地笑笑。 
“现在你听我说怎么办。我们到这里的帕特里奇公司去挑选你要的衣服。然后我们一起去替你找间房子。你可以把你的东西留在那里。今晚我们去看戏。”嘉莉摇了摇头。 
“然后你回你姐姐家的公寓去好了。你不用住在租的房间里，只是租着放你的东西。”但她还是犹豫不决，一直到吃完饭。 
“现在我们去看看衣服吧，”他说。 
他们于是一起前往。店里琳琅满目，沙沙作响的新衣服立即把嘉莉迷住了。吃了一顿丰盛的午饭，又加上杜洛埃兴致勃勃的陪伴，使她开始感到他的提议似乎还可行。她在店里转悠了一圈以后，挑了一件和她在大商场看中的那件很相像的外套。这衣服拿在手上看时，显得更漂亮了。女店员帮她穿上这衣服，恰巧非常合身。杜洛埃看到嘉莉穿上这衣服更增风采，不禁欣然微笑：她看上去真是俏丽。 
“就是这件好，”他说。 
嘉莉在镜子前转着身子。她看到镜子里的自己，也不禁心喜，一抹喜悦的红晕悄悄爬上两颊。 
“就买这件吧，”杜洛埃说，“付钱吧。” 
“要９块钱呢，”嘉莉说。 
“没关系，买下来吧，”杜洛埃说。 
她把手伸进钱包，掏出一张钞票。女店员问她是不是要穿着走，然后就离开了。几分钟以后她又回来：衣服买好了。 
从帕特里奇商店出来，他们去了一家鞋店。嘉莉试鞋子时，杜洛埃就站在旁边看。当他看到鞋子穿在嘉莉脚上很漂亮时，就说，“就穿这双吧。”但是嘉莉摇了摇头，她在回想姐姐家的事。他给她买了一个钱包，又买了一双手套，然后让她买长统袜子。 
“等明天，”他说，“你到这里来买条裙子。”嘉莉在买这买那的时候，心里总有些惴惴不安。她在这感情的纠葛中陷得越深，越自欺欺人地想象，只要她不做那些她尚未做的事就没有关系。既然她没有做那些事，她还有抽身的机会。 
杜洛埃知道华拔士路有个地方出租房间。他领着嘉莉到了那座房子外面就说：“现在你算我的妹妹。”在挑选房间时，他这里看看，那里瞧瞧，嘴里发表着看法，轻松地把租房的事办妥了。“她的箱子一两天就运来，”他这么对房东太太说。房东太太听了很高兴。 
他们俩单独在一起时，杜洛埃的态度一点没有变。他像一个普通朋友那样交谈着，仍像在街上众目睽睽之下一样。嘉莉把东西留在了那里。 
“听我说，”杜洛埃说，“你今晚就搬来住不好吗？”“嗯，那不行，”嘉莉回答。 
“为什么不行？” 
“我不愿意这样离开他们。” 
他们在林荫大道走时，他又提起了这个话题。那是个温暖的下午，风歇了，太阳出来了。他从嘉莉的谈话中，对她姐姐家的气氛有了一个详细正确的了解。 
“搬出来吧，”他说，“他们不会在意的。我来帮你的忙。”她听着听着，渐渐地她的疑虑消失了。他会带着她到处看看，然后帮她找个工作。他确实相信他会这么做的。他出门去推销货物时，她可以去上班。 
“来，我来告诉你怎么办，”他说。“你回到那里，拿上你的东西，然后就离开那里。”她对这个提议想了很久，最后同意了。他将走到庇里亚街，在那里等她。他们说好８点半会合。５点半她回到了家。到了６点，她的决心坚定了。 
“这么说，你没有得到那份工作？”敏妮说，她指的是嘉莉前一天编造的波斯顿公司的工作。 
嘉莉用眼角看了她一眼。“没有，”她回答。 
“我看今年秋天你不用再找了，”敏妮说。 
嘉莉没有回答。 
汉生回到家里，脸上仍是一副莫测高深的表情。他一声不响地洗了澡，就走到一边去看报了。吃晚饭时，嘉莉有些心神不定，出走计划给她带来了沉重的思想压力，同时她深切地感到自己在这里不受欢迎。 
“还没找到工作吗？”汉生问。 
“没有，” 
他转过脸去继续吃饭，脑子里想着留她住在这里是个负担。她得回家去，就是这么回事。这次走了，明年开春她就不会再来了。 
对于自己即将做的事，嘉莉心里感到害怕。但是想到这里的生活要结束了，她心里又一阵轻松。他们不会在意她的，尤其汉生对她的离开会感到高兴。他才不会管她发生什么事呢。 
吃过晚饭，她走进洗澡间写条子，在那里他们不会打扰她的。 
“再见，敏妮。”她在条子里写道，“我不回家。我还要在芝加哥住一段时间找工作。别担心。我会很好的。”在前屋，汉生正在看报。嘉莉像往常一样帮助敏妮洗了碗，收拾了房间。然后她说：“我想到楼下大门口站一会儿。”她说这话时，声音不禁有些颤抖。 
敏妮想起了汉生的告诫。 
“史文觉得女孩子站在楼下有点不雅观，”她说。 
“是吗？”嘉莉说，“以后我不会再去了。”她戴上帽子，在小卧室的桌子旁犹豫了一会儿，不知道把条子塞到哪里合适。最后她把条子放在敏妮的头发刷子底下。 
她走出房间，关上了外面门厅的大门，不禁停住脚步，猜想他们会怎么看待这件事。她自己出格的举动也使她情绪波动。慢慢地她走下楼梯。在大门口，她又回身朝上看着灯光下的楼梯。随后她装着在马路上遛达的样子慢慢往前走。到了马路拐弯的地方，她加快了脚步。 
在她匆匆离去时，汉生又回到了他妻子身边。 
“嘉莉又到楼下大门口去了吗？”他问。 
“是啊，”敏妮说，“她答应以后不这样了。” 
他走到宝宝跟前，宝宝正在地板上玩。于是他伸出手指去逗宝宝玩。 
杜洛埃正在马路转弯处等候，心情很兴奋。 
“喂，嘉莉，”看到一个女孩的倩影活泼地向他走来，他喊了起来，“平安无事，对不对？来，我们叫一辆车。”
Chapter 8 INTIMATIONS BY WINTER--AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED
Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him aligned by nature with the forces of life--he is born into their keeping and without thought he is protected. We see man far removed from the lairs of the jungles, his innate instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his free-will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance. 
He is becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he is still too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast, the forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In this intermediate stage he wavers--neither drawn in harmony with nature by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his own free-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erring with one, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only to rise by the other--a creature of incalculable variability. We have the consolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that cannot fail. He will not forever balance thus between good and evil. When this jangle of free-will instinct shall have been adjusted, when perfect under standing has given the former the power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer vary. The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and unwavering to the distinct pole of truth. 
In Carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--instinct and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She followed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than she drew. 
When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow, or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of that?" 
"What?" said Hanson. 
"Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else." 
Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse. 
"Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly aroused. 
"I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she has gone and done it." 
Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way. 
"Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done." 
"Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before him, "what can you do?" 
Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the possibilities in such cases. 
"Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!" 
At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5 A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in her new room, alone. 
Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet would do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a peradventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He could not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Carrie as surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you may be sure. 
The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul. 
"Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to breakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day." 
Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes. 
"I wish I could get something to do," she said. 
"You'll get that all right," said Drouet. "What's the use worrying right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you." 
"I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully. 
"Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they look fine. Put on your jacket." 
Carrie obeyed. 
"Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. "What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast." 
Carrie put on her hat. 
"Where are the gloves?" he inquired. 
"Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer. 
"Now, come on," he said. 
Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away. 
It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought her a nice skirt and shirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessaries of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was pretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill of power. Drouet was so good. 
They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable distance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up cold, and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December days at home. She paused and wrung her little hands. 
"What's the matter?" said Drouet. 
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling. 
He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her arm. 
"Come on," he said gently, "you're all right." 
She turned to slip on her jacket. 
"Better wear that boa about your throat to night." 
They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity. 
Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby. 
Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came back. She actually started. Drouet didn't notice until Carrie bumped into a pedestrian. 
"You must be thinking," he said. 
They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie immensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare. "Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips. "Let's see." 
"Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven." 
"Isn't it fine?" said Carrie. 
"Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery and gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. As they were moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!" They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies. 
"You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet. 
Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but there was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing. "Now, bless me," says such a mind, "I have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again. 
Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. She was again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence. 
"Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going." 
They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He touched it now as he spoke of going. 
They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small information. He had Carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as he explained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would look down, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly musing. 
At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. She could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was a deep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An old basket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope. 
"Let's get in," said Carrie. 
"Oh, no," said Minnie. 
"Yes, come on," said Carrie. 
She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she had swung over and was going down. 
"Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back"; but Carrie was far down now and the shadow had swallowed her completely. 
She moved her arm. 
Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something that reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked about, and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip of the encroaching water. 
"Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her. 
"Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away suffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in life. 
It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen her falling. 
"Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson, disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder. 
"Wha--what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily. 
"Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You're talking in your sleep." 
A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's, spruce in dress and manner. 
"Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door. 
Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. "When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired. 
"Pretty soon," said Drouet. 
"Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood. 
"Well, I've been busy," said Drouet. 
They talked some few minutes on general topics. 
"Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to come out some evening." 
"Out where?" inquired Hurstwood. 
"Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling. 
Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "Certainly; glad to." 
"We'll have a nice game of euchre." 
"May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood. "Certainly," said Drouet. "I'll introduce you."
在主宰和支配万物的宇宙各种势力面前，一个没有经验的人简直就像风中的弱草。人类的文明仍处于中间状态，几乎已经摆脱了兽性。因为它已经不完全受本能的支配，可还算不上人性，因为它还没有完全受理性的指导。老虎对自己的行为是不负任何责任的，它天生受原始生命力的支配，受原始生命力的抚育和保护，因为它没有思想。而人类已经远离森林中的巢穴。人类由于获得了几乎完全自由的意志，他天生的本能变得麻木了。但是他的自由意志还没有发展到足以代替本能，为他提供完善指导的地步。他太聪明了，所以不会总是听从本能和欲望的摆布；但是他又不够坚强，不能总是战胜本能和欲望。当他还是动物时，他和生命力保持一致，受生命力的支配。 但是当他成为人时，他还没有完全学会如何使自己与生命力相一致，使自己适应和控制生命力。他在这种中间阶段摇摆不定--既不是靠本能被动地与自然力保持一致，又不够聪明，不能靠自由意志主动地与自然力保持一致，取得和谐。他只是风中的弱草摇摆不定，受各种情感的影响。一会儿按意志行动，一会又按本能行事。如果他靠意志行动错了，他就靠本能来解救；如果他靠本能行动失败了，他就靠意志再站起来--总之，他是一种反复无常，无法预测的生物。我们唯一的欣慰是我们知道人类会不断地进化，而理想永远是可靠的灯塔，人类不会永远在善与恶之间徘徊。当自由意志和本能的矛盾得到调整，当充分的理性使自由意志具有完全代替本能的力量，人类就不会继续摇摆不定。理智的磁针将永远指向远处真理的磁极。 
在嘉莉身上--其实世俗中人又有几个不是如此呢？--本能和理性，欲望和认识在不断交战，争取主导。迄今她被她的欲望牵着跑，被动的时候多于主动的时候。 
那一晚，敏妮对嘉莉的失踪既困惑不解，又焦虑不安，不过这种焦虑并不是出于思念、悲伤或友爱。第二天一早发现了那张条子时，她叫了起来，“天哪，这是怎么一回事？”“怎么啦？”汉生问。“出去，住到别处去了。”汉生以从未有过的敏捷从床上一跃而起，来看那张纸条。 
不过他什么也没有说，只用舌头咂了一下嘴，表示他对这事的看法，就像人们催马前进时发出的那种声音。 
“你猜她会到哪里去呢？”敏妮情绪激动地问。 
“我不知道，”他的眼中闪过一丝讥嘲，“她终于还是做出了这种事。”敏妮困惑地摇了摇头。 
“唉，”她说，“她不知道自己干的是什么事。”“算了，”过了一会儿，汉生把手一摊说道，“你又有什么办法呢？”女人的天性使敏妮不能就此丢开不管，她猜测着这种情况下的种种可能。 
“唉，”她最后说，“” 
上述对话，发生在清晨５点。与此同时，这个到城里冒险的小兵正独自睡在新房间里，睡得很不踏实。 
如果说嘉莉的新境遇有什么特点的话，那就是她从中看到了各种可能性。她并不是一个肉欲主义者，渴望沉迷在灯红酒绿的花花世界里。她在床上翻来覆去，为自己的大胆而不安，又为从旧的生活中解脱出来高兴。她不知道自己能否找到工作，又猜测着杜洛埃会做些什么。无疑，这位可敬的先生将做的事，造物主早就安排好了。对于他自己的行为，他实在是身不由己。他的理性还未明理到阻止他。他受本能欲望的摆布，扮演一个追求异性的老角色。他对嘉莉的需求正如他对丰盛早餐的需求一样。也许他对自己做的事有那么一丁点儿的良心不安，那么就是在这一点儿上他是邪恶有罪的。不过你可以肯定，不管他为什么良心不安，这种不安都是微乎其微的。 
第二天他来看嘉莉，她在自己的房间和他见面。他仍然是那么欢乐，令人开心。 
“哎呀，”他说，“你为什么这么闷闷不乐？走，我们吃早点去。你今天还要去买别的衣服呢。”嘉莉看着他，大眼睛里透出她的矛盾犹豫心理。 
“但愿我能找到工作，”她说。 
“你会找到工作的，”杜洛埃说。“现在担心有什么用呢？先安定下来，在城里看看。我不会害你的。”“我知道你不会，”她说，不过口气不那么肯定。 
“穿上新鞋子了吗？把脚伸出来，让我瞧瞧。天哪，漂亮极了。现在穿上你的外套吧。”嘉莉照办了。 
“嘿，我说，这衣服合身极了，像定做的一样，对不对？”他说着，摸了摸腰部的大小，又退后几步打量着这衣服，感到由衷的高兴。“你现在只缺一条新裙子了。现在我们去吃早饭吧。”嘉莉戴上帽子。 
“手套呢？”他问。 
“在这里。”她说着从五斗橱的抽屉里拿出手套。 
“好，走吧，”他说。 
就这样，嘉莉最初的疑虑被一扫而光。 
每次见面都是这样。杜洛埃不来看她的时候很少。她有时候一个人单独逛逛，但是大多数时候他带着她到处观光。在卡生街的比尔公司，他给她买了条漂亮的裙子和一件宽松式上衣。她又用他的钱买了一些基本化妆品。到最后，她简直像换了一个人。镜子向她证实了她对自己的一向看法：她真是美，是的，美丽绝伦！帽子戴在她头上多俏丽，她的眼睛不也很美吗？她用牙齿咬咬自己的小红嘴唇，第一次为自己的魅力而吃惊兴奋。杜洛埃这人真好。 
一天傍晚，他们一起去看“日本天皇”，这是一出当时很流行的歌剧。去看戏之前，他们先去温莎餐厅。那家餐馆在第邦街，离嘉莉的住处有一大段路。外面刮起了寒风，从她的窗子看出去，可以看到西边的天空上还残留着一抹淡红的晚霞，而在头顶上方，天空现出湛蓝的颜色，最后和暮色交融在一起。 
一长抹粉红色的薄云浮在半空，就像海上遥远的仙岛。路对面，光秃秃的树枝在风中摇曳。这景色让她想起了老家。１２月份时从她们家的前窗看到的也是这种熟悉的景色。 
她停了下来，痛苦地扭动着她的小手。 
“怎么了？”杜洛埃问。 
“嗯，我也不知道，”她回答，她的嘴唇在颤动。 
他觉察到她有心事，于是用手臂搂住她的肩膀，拍了拍她的手臂。 
“走吧，”他温柔地说，“你没事。” 
她转身穿上外套。 
“今晚最好围上你的皮围脖。” 
他们沿华拔士街往北朝亚当街走去，然后转弯朝西走。商店里的灯火在街上泻下一片金色的光辉。弧光灯在头顶上方闪烁。更高处，写字楼的窗子里透出光明。一阵阵寒风像鞭子一样抽打着行人。那些６点钟刚下班的人们拥挤着往家走。薄大衣的领子都竖了起来，盖住耳朵，帽子也拉得低低的。年轻的女店员三三两两蹦蹦跳跳从身边走过，一边走一边说笑着。 
都是些洋溢着青春热血的人们。 
突然一双眼睛和嘉莉的目光相遇，认出了她。这眼光来自一群衣衫褴褛的姑娘。她们的衣服已经褪了颜色，松松垮垮的不合身，外套也是旧的，全身装束看去很寒伧。 
嘉莉认出了这目光和这姑娘。她是鞋厂里操作机器的女工之一。那女工看见了她，不敢肯定是她，于是又回过头来看。 
嘉莉感到似乎有一片巨浪在他们之间滚滚流过。不久前穿着旧衣烂衫在机器旁干活的日子又出现在眼前。她真的一阵心惊。杜洛埃开始没注意到，一直到嘉莉撞到了一个行人身上，他才发现嘉莉神色的变化。 
“你一定在想心事，”他说。 
他们一起吃了饭，然后去戏院。嘉莉很喜欢这出戏。五光十色动作优美的戏剧场面看得她神驰目眩，她不禁向往其地位和权力，想象着异国风光和那些举止轩昂的人物。戏结束时，得得的马车声和大群衣着华丽的夫人小姐们让她看得目瞪口呆。 
“等一下，”杜洛埃说。在戏院的门厅里，他拉她停住了脚步。夫人们和先生们正在那里走动着，相互应酬着，裙子发出沙沙的声响，戴着花边帽的头在频频点着，张开的嘴里露出洁白的牙齿。 
“我们先瞧一会儿。” 
“六十七号车，”替人叫车的那人正扬声用悦耳的声音喊道，“六十七！”“真漂亮，对不对？”嘉莉说。 
“漂亮极了！”杜洛埃说。他和她一样，为眼前华丽欢乐的场面所感染，热烈地捏了一下她的手臂。一次她抬起目光，微笑的嘴唇里，匀称齐整的贝齿在闪闪发光，眼睛也在闪闪发光。他们朝外走时，他俯下身子在她耳朵边说，“你看上去可爱极了。”他们走到外面时，叫马车的服务员正打开车门，请两位小姐上车。 
“你紧跟着我，我们也去叫辆车，”杜洛埃笑着说。 
嘉莉几乎没听到他的话。这旋风般的生活画面充满了她的头脑。 
马车在一家餐馆门口停下来，他们进去吃宵夜。时间不早了，这个念头在嘉莉头脑里只是模糊地一闪而过，反正她现在已经不受家规的约束了。假如她以前曾有时间形成一定的习惯的话，在这种场合习惯会起作用。习惯真是样怪东西，它能驱使一个没有宗教信仰的人从床上爬起来做祷告，这种祷告完全是习惯使然，而非宗教热忱。受习惯支配的人，一旦忽略了平常做惯的事情，他的心里会产生某种不安，一种脱离日常轨道带来的烦恼和不快，于是他想象这是良心在责备他，想象他听到了良心的声音在轻轻地督促他走上正轨。如果他过份地偏离了常轨，习惯的力量会强大到使这不动脑筋只凭习惯行事的人又回到老习惯来，因循守例行事。“好了，老天保佑，”这种人会这么说，“我总算尽了责任，做了我该做的事。”而实际上，他不过又一次照根深蒂固的老习惯做事而已。 
嘉莉在家时并没有受到多少家教，没有树立起良好的生活原则。如果那样的话，她现在一定要饱受良心的责备而痛苦不堪了。他们这顿宵夜吃得热乎乎的。走马灯般变幻的场景，杜洛埃身上无形的美好东西，以及佳肴美味，豪华饭店在这种种因素的作用下，嘉莉的警觉放松了，她放心地听着和看着。 
城市催眠般的魅力又一次让她上当受气。 
“好了，”杜洛埃终于说，“我们该走了。”吃饭时，他们一直在慢慢地消磨时间。他们的目光不时相接。嘉莉不觉感到他的目光中带有让她心跳的力量。他说话时喜欢用手碰碰她的手，好像要加深她的印象似的。现在当他说走时，他又碰了碰她的手。 
他们站起来，走到外面街上。闹市区的行人已经寥寥无几，只有几个吹着口哨的闲逛者，几辆夜间行驶的街车，还有几家娱乐场仍开着门，亮着灯光。他们慢慢走着，出了华拔士街，杜洛埃滔滔不绝地说着那些趣事逸闻，他挽着嘉莉的手臂，说话时紧紧地握着。每隔一小会儿，说了什么俏皮话以后，他就低下头，和她目光相交。终于他们到了台阶边。嘉莉站在一级台阶上，她的头于是和他的头一样高了。他抓住她的手，温柔地握着，他久久地凝视着她，而她沉思地四下看看，心里一片温暖。 
就在这大约同一时刻，经过长长一晚上的忧思，敏妮正在酣睡。她侧身睡着，胳膊肘很不舒服地压在身子下。受了压迫的肌肉刺激了神经，使得睡意正浓的脑海里浮现出一片模模糊糊的景象。她梦见她和嘉莉不知站在哪个旧矿井的旁边。她可以看到高高的滑槽和一堆堆挖出的泥土和煤。她们俩伸长脖子朝一个很深的竖井往下看。她们可以看到下面很深的地方，有些潮湿的怪石。那个地方的井壁已经看不清，只留下一些暗影。井口有一个用来载人上下的旧筐子，用一根已磨损的旧绳子吊在那里。 
“我们下去看看吧，”嘉莉说。 
“不，别下去，”敏妮说。 
“来，下吧，”嘉莉说。 
她开始拉筐，把筐拽了过来，不顾敏妮的反对，她跨进筐里，已经往下去了。 
“嘉莉！”她喊，“嘉莉，回来！”但是嘉莉已经下去很深了，暗影完全把她吞没了。 
她摇着手臂。 
现在，这神秘的幻影很奇怪地消失了。她发现来到了一片她从来没有去过的水边。她们正站在突出到水里去的某样东西上，那也许是一块木板，也许是伸入水中的陆地，也许是别的什么。嘉莉正站在这东西的顶端。她们四下张望，现在这东西开始往下沉，敏妮可以听到水漫上来的低低的声音。 
“快过来，嘉莉！”她喊着，但是嘉莉继续往外走。她似乎渐渐地远去，她的喊声已经很难送到她的耳朵里了。 
“嘉莉，”她喊道，“嘉莉！”但她自己的声音听上去那么遥远，只剩下一片茫茫水面，把一切吞没了。她怅然若失，痛苦地离去，那种难以名状的悲伤是她生平从未经历过的。 
就这样，种种印象幻影掠过她疲乏的大脑，种种奇怪的梦境浮现出来，变成模糊的一片，一个幻觉接着一个幻觉。最后一个梦境使她喊了出来，因为嘉莉正从一块巉岩上失脚滑下去，而她的手指没有抓住她，她看见她掉了下去。 
“敏妮！怎么了？喂，醒醒。”汉生被吵醒了，他摇着她的肩膀喊。 
“什什么事？"敏妮睡意惺忪地问。 
“醒醒，”他说，“翻一个身再睡。你在说梦话。”个把星期以后，杜洛埃打扮得漂漂亮亮，举止潇洒地走进费莫酒家。 
“你好啊，查理，”赫斯渥从他的小写字间探出头来说。 
杜洛埃踱了过去，朝里望着坐在桌边的经理。 
“你什么时候又要出门做生意？”他问。 
“快了，”杜洛埃回答。 
“这次你回来后，怎么很少看到你啊，”赫斯渥说。 
“噢，我这一向很忙，”杜洛埃说。 
他们随便聊了几分钟。 
“嘿，”杜洛埃好像突然想到了什么似地说道，“我想请你哪天晚上抽空出来玩玩。”“到哪里去玩？”“当然到我家去，”杜洛埃说着微微一笑。 
赫斯渥探究地抬起头来，嘴角浮起一丝笑影。他用精明的目光仔细地看着杜洛埃的脸，然后很有绅士风度地说：“当然，我很高兴去。”“我们可以好好玩玩尤卡扑克。”“我带一瓶赛克白葡萄酒来行吗？”赫斯渥说。 
“那当然好了，”杜洛埃说。“我要介绍你认识一个人。”
Chapter 12 OF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS--THE AMBASSADOR PLEA
Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral defections, though she might readily have suspected his tendencies, which she well understood. She was a woman upon whose action under provocation you could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the slightest idea of what she would do under certain circumstances. He had never seen her thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a passion. She had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were erring. She was too calculating to jeopardize any advantage she might gain in the way of information by fruitless clamour. Her wrath would never wreak itself in one fell blow. She would wait and brood, studying the details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate with her desire for revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to inflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her revenge and still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She was a cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye. 
Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some satisfaction. He did not fear her in the least--there was no cause for it. She still took a faint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her social integrity maintained. She was secretly somewhat pleased by the fact that much of her husband's property was in her name, a precaution which Hurstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more alluring than at present. His wife had not the slightest reason to feel that anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the shadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and then. She was in a position to become refractory with considerable advantage, and Hurstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure of anything once she became dissatisfied. 
It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and Drouet were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the sixth row of the parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third partner of a wholesale dry-goods house of that city. Hurstwood did not see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible, leaving himself just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those within the first six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way in every theatre-to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise. 
He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity. 
The next morning at breakfast his son said: 
"I saw you, Governor, last night." 
"Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the world. 
"Yes," said young George. 
"Who with?" 
"Miss Carmichael." 
Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual look into the theatre which was referred to. 
"How was the play?" she inquired. 
"Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing, 'Rip Van Winkle.'" 
"Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed indifference. 
"Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's, visiting here." 
Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for granted that his situation called for certain social movements in which she might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any evening entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in question only the morning before. 
"I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very carefully. 
"So I was," he exclaimed. "I couldn't help the interruption, but I made up for it afterward by working until two." 
This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at which the claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. For years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion, and found her company dull. Now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this older luminary paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his face away entirely, and any call to look back was irksome. 
She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though the spirit might be wanting. 
"We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few days later. "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips and his wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and we're going to show them around a little." 
After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when he left the house. 
"I'll put a stop to this," he thought. "I'm not going to be bothered fooling around with visitors when I have work to do." 
Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar proposition, only it was to a matinee this time. 
"My dear," he returned, "I haven't time. I'm too busy." 
"You find time to go with other people, though," she replied, with considerable irritation. 
"Nothing of the kind," he answered. "I can't avoid business relations, and that's all there is to it." 
"Well, never mind," she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling of mutual antagonism was increased. 
On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew in an almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the stress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed effectively. She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. The glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale's extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her to distinguish between degrees of wealth. Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawns which she could not afford. On the North Side had been erected a number of elegant mansions along what is now known as the North Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid out, the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses were thoroughly new and imposing. When the winter season had passed and the first fine days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first through Lincoln Park and on far out towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving at the north end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock. At this time of year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of the evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city. Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems almost watery and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She was ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove along the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw one stop and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps faintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a table, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined that across these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and crystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly certain that here was happiness. If she could but stroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command--oh! How quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would the heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful was whispering in her ear. 
"If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly, "how delightful it would be." 
"And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy." 
She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox. 
"I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard, though, to take their misery in a mansion." 
When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had, but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears. What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues. She was too wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank. She longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old cottage room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally, it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be. 
While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet. 
"I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thought Carrie. 
She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another, principally by the strong impression he had made. She was quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below. 
Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that Drouet was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics which would interest Carrie. It was surprising--the ease with which he conducted a conversation. He was like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. He knew that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which absorbed her fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures. He had been here and there, he had seen this and that. Somehow he made Carrie wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of himself. She could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality and presence for a moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out, with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand for emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere which suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to make her clever. At least, she brightened under his influence until all her best side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with him than with others. At least, he seemed to find so much in her to applaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage. Drouet was full of it. 
There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent, that Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. She was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. It was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. Each time there had been no sentence of importance which she could relate, and as for the glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such things had never been between her and Drouet. As a matter of fact, they could never be. She had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces of relief which Drouet represented at an opportune moment when she yielded to him. Now she was persuaded by secret current feelings which Drouet had never understood. Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of a lover, and more. They called for no immediate decision, and could not be answered. 
People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart listens. 
In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of the things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand. She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she did not need to worry over what other people would say--what she herself would say--because it had no tangibility. She was being pleaded with, persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet there were no words to prove it. Such conversation as was indulged in held the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which it is used to cover. 
"Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North Side?" asked Hurstwood. 
"Why, I was just over there this afternoon--Mrs. Hale and I. Aren't they beautiful?" 
"They're very fine," he answered. 
"Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively. "I wish I could live in such a place." 
"You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause. 
He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to say a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. She endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of a man's nature was working. He had good cause to urge him on. He looked and looked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult it became. The little shop-girl was getting into deep water. She was letting her few supports float away from her. 
"Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that." 
"I can't help it," he answered. 
She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength. 
"You are not satisfied with life, are you?" 
"No," she answered, weakly. 
He saw he was the master of the situation--he felt it. He reached over and touched her hand. 
"You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up. 
"I didn't intend to," he answered, easily. 
She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not terminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she felt that he was in power. 
"You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten out in the course of time." 
She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say. 
"We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand. 
"Yes," she answered. 
"Not a word, then, until I see you again." 
He retained a hold on her hand. 
"I can't promise," she said, doubtfully. 
"You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple way that she was touched. 
"Let's not talk about it any more," she returned. 
"All right," he said, brightening. 
He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door and ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently bought. 
"I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling of trouble and shame. "I don't seem to do anything right." 
She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening. 
"I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do." 
"Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right; that I know." 
The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.
赫斯渥太太并不知道她丈夫的道德问题，不过她也许能猜出他有这种习性，因为她对他再了解不过了。她是那种惹恼了什么都干得出来的女人。赫斯渥一点没想到在某些情况下她会做出什么事来。他从来没见过她勃然大怒。事实上，她不是那种动辄发火的人。她对男人们没有信心，知道他们总要犯错误的。她太工于心计，不愿意让无谓的大吵大闹暴露出自己的疑心。那样会听不到消息，占不了上风。她不会让她的怒气一古脑儿发泄出来。她要等待时机，盘算掂量，研究细节，积累信息，直到她的力量可以使她如愿以偿。与此同时，如果有机会对她的报复对象施加大大小小的伤害，她也不会迟疑不干。 但是在伤害对方时，她不会让她的对手知道毛病究竟出在什么地方。她是一个冷酷自私的女人，喜欢把许多想法藏在心里，面子上一点不露声色，连眼色也不透露出一点。 
赫斯渥对她这种脾气虽然有所觉察，但并不真正清楚。他和她一起生活一直相安无事，他甚至有些满意。他一点也不怕她--他没有理由要怕她。她还有几分为他自豪，她要保持社会地位的愿望又加强了这种自豪。不过她暗暗高兴，因为她丈夫的大部分财产放在她的名下，这是家庭比今日更具吸引力时赫斯渥采取的措施。他太太没有理由要担心他们的家庭关系会出问题，但是不和的阴影使她不时想到这种财产安排对她有利。这种有利地位使她变得难以驾御。赫斯渥小心从事，因为一旦她对他不满，他的一切就岌岌可危了。 
那天晚上，赫斯渥、嘉莉和杜洛埃在麦克维卡戏院包厢里看戏时，他儿子小乔治恰巧也在那里。他和当地绸缎批发行的第三合伙人哈·索·卡迈克尔的千金坐在正厅第六排。赫斯渥没有看到他儿子，因为他坐在椅子里时身子尽量往后靠，这是他的习惯。这样当他身子前倾时，前六排的人只能看见他半个身子。在每个戏院他都习惯这么坐法，尽量不要引人注目，如果太暴露了对自己没有好处的话。 
碰到自己的行为有被人误解或误传的可能时，他的一举一动就特别小心，总是小心翼翼地打量四周，估量暴露一时身体可能要付出的代价。 
第二天早饭时，他儿子说： 
“昨天晚上我看见你了，老爸。” 
“你昨晚在麦克维卡戏院吗？”赫斯渥用最欣然的口气问道。 
“是啊，”小乔治说。 
“你和谁一起去的？” 
“和卡迈克尔小姐一起。” 
赫斯渥太太向她丈夫投去疑问的目光，从他的表情看不出是否真像他们在聊的那样只是偶然去戏院看场戏。 
“戏怎么样？”她问道。 
“很好，”赫斯渥说，"还是一出老戏《瑞普凡·温克尔》。”“你和谁一起去的？”他的妻子装出漫不经心的神气追问道。 
“查理·杜洛埃和他的妻子。他们是莫埃的朋友，到这里来玩玩的。”由于他的职位的关系，这样的解释一般不会引起什么麻烦。他的妻子认为，他的职务有时需要他单独出外应酬，那是理所当然的。但是近来他太太要他晚上陪她出去玩时，他好几次推托说事情忙，脱不开身。就在昨天早上，她要他当晚陪着出去时，他就推掉了。 
“我记得你说你昨晚没空的，”她斟字酌句地说道。 
“我是没空，”他嚷了起来，“凭空插进看戏这码事我也没办法。我后来加班一直干到半夜２点。”暂时这件事就算过去了，但是心里留下了不满的疙瘩。他对他妻子的权利这样置之不顾还是第一次。多年来，他对她的感情日益淡薄，感到和她在一起很乏味。现在东方地平线上升起了一轮朝阳，这弯残月就在西边天际失去了光泽。对于旧的生活他只想掉头不顾，任何要他回头的呼唤都叫他恼火。 
另一方面，她却要求他完全履行他们婚姻关系规定的一切义务，尽管作为婚姻实质的感情已不复存在了。 
“今天下午我们要去市里，”几天以后她说，“我要你到金斯莱大菜馆来见见菲力气先生和太太。他们在屈莱芒旅馆下榻。我们应该带他们观光一下。”在发生了星期三这事以后，他无法再拒绝了，尽管菲力普两口子虚荣愚昧，非常令人乏味。他很勉强地答应下来，因此出门时很恼火。 
“这种事不能再发生了，”他想，“我可不愿意浪费时间陪这些游客逛大街。我还有事要做呢。”隔了不久，赫斯渥太太提出了一个类似的要求，不过这次是看下午场的戏。 
“亲爱的，”他回答，“我没空，我太忙了。”“你却有时间陪别人去，”她回答时口气已很不快了。 
“没有这回事，”他回答，“我只是躲不掉商业应酬，就是这么回事。”“好，不去就不去，”她尖叫道。她的嘴唇紧闭着，双方的敌对情绪增加了。 
另一方面，他对杜洛埃的小女工的兴趣几乎是在同步增加。那位年轻的小姐，在处境的压力和新朋友的教诲下，变化显著。她具有寻求解放的斗士的悟性，更排场的生活向她发出了诱人的光辉。与其说她的知识增加了，不如说她对物质的欲望增强了。海尔太太关于财富和地位的长篇宏论教会了她区分财富的等级。 
海尔太太喜欢在阳光明媚的下午坐车兜风，去瞧瞧她住不起的华厦和草坪，饱饱眼福，得些心灵上的安慰。在北区沿着现在的北湖滨路已建起了一批漂亮的府郏那个湖当时还没有用石块和花岗岩铺的湖堤。井然有序的道路把草坪分隔成一块块的，看上去很悦目，簇新的府第十分气派宏伟。冬季刚过，迎来了早春最初的好天气。海尔太太租了一辆轻便马车，请嘉莉一起去玩一下午。她们先驱车穿过林肯公园，然后驶向伊凡斯顿豪华住宅区。４点钟驾车往回走，大约５点钟到了北湖滨路的北端。一年的这个季节，仍是昼短夜长。黄昏的暮色已开始降临在这大城市。路灯已点亮了，柔和的光辉像半透明的液体倾泻下来。空气中透出温和的气息，以无限的轻柔向人的心灵和肌肤倾诉。嘉莉感到天气真好。这一天因为许多的联想和启迪，她的心灵成熟了。她们沿着平坦的马路行驶时，偶而有马车从她们车旁驶过。她看见一辆车停了下来。随从先下车，为一位先生打开车门。他似乎很悠闲，刚刚从哪里玩了一下午回来。她看见在大片冒出嫩绿的草坪后面，一座座豪华住宅里隐隐透出灯光。她有时瞧见一把椅子，有时瞧见一张桌子，有时瞧见富丽的房间一角。几乎没有任何别的东西比这些一闪而过的景色更强烈地吸引她了。童年时关于仙窟琼林和王室宫殿的梦想现在又复活了。她想象着住在这些雕廊画栋大厦里的人们过着无忧无虑心满意足的日子。这些华厦的门廊精雕细琢，门口的球形水晶灯照着方格镶板的大门，门上装有绘图彩色玻璃。她敢肯定这里就是幸福之所在。啊，如果她能拥有这样一幢大宅，漫步走过门前宽敞的走道，跨过在她看来像珠宝堆砌的富丽门廊，服饰华贵步态优雅地走进去发号施令，那么一切悲伤都会一扫而光，一切痛苦都会不治而愈。她久久地看着看着，惊叹着，欣喜着，企盼着。她那不安份的心灵就像海上女妖塞伦富有惑力的歌声在耳边不断地低诉。 
“如果我们能拥有一栋像这样的住宅，”海尔太太幽幽地说，“那会多么快活埃““不过人家说，世上没有一个人是幸福的。”嘉莉回答。 
那个吃不到葡萄的狐狸的伪善哲理她听过不知多少遍了。 
“不过，依我看来，”海尔太太说，“人们拼命想住进漂亮大厦去，情愿去那里吃苦呢。”她回到家时，感到她的住处比那些华厦差远了。她不至于蠢到看不出，他们住的只是小小三间摆设中等的公寓房间。她没有拿眼下的住处和她过去的住处相比，而是和她才看到的华厦美宅相比。她眼前仿佛还看见那些宫殿般的大门在闪光，耳朵里似乎还听到座垫华丽的马车从身旁辚辚驶过。说到底，杜洛埃算哪号人物？她自己又算得什么呢？她坐在窗前的摇椅里，一边摇着，一边想着。她的目光投向窗外，隔着华灯下的公园，凝视着公园后的华伦街和阿希兰大道上灯火通明的楼房住宅。她沉浸在这些思绪里，不想下楼去吃饭。忧愁伤感使她不想动弹，只想坐在摇椅里，摇着哼着小曲。一些老调子悄悄浮上心头，当她唱着这些歌，她的心在往下沉。她企盼着，企盼着，企盼着。一会儿思念哥伦比亚老家的村舍，一会儿渴望着北湖滨路上的华厦美宅。一会儿艳羡某位小姐的漂亮服装，一会儿又想起某个迷人的景色。绵绵的忧伤袭上心头，夹杂着犹豫、希冀和幻想。到最后，她觉得她的处境似乎无限孤独和凄凉，嘴唇禁不住颤抖起来。时光在流逝，她坐在窗旁的阴影里，低低哼唱着，心里开心起来，尽管她自己并没有意识到。 
嘉莉正沉湎在这种情绪中，公寓仆人上来说，赫斯渥先生在楼下客厅求见杜洛埃先生和太太。 
“我猜想他不知道查理出门了，”嘉莉想。 
整个冬天她几乎没有见到这位经理先生，但是由于这样那样的原因，主要是他留下的深刻印象，她对他始终没有忘怀。她一时有点不知所措，不知自己这样子能不能见客。但是照了镜子以后，她放下心来，于是走下楼梯。 
赫斯渥像往常一样打扮入时，风度翩翩。他没有听说杜洛埃出门了。不过这个消息没有影响他的情绪，他开始聊起那些嘉莉会感兴趣的一般话题。他聊天时的轻松自如真令人吃惊。 
他是那种阅历丰富的人，知道自己的谈吐讨人喜欢。他很清楚嘉莉爱听他说话，所以毫不费劲地聊着。他的谈吐把嘉莉迷住了。他把椅子挪近些，语调变得那么轻柔，好像他在说什么悄悄话似的。他的谈话几乎完全是关于男人和各种娱乐的。他到过许多地方，见多识广。不知怎么的，他使嘉莉盼望自己也能见识见识这些事物。与此同时，他把她的注意力引向自己。 
她无时无刻不在意识到他的个人魅力和存在。有时为了强调某一点，他微笑着慢慢抬起目光，于是她就像碰到磁铁一样，被他的眼神吸引住了。他没费一点劲就使她对他的话表示赞许。有一次他碰了一下她的手来加强他的语气，她只报以一笑。他身上似乎散发出一种氛围，渗透到她全身心。他没有一刻让人乏味，相反他似乎让她也变得聪明起来。至少，在他的影响下她变得活跃起来，把自己身上的优点充分显示出来。她觉得自己和他在一起时，似乎比和别人在一起时来得聪明。至少，他似乎在她身上发现那么多的优点值得夸奖。他的举止里没有一点儿屈尊俯就的意思，而杜洛埃总以恩人自居。 
自相识以来，每次见面，不管杜洛埃是不是在场，他们俩人之间都有一种微妙的个人感情，一种嘉莉感到很难说清的感情。她天生不是个伶牙俐齿的人。她从来不善于把自己的意思哗哗往外倒。主宰着她的是一种强烈深沉的感情，可她却说不出关键有份量的话来。至于眼色和感情，又有哪个女人肯暴露呢？她和杜洛埃之间从来没有这种情感的交融，事实上也是不可能的。当她委身于他时，她既为自己的贫困所迫，也为杜洛埃表现的慷慨解困的义气所感动。现在她为赫斯渥传来的这股感情暗流而动心，这种情感是杜洛埃根本不懂的。赫斯渥的目光像情人的喁喁情话一样动人，而且更加让人动心。它不要你立刻作出决定，也无法回答。 
人们往往把话语看得太重要。他们误以为谈话会产生巨大的效果。事实上，在一切雄辩中，语言往往是最浅薄的部分。 
它们只是模糊地代表了语言背后所隐藏的汹涌澎湃的激情和愿望。舌头只会让人分心，只有舌头停止说话，心灵才能听见另一颗心声。 
在这次谈话中，她听到的与其说是他的话，不如说是他所代表的那些东西的声音。他温文尔雅的外表本身就多么具有说服力埃他身份高贵又是多么显而易见！他对她日益增长的欲望，像一个温柔的手轻轻按在她的心上。她不必颤栗，因为那个手是无形的。她不必担心别人会说闲话，也不用自我责备--因为这一切不着形迹，无法看见。他在恳求她，说服她，引诱她，去放弃旧的权利，接受新的权利，然而他什么话也没有说，可以证实他这么做了。就他们俩的实际思想活动而言，他们正在开展的那场交谈只相当于管弦乐队的低低乐声，为戏剧情节的展开提供背景音乐。 
“你有没有去看看北区湖岸大道那一带的楼房？”赫斯渥问道。 
“我今天下午刚去那里看了回来--海尔太太和我一起去的。非常漂亮，是不是？““是很漂亮，”他回答。 
“唉，真的，”嘉莉幽幽地说，“我真想住在那种房子里。”“你感到不快乐，“赫斯渥停顿了一下，慢慢说道。 
他认真地抬起目光，一直注视着她的眼睛。他猜想这句话深深拨动了她的心弦，现在有点机会为自己说上句话了。他静静地向前倾着身子，用目光久久注视着她。他感到现在是关键时刻了。她竭力想挪动一下，但是没有用。这目光倾注了一个男人天性中的全部力量，而他有充分的理由这么做。他就这么注视着，注视着。这局面持续得越久，她的处境就越困难。这小女工陷入了感情的漩涡之中，越陷越深，那几根支撑她的柱子一根根都漂走了。 
“喂，”她终于说道，“你不可以这么看我的。”“我忍不住，”他说道。 
她的心情轻松了一点，让这局面继续下去，这增加了他的信心。 
“你不满意你目前的生活，是吗？” 
“是的，”她微弱地说。 
他看出，他已控制了局面--他感觉到了，他伸出手去抚摸她的手。 
“你不可以这样的，”她嚷着跳了起来。 
“我不是有意的，”他轻描淡写地说。 
她本来可以跑掉的，可是她没有走。她并没有中止他们的交谈，但是他已在快活地想入非非了。不久他站了起来要走了。 
“你别难过，”他和气地说，“过段时间，事情会好的。”她没有回答，因为她想不起说什么好。 
“我们是好朋友，是不是？”他说着伸出手来。 
“是的，”她答道。 
“别和人提起我们见面的事。下次我再来看你。”他一直握着她的手不放。 
“我没法答应你，”她心怀疑虑地说。 
“你应该稍许大方一点，”他说。他的话很直率，使她受了感动。 
“我们别再提这个了，”她说。 
“好，”他说着，容光焕发了。 
他下了台阶，走进自己的马车。嘉莉关上门，到楼上自己的房间去。她在镜子前解开自己的宽花边领饰，又解下了漂亮的鳄鱼皮带，那是她最近才买的。 
“我越变越坏了，”她说道，真心感到烦恼和羞愧，“我好像哪件事也没有做对。”过了一会儿，她解开头发，让秀发像棕色的波浪松松地垂下来，她的脑子还在想当天晚上的这件事。 
“我不知道，”她终于喃喃自语，“我不知道我该怎么办。”“嗯，”赫斯渥坐着马车离开时，心里想，“她确实喜欢我的，这一点我知道。”在去酒店办公室的整整四英里的路上，这位心情兴奋的经理快乐地吹着口哨，那是一首有十五年没想起过的旧曲子。
Chapter 13 HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED--A BABEL OF TONGUES
It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and Hurstwood in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his appearance. He had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her leniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard. He felt that he must succeed with her, and that speedily. 
The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable that Carrie represented a better order of woman than had ever attracted him before. He had had no love affair since that which culminated in his marriage, and since then time and the world had taught him how raw and erroneous was his original judgment. Whenever he thought of it, he told himself that, if he had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman. At the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened his respect for the sex. He maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded on numerous experiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not inspiring to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace nature which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of that under-world where grovel the beat-men of society (and he knew a great deal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with suspicion--a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He followed them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was not so dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally, he did not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He would take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the vicious in her presence--much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall will humble himself before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to charity with a willing and reverent hand. But he would not think much upon the question of why he did so. 
A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul, is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness, or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery. It is only by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near such a girl. They have no method, no understanding of how to ingratiate themselves in youthful favour, save when they find virtue in the toils. If, unfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net, the spider can come forth and talk business upon its own terms. So when maidenhood has wandered into the moil of the city, when it is brought within the circle of the "rounder" and the roue, even though it be at the outermost rim, they can come forth and use their alluring arts. 
Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage of fine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to indulge in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer forever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted him. In the mild light of Carrie's eye was nothing of the calculation of the mistress. In the diffident manner was nothing of the art of the courtesan. He saw at once that a mistake had been made, that some difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature into his presence, and his interest was enlisted. Here sympathy sprang to the rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. He wanted to win Carrie because he thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were united with Drouet's. He envied the drummer his conquest as he had never envied any man in all the course of his experience. 
Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior, mentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village, the light of the country still in her eye. Here was neither guile nor rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy. She still looked about her upon the great maze of the city without understanding. Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. He picked her as he would the fresh fruit of a tree. He felt as fresh in her presence as one who is taken out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of spring. 
Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up. She owed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not seem more than yesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed. She had the kindliest feelings for him in every way. She gave him credit for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any binding influence keeping her for him as against all others. In fact, such a thought had never had any grounding, even in Drouet's desires. 
The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy. He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection followed tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly for his pleasure. When he missed some old face, or found some door finally shut to him, it did not grieve him deeply. He was too young, too successful. He would remain thus young in spirit until he was dead. 
As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning Carrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but he was determined to make her confess an affection for him. He thought he saw in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding passion. He wanted to stand near her and make her lay her hand in his--he wanted to find out what her next step would be--what the next sign of feeling for him would be. Such anxiety and enthusiasm had not affected him for years. He was a youth again in feeling-a cavalier in action. 
In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was excellent. He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man who commanded the confidence of his employers in so far as the distribution of his time was concerned. He could take such hours off as he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his managerial duties successfully, whatever time he might take. His grace, tact, and ornate appearance gave the place an air which was most essential, while at the same time his long experience made him a most excellent judge of its stock necessities. Bartenders and assistants might come and go, singly or in groups, but, so long as he was present, the host of old-time customers would barely notice the change. He gave the place the atmosphere to which they were used. Consequently, he arranged his hours very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon, now an evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelve to witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look after the closing details. 
"You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when you go home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never once, in all the period of his long service, neglected to do this. Neither of the owners had for years been in the resort after five in the afternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully fulfilled this request as if they had been there regularly to observe. 
On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous visit, he made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away longer. 
"Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one calls, I will be back between four and five." 
He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which carried him to Ogden Place in half an hour. 
Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light grey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had out her hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about her throat when the housemaid brought up the information that Mr. Hurstwood wished to see her. 
She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to say that she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten her dressing. 
Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was glad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence. She was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it was more nervousness than either fear or favour. She did not try to conjecture what the drift of the conversation would be. She only felt that she must be careful, and that Hurstwood had an indefinable fascination for her. Then she gave her tie its last touch with her fingers and went below. 
The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nerves by the thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt that he must make a strong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come, and he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. He sank a little in determination, for he was not so sure, after all, what her opinion might be. 
When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage. She looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring of any lover. Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own. 
"How are you?" he said, easily. "I could not resist the temptation to come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant." 
"Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing to go for a walk myself." 
"Oh, were you?" he said. "Supposing, then, you get your hat and we both go?" 
They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard, beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses set back from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the more prosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood could not help feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They had gone but a few blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved the difficulty for him. He would take her to drive along the new Boulevard. 
The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road. The part he intended showing her was much farther out on this same West Side, where there was scarcely a house. It connected Douglas Park with Washington or South Park, and was nothing more than a neatly MADE road, running due south for some five miles over an open, grassy prairie, and then due east over the same kind of prairie for the same distance. There was not a house to be encountered anywhere along the larger part of the route, and any conversation would be pleasantly free of interruption. 
At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of range of either public observation or hearing. 
"Can you drive?" he said, after a time. 
"I never tried," said Carrie. 
He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms. 
"You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly. 
"Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie. 
"You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little practice," he added, encouragingly. 
He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation when he could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held his peace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour of his own, but she had lightly continued the subject. Presently, however, his silence controlled the situation. The drift of his thoughts began to tell. He gazed fixedly at nothing in particular, as if he were thinking of something which concerned her not at all. His thoughts, however, spoke for themselves. She was very much aware that a climax was pending. 
"Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in years since I have known you?" 
"Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by the conviction which the tone of his voice carried. 
"I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but somehow the opportunity slipped away." 
Carrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could think of nothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas concerning right which had troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she was now influenced again strongly in his favour. 
"I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just how I feel--to see if you wouldn't listen to me." 
Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He was capable of strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stress of desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, his feelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repression and pathos which is the essence of eloquence. 
"You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a strange silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?" Carrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in the man's atmosphere. He would have churchlike silence in order to express his feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her eyes from the flat, open scene before her. Hurstwood waited for a few moments, and then repeated the words. 
"You must not say that," she said, weakly. 
Her words were not convincing at all. They were the result of a feeble thought that something ought to be said. He paid no attention to them whatever. 
"Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic familiarity, "I want you to love me. You don't know how much I need some one to waste a little affection on me. I am practically alone. There is nothing in my life that is pleasant or delightful. It's all work and worry with people who are nothing to me." 
As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was pitiful. He had the ability to get off at a distance and view himself objectively--of seeing what he wanted to see in the things which made up his existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice trembled with that peculiar vibration which is the result of tensity. It went ringing home to his companion's heart. 
"Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes which were full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very happy. You know so much of the world." 
"That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I know too much of the world." 
It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned and powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling the strangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while, the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and the city, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was this greatest mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her, appealing to her. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was great, his position high, his clothing rich, and yet he was appealing to her. She could formulate no thought which would be just and right. She troubled herself no more upon the matter. She only basked in the warmth of his feeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold. Hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his passion was already melting the wax of his companion's scruples. 
"You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain? If you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing about you, if you went day after day to a place where there was nothing but show and indifference, if there was not one person in all those you knew to whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy too. 
He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in her own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone? Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for sympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder. 
"I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love me. If I had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply move about from place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavily on my hands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift into anything that offered itself. Since you came--well, I've had you to think about." 
The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began to grow in Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. To think that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her; that he needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely and without anchor. Surely, this was too bad. 
"I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to her to explain on this score. "You think, probably, that I roam around, and get into all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless, but I could easily come out of that. I need you to draw me back, if my life ever amounts to anything." 
Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels in its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need reclaiming? His errors, what were they, that she could correct? Small they must be, where all was so fine. At worst, they were gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed. He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved. 
"Is it that way?" she mused. 
He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart to draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some brown twigs of the previous autumn before it. The horse paced leisurely on, unguided. 
"Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me." 
Her eyes fell consciously. 
"Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?" 
She made no answer, but he felt his victory. 
"Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to touch her cheek. 
"You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own. 
For answer, her lips replied. 
"Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl, aren't you?" 
By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.
嘉莉和赫斯渥在奥登公寓会客室会见相隔不到两天，赫斯渥又来求见了。他几乎无时无刻不在思念她。在一定程度上，她的宽容态度也煽起了他的爱慕之情。他感到他必须得到她，而且很快得到她。 他对她的兴趣，简直可以说是神魂颠倒，并非是单纯的性欲。这是多年在干旱贫瘠的土壤中不断枯萎的情感，又发出了新芽，开出新花。这也许是因为嘉莉不同于他以往爱慕的女人：她比她们更优秀。自从那次恋爱结婚以来，他再没有谈过恋爱。而自那以来，时间和阅历已使他认识到他当初的择偶是多么草率和错误。每次想到这一点，他就暗暗地想，要是可以重新来过，他是绝不会娶这种女人的。与此同时，他和女性的来往总的来说大大降低了他对女性的敬意。无数次的经验使他对她们抱着一种讥嘲不屑的态度。他以往认识的女性几乎都属于同一类型：自私、无知、俗艳。他朋友们的妻子也让他看不上眼。他自己的太太已养成了一种冷漠和庸俗的品性，这一点是绝对不会讨人喜欢的。下层社会那些禽兽般的男人们卑劣取乐的事情他知道的不少。这使他的心肠变硬了。他用怀疑的目光打量大多数妇女--他只注意她们的姿色和服饰的效果，用一种锐利和调情的目光看着她们。不过他的心还没有完全麻木，因此当他发现一个善良女子时，他油然起敬。就个人而言，他并没有费心去分析圣洁女子这种奇妙事物。在她面前，他只是脱帽致敬，并让那些轻薄恶少们闭上嘴--就像巴沃莱大街上下等娱乐场所的爱尔兰老板会在天主教慈惠会的修女面前谦恭地低下头，用虔诚的手心甘情愿地献上慈善捐款。但是他并不愿意去多想他为什么这样做。 
处于他这种地位的男人，在经历了一连串无聊或让人心肠变硬的事情以后，一旦遇上一个年少单纯、纯洁无邪的女子，他也许会出于双方差异悬殊的考虑而和她保持距离；但他也可能被这种意外发现迷住了，为自己的发现欣喜若狂，于是被吸引了过去。这种人用迂回曲折的手段接近她们，他们不会也不懂如何取悦这种姑娘，除非他们发现这天真的姑娘入了圈套。假如苍蝇不幸落入蜘蛛网，蜘蛛就会走上前去，提条款开谈判。所以那些少女们流落到大城市时，一旦落入了这些浪子和登徒子之流的圈套，即使只是碰到了圈套的最边缘，他们也会走上前来，施展勾搭引诱的花招。 
赫斯渥原是应杜洛埃的邀请，去看他新到手的女人，猜想那不过是又一个绣花枕头而已；姿色出众，衣服鲜亮，肚子里一包草。他进门时，只期待着度过一个寻欢作乐的轻松夜晚，然后就把这个新结识的女人丢在脑后。出乎他意料，他见到了一个年轻美丽让他动心的女人。在嘉莉温柔的目光中，他看不到一丁点情妇们精于算计的眼神。她羞怯的举止迥然不同于妓女的惺惺作态。他立刻看出自己弄错了。他看出这不幸的少女是被某些困境推到了他的面前，这引起了他的兴趣。他的同情心油然而生，不过这里面也夹杂着个人的打算。他想把嘉莉弄到手，因为她相信嘉莉如果和他结合在一起，她的命运会比和杜洛埃在一起好一些。现在他对这个推销员的妒忌超出了有生以来他对任何人的妒忌。 
嘉莉当然要比杜洛埃这家伙强，因为她在精神上要比他高尚。她刚从农村来，身上还带着乡村的气息，目光中还保留着乡村的光芒。在她身上没有狡诈和贪婪。她的天性中继承了一丁点儿这些坏毛病，但那只不过是一些残痕。她现在充满了惊奇和渴望，当然不会有贪婪的念头。她打量着周围像迷宫一般的城市市容。仍然感到一片茫然。赫斯渥在她身上看到了花苞初放的青春，他要摘取她，就像摘取树上的鲜果。在她面前，他感到精神振奋，就好像一个人从夏天的烈日下来到了初春的清新空气中。 
自从上次见面以后，嘉莉孤零零一个人，没有人可以商量。脑子里一会儿这么想，一会儿那么想，想不出一个结果。最后想累了，干脆搁到一边去了。她觉得她欠了杜洛埃一份人情。杜洛埃帮助她摆脱困难和烦恼仿佛还是昨天的事。她对他各方面都怀着最美好的感情，她承认他相貌英俊，为人慷慨大方。他不在身边时，她甚至不去想他的自我主义。但是她感到他们之间并不存在一种束缚力限制她和别人来往。事实上，和杜洛埃厮守一辈子的想法是毫无根据的，甚至杜洛埃本人也没这种打算。 
说实在的，这个讨人喜欢的推销员不可能维持任何持久的关系。他无忧无虑情感多变，日子过得兴高采烈，自以为人人为他着迷，到处有情人盼他回去，事情会永远不变，供他取乐开心。如果个老相识不再谋面或者某位老朋友不肯再接待他，他并不感到很伤心。他正青春年少，一帆风顺。他到老死也会保留着这颗年轻人的心。 
关于赫斯渥，他心里充满着关于嘉莉的种种思绪和情感。 
他对嘉莉并没有明确的打算，但是他决心要让她吐露她对他的爱。从她低垂的眼睛，躲闪的目光和游离的神态中，他认为他已经看到了初萌的爱情的迹象。他要站在她身边握着她的手--他想知道下一步她会怎么样--下一步她会怎么流露她的感情。已有多年他没有感受到这么大的焦虑和这么深的热情了。在情感上他又成了年轻人--一个驰骋情场的骑士。 
由于他的职务之便，他晚上要出外很方便。一般来说，他非常忠于职守。因此他在时间支配上很得老板的信赖，他想什么时候离开一会都没问题，店里都知道他的经理职责完成得很出色。他的翩翩风度、圆活态度和华丽外表给了这个地方一种高雅气氛，这一点对酒店的成功是至关重要的。他有长期的工作经验，在决定购货储备上很精明。酒保和招待可以换了一茬又一茬，不管单个的变动还是整批的变动，但是只要有他在，那些老顾客几乎没注意到任何变化，他使这地方有了一种他们熟悉的气氛。因此在时间安排上，他往往根据个人的需要，有时下午出去，有时晚上离开一下，但是总是在晚上十一二点之间回到店里，监督一天最后一两个小时的生意，照料打烊的种种琐事。 
“乔治，你一定要等一切事情弄妥了，所有的雇员都走了，你才走。”莫埃曾对他这么说。自那以来，在他长期的任职期间，他没有一次忽略过这个要求。两个老板已有好多年没有在下午５点以后到店里来过了。但是他们的经理仍忠实地履行着这个规定，就好像他们会经常到店里来视察一样。 
这个星期五下午，离上次拜望相隔还没到两天，他就决定去看嘉莉。他无法再等了。 
“伊文思，”他对酒柜领班说，“如果有人找我，就说我四五点钟会回来的。”他急急走到麦迪生大街，坐上公共马车，半小时后来到了奥登广常嘉莉正打算去散步。她已穿上淡灰羊毛女装，外罩一件时髦的双排扣上装。帽子和手套也已取出来了，正在脖上系一条白色花边领饰。就在这时公寓女仆上来禀告说赫斯渥来访。 
嘉莉微微吃了一惊，不过她要女个仆下去说，她马上下来，一边加紧穿衣打扮。 
嘉莉自己也不知道对于这位仪表堂堂的经理来访究竟是高兴还是遗憾。她突然一阵心慌，两颊微微发烧。不过这是出于紧张，而不是害怕或喜爱。她没有去想他们可能聊些什么，她只感觉到她必须当心一点，因为赫斯渥对她有一种说不清的吸引力。她用手指最后整理了一下领饰就下楼去了。 
那位一往情深的经理心里也有那么一点紧张，因为他充分明瞭自己此行的目的，他感到这一次他一定要采取果敢行动。可是事到临头，听到楼梯上传来嘉莉的脚步声，他又有点胆怯了。他的决心不像刚才那么大了，因为他毕竟并不知道她的想法会是什么。 
可是当她走进房间时，她的容貌给了他勇气。她看上去那么清纯可爱，足以给任何一个情人以勇气。看得出她心里紧张，于是他的紧张就消失了。 
“你好吗？”他从容地说，“今天下午天气这么好，我克制不住就想出来走走。”“是呀，”嘉莉说着来到了他的面前，"我本来也打算去散散步。”“噢，是吗？”他说，“那么你拿上帽子，我们一起去走走怎么样？”他们穿过公园，沿着华盛顿大街往西走。那是一条漂亮的碎石子铺的路，两旁宽敞的木头房屋和人行道隔了一些距离。 
西区好些有钱人家住在这里，因此赫斯渥不由担心招人耳目。 
不过他们还没走过几条马路，就在一条横马路上看见一家出租马车的招牌，这给他解决了难题：他要带她坐马车逛逛新的林荫大道。 
那条林荫大道当时和一条乡村大路差不多。他想带她去看的那段路在西区以外，那里几乎没有什么房子。这条路把道格拉斯公园和华盛顿公园（也就是南公园）联结起来，完全是一条规划整齐的道路。往正南穿过一片开阔的草地，大约有五英里的距离，然后折向正东，穿过同样距离的草地。这条路上大部分地段看不到一栋房子，可以放心地谈话，不用怕人打扰。 
在马厩里他挑了一匹温顺的马，他们不久就驶出了可能被人看见或听见的地段。 
“你会驾马车吗？”过了一会儿他说。 
“我没试过，”嘉莉回答。 
他把缰绳放在她手里，自己两手一抱，坐在一旁。 
“你瞧，这没什么难的，”他含笑说道。 
“马很温顺，当然就不难了，”嘉莉说。 
“稍微练习一下，你驾车的本领就不会比谁差了。”他鼓励地又加了一句。 
他一直在寻找机会把谈话往正题上引。有一两次他保持沉默，希望在沉默中她的思绪会受到他的感染。但是她仍然轻松地谈着原来的话题。不过，没过多大功夫，他的沉默起了作用，他的思路开始影响她的情绪。他的目光久久凝视着前方，并不特别看什么东西，好像他在想一些完全和她无关的事。但是他的心事是很明显的。她清楚地意识到决定他们关系的关键时刻说来就来了。“你知道吗？”他说，“我和你在一起的那几个夜晚是我多年来最幸福的时光。”“真的吗？”她假装不在意地说道。但是他的口气却让她相信他说的是实话，心里不由得激动起来。 
“这些话那天晚上我就想告诉你的，”他补充说，“但是不知怎么错过了机会。”嘉莉专心听着，没打算回答，她想不出什么值得说的话。 
尽管自上次见面以后，她心里一直隐隐感到苦恼，不知道这件事对不对，她现在又被他深深迷住了。 
“我今天到这里来，”他继续神情严肃地说，“是为了告诉你我对你的感情，我不知道你是不是肯听我说这些。”赫斯渥按其本性实在是一个浪漫派人物。他具有热烈的情感，经常是很富有诗意的情感。在欲望的驱使下，就像眼下，他的口才大增。他的感情和声音似乎带上压抑苦闷和忧伤缠绵的色彩，这一点正是语言具有感人力量的实质。 
“你一定已经知道，”他说着把手放在她的手臂上。在想着该怎么往下说时，他保持着奇异的沉默，"我爱上了你。"嘉莉听了这话一动也没动，她被这个男人创造的气氛迷住了。为了表达他的感情，他需要一种教堂般的肃穆，而她就让这种肃穆气氛笼罩了，目光仍然看着眼前开阔平坦的景色。 
过了两分钟，赫斯渥又把他的话重复了一遍。 
“你不该说这话的，”她软弱无力地说。 
她这话缺乏说服力，她这么说只是她隐隐想到她该说些什么。他对她的话不加理睬。 
“嘉莉，”他用亲密熟悉的口吻叫着她的小名，“我要你爱我。你无法想象我多么需要有人给我一点爱。我真的很孤单。” 
“我的生活中没有一点愉快和欢乐，只有工作和为不相干的人操劳。”当他说这话时，他真的以为他的处境非常可怜。赫斯渥具有一种以旁观者的身份客观看待自己的能力，他能看到他愿意看到的他的生活的各个方面。他说话时，由于紧张的缘故，声音里带着一种特别的颤抖和振动。这声音激起了他的女伴心中的同情。 
“哎呀，在我看来，”她说话时用她那双充满同情和感慨的大眼睛看着他，“你应该感到很幸福才对。你有那么丰富的人生阅历。”“就是这个原因，”他的声音变得轻柔低沉，“就是因为我看到的太多了一点。”这么一个有权有势的人物对她说这些话，这对嘉莉来说可不是一件无关痛痒的小事。她不由感到自己的处境奇特。这是怎么啦？难道在这么短的时间里，她的狭隘的乡村生活经历就像一件衣服从她身上掉了下来，换上了一件神秘的城市外衣？她眼前就是一个最大的城市之谜：这个有钱有势的男人坐在她身旁，在向她恳求。瞧，他的日子轻松舒适，他的势力很大，地位很高，衣服很讲究，然而他却在向她恳求，她没法就这事形成一个正确公正的想法，于是她就不再费心去想这件事。 
她让自己沐浴在他的情感带给她的温暖中，就像一个挨冻受寒的人来到一盆炉火旁感到感激。赫斯渥的热情在炽热地燃烧，在他的激情感化下，他的女伴的种种顾忌就像蜡一样溶化了。 
“你以为我很幸福，”他说，“所以我不该抱怨，是吗？如果你也像我一样，整天要和那些对你漠不关心的人打交道，如果你也像我一样，日复一日要到一个冷漠无情只讲排场的地方去，找不到一个可以指望得到他的同情的人或者一个你可以和他愉快聊聊的人，也许你也会感到不快乐的。”他的话叩击着她的同情的心弦，使她想到她自己的处境。 
她知道和漠不关心的人打交道是怎么一回事，在那些冷漠无情的人群中孤独无依又是什么滋味。她曾经不就是那样的吗？ 
她现在不仍然是孤苦零仃吗？在所有她认识的人中，她可以向谁请求同情呢？没有一个人。她只有独自一个在那里沉思和惊讶。 
“如果我有你爱我，”赫斯渥继续说，“我就会满足了。只要我能和你在一起，有你作伴。事实上，我现在只是到处转悠，得不到一点满足，日子很难打发。在见到你以前，我只是在无聊地混日子，得过且过而已。自从见了你以后，--你知道，我一直在想你。”就像她曾经幻想的那样，嘉莉脑子里开始以为她终于遇到了一个需要她的帮助的人。她真的可怜起这个悲伤孤独的人来了。想想吧，他那么优越的境况，就因为少了她，弄得了无生趣。想想看他竟然得这么哀哀恳求她，可她自己也感到那么孤独无依。这一切不是太糟了吗？ 
“我并不是一个很坏的人，”他道歉似地说，好像他有必要在这点上对她作些解释似的，“你该不会认为我在各处混，一定干尽坏事了？我做事有些鲁莽轻率，但是我很容易改的。我需要你拉我一把，这样我的生活才会有点意义。”嘉莉温柔地望着他，希望以自己的德行感化这个迷途羔羊。这么一个了不起的人怎么还需要别人拯救呢？他会有些什么错误需要她的纠正呢？他的一切是那么出色，他的错误一定是微不足道的。它们至多不过是些有钱人无伤大雅的错误，而对这些镀了金的错误，人们一向是宽宏大量的。 
他把自己说得那么可怜巴巴的，使她深受感动。 
“真是这样的吗？”她沉思着。 
他用一个胳膊搂住了她的腰，而她狠不下心来挣脱。他用另一只手握住了她的手指。一阵柔和的春风在路上欢快地吹过，卷起前一年秋天落下的黄叶枯枝。马没有人驾驭，自己悠悠哉哉地往前走着。 
“告诉我，”他轻轻地说，“说你爱我。” 
她羞答答地垂下了眼睛。 
“承认吧，亲爱的，”他情意绵绵地说，“你爱我，是不是？”她没有回答，但是他感到自己胜利了。 
“告诉我吧，”他用圆润的声音说。他把她拉得那么近，他们的嘴唇几乎连在了一起。他热烈地握住她的手，然后放开手去抚摸她的脸蛋。 
“你爱我，对吗？”他说着，就把自己的嘴唇按在她的唇上。 
作为回答，她的嘴唇回吻了他。 
“现在，”他欢乐地说，漂亮的眼睛兴奋得发出光来，“你现在是我的情人了，是吗？”作为进一步的证实，她把头温柔地靠在他的肩上。
Chapter 14 WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING--ONE INFLUENCE WANES
Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the need of it was the cause. 
Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in. 
"Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man when her husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her." 
The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought on this score. The housemaid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her opinion also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took to be cold and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the merry and easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then, and in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had for all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved and critical in his manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same pleasant way. She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs. Drouet should go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was absent. She gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was. As a result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the house in that secret manner common to gossip. 
Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to confess her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him. Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of the dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her. On the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had ever been thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her character. She had some power of initiative, latent before, which now began to exert itself. She looked more practically upon her state and began to see glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of honour. Her feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they constructed out of these recent developments something which conquered freedom from dishonour. She had no idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generous results accordingly. 
As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without responsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything to complicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if not satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather untrammelled. Carrie's love represented only so much added pleasure. He would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance of pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would go on as they had, undisturbed. 
On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th Street. In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie took his love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept him at a distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover. Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and deferred pressing his suit too warmly. 
Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a little distance. How far he could not guess. 
They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked: 
"When will I see you again?" 
"I don't know," she answered, wondering herself. 
"Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?" 
She shook her head. 
"Not so soon," she answered. 
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he added. "I'll write you, care of this West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?" 
Carrie assented. 
The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call. 
"Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away. 
Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next afternoon when he saw Drouet enter. 
"Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?" 
"Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door. 
Hurstwood arose. 
"Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?" 
They began talking of the people they knew and things that had happened. 
"Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood. 
"No, I am going, though," said Drouet. 
"I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "and called once. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone." 
"Right you are," agreed Drouet. "How is she?" 
"Very well," said Hurstwood. "Rather anxious about you though. You'd better go out now and cheer her up." 
"I will," said Drouet, smilingly. 
"Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me Wednesday," concluded Hurstwood at parting. 
"Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says and let you know." 
They separated in the most cordial manner. 
"There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turned the corner towards Madison. 
"Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he went back into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie." 
The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein, and he wandered how he would get ahead of the drummer. 
When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms as usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition. 
"Well," he said, "I had a great trip." 
"Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were telling me about?" 
"Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there, representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't in it. I made him look like nothing at all." 
As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. Carrie could not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions. 
"I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office. I've sold more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the road. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse." 
He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was still wiping his face, when he continued: 
"I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it, as much business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget." 
"I hope you do," said Carrie. 
"And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes through, we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness, the while he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair. 
"I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carrie said ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her courage to say this. 
"Oh, yes I do--course I do--what put that into your head?" 
He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from him. 
"But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her pretty face upturned into his. 
"Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to. Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things all right, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie." 
He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how really futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply letting things drift because he preferred the free round of his present state to any legal trammellings. 
In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy manner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care. 
"Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own success and more of her helplessness, "you never will." 
"Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "I'll marry you all right." 
Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for something which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully promised to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise. 
"Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to the theatre with him." 
Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid notice. 
"When?" she asked, with assumed indifference. 
"Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?" 
"If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly reserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something but he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk about marriage. 
"He called once, he said." 
"Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening." 
"Was he?" said Drouet. "I thought from what he said that he had called a week or so ago." 
"So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea mentally, and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would answer. 
"Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade of misunderstanding showing in his face. 
"Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must have mentioned but one call. 
Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did not attach particular importance to the information, after all. 
"What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased curiosity. 
"He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn't been in there so long he wondered what had become of you." 
"George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by his conception of the manager's interest. "Come on and we'll go out to dinner." 
When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to Carrie, saying: 
"I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not say how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything you may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and, darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jackson and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speak with you before we meet at the theatre." 
Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West Side branch of the post-office, and answered at once. 
"I said you called twice," she wrote. "He didn't seem to mind. I will try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be getting very bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know." 
Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score. 
"You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "Just as soon as he goes on the road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so that you won't have to deceive any one." 
Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the best of the situation until Drouet left again. 
"Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," Hurstwood counselled concerning the evening at the theatre. 
"You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of the power of his eyes. 
"I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance she had just cautioned against. 
"There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him. 
"The show hasn't begun yet," he returned. 
He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth and prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine. 
At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour. If he had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now. His grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. Carrie watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot poor Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host. 
Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change. He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. If anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt. 
Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to Drouet alone. 
The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened to the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband. 
"Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen expiation of her error. "I haven't any pity for a man who would be such a chump as that." 
"Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently. "He probably thought he was right." 
"Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he wants to keep her." 
They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy crush about the entrance way. 
"Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mind giving me the price of a bed?" 
Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie. 
"Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep." 
The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see. He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart. Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.
那天晚上嘉莉在自己的房间里身心都极为振奋。她为他们相互之间的爱情欢欣鼓舞，带着种种美妙的想象，热切地等待着星期天晚上的幽会。他们已约好她去市中心和他见面。虽然他们并没有感到需要特别保密，但是这么安排归根结底还是为了保密。海尔太太从她楼上的窗口看见她回来。 
“哼，”她心里想，“她丈夫不在家，她就跟别的男人一起去坐车兜风。他对她该留点神才对呢。”事实上，并不是海尔太太一个人对这件事有看法。那个给赫斯渥开门的公寓女仆也有看法。她对嘉莉没有多少好感，她认为她冷漠难相处。相反她很喜欢杜洛埃，他开心随和，不时和她逗个趣，献点小殷勤，这是他对所有女性的一贯作风。赫斯渥的神气显得沉默寡言好挑剔，他不像杜洛埃那样能讨得这个穿紧身胸衣的女仆的喜欢。她很奇怪他怎么来得这么勤奋，奇怪杜洛埃太太在先生不在家时竟然和这个人一起出去。 
她在厨房里对厨子发表了她的看法，结果风言风语就在整幢公寓里悄悄地传开了。一般流言蜚语都是这样传播的。 
嘉莉现在既然不再拒绝赫斯渥的爱，也承认了自己对他的爱，就不再操心自己这种态度对不对，暂时她已几乎把杜洛埃忘了。她心里只想着她的情人多么体面有风度，他的爱情多么热烈和不顾一切。这天晚上她几乎什么也不干，只顾回忆那天下午的种种细枝末节。有生以来第一次，她的全部同情心被激发了，使她的性格焕发出新的光辉。她身上潜在的主动精神开始表现出来，她开始更实际地考虑自己的处境。在她的困境中她现在似乎看到了一线光明：赫斯渥似乎是引她走上体面道路的力量。她对赫斯渥的感情并没有一丝邪念。从他们最近的感情发展中，她想象赫斯渥将能使她摆脱目前这种不体面的生活。她不知道赫斯渥接下来会对她说些什么，她只是把他的爱当作一种美好的东西，因此她想象他们的感情会有更美好更高尚的结果。 
然而赫斯渥只想寻欢作乐，并没有打算负什么责任。他并不认为他现在所做的会给他引起家庭纠葛。他的地位稳固，家庭生活虽然不尽人意还是太平无事，他的个人自由也没有受到限制。嘉莉的爱只是增添了他的生活乐趣，一份额外的乐趣，他要好好享受这天赐良缘。痛痛快快和她玩玩，不过他的生活的其他方面还会一切照旧，不受什么影响。 
星期天晚上，在他挑选的东亚当路上一家餐馆里他和嘉莉共进晚餐。饭后他们叫了一辆马车去一家有趣的夜总会，在三十九大街附近的高塔格鲁路上。在他求爱过程中，他不久就认识到嘉莉对他的期待超出了他的打算。她认真地和他保持着一定的距离，除了初恋情人之间那种温柔的爱的表示以外，她不让他有任何非份的举动。赫斯渥看出她并不是那种唾手可得的姑娘，因此推迟了他的热切求欢的要求。 
既然他原先假装相信她已经结婚，他发现他还得假装下去。他看出他离成功还差着一点儿距离，但是这距离究竟有多大他也不知道。 
他们坐出租马车回奥登广场时，他问： 
“下一次我什么时候能见到你？” 
“我不知道，”她回答，心里自己也没有底。 
“星期二到大商场来，你看怎么样？”他提议说。 
她摇了摇头。 
“不要那么频繁，”她回答。 
“我看这么办吧，”他又说，“我写信给你，由西区邮局转交。星期二你能出来吗？”嘉莉同意了。 
按他的招呼，马车在离公寓还有一间门面的地方停了下来。 
“晚安，”马车又起动时，他低低地说。 
正当他们关系顺利进展时，杜洛埃很不作美地回来了。第二天下午赫斯渥正坐在他那漂亮的小办公室里，看见杜洛埃走了进来。 
“喂，你好啊，查理，”他亲热地喊道，“回来了？”“是啊，”杜洛埃笑嘻嘻地走了过来，站在办公室门口探头朝里看。 
赫斯渥站了起来。 
“嘿，”他打量着推销员说，“气色和往常一样好，是吧？”他们开始谈起那些他们认识的人和发生的事情。 
“回过家了吗？”最后赫斯渥问道。 
“还没有，不过我正打算回去，”杜洛埃说。 
“我想起了你那个小姑娘，”赫斯渥说。“所以我去看了她一下。我想你不会要她一个人太冷清吧。”“你说得对，”杜洛埃表示赞同。“她怎么样？”“很好，”赫斯渥说，“不过非常想你。你最好马上回去，让她高兴高兴。”“我这就走，”杜洛埃笑嘻嘻地说。 
“我想请你们两位星期三过来，和我一起去看场戏。”分手时赫斯渥说。 
“多谢了，老兄，”他的朋友说，“我问问嘉莉，再和你联系。”他们非常热情地分了手。 
“真是个好人，”杜洛埃转身朝麦迪生街走去，一边心里这么想。 
“杜洛埃人不错，”赫斯渥回身走进办公室时心里在说，“就是配不上嘉莉。”想到嘉莉，他心里充满了愉快，一心琢磨着怎么才能赢了这个推销员，把嘉莉夺过来。 
像往常一样，杜洛埃见了嘉莉，就一把将她抱在怀里。可是她颤栗地抗拒着他的亲吻。 
“你知道吗？”他说，“我这一趟旗开得胜。”“是吗？你上次和我说的那笔和拉克劳斯人的生意做得怎么样？”“嗯，很不错。我卖给他整整一批货。还有一个家伙也在那里，是代表贝斯坦公司的，一个十足的鹰钩鼻子犹太佬。但是他一点生意也没有做成，我完全把他比下去了。”他一边解开领子和饰扣准备洗脸换衣服，一边添油加醋地说着路上的新闻。嘉莉对于他的生动描绘不禁听得津津有味。 
“我告诉你吧，”他说，“我让办公室的那些人大吃一惊。这一季度我卖出去的货比我们商号任何一个旅行推销员卖出的都多。光在拉克劳斯城里我就卖了３０００元的货。”他把头浸到一脸盆水里，一边用手擦着脖子和耳朵，一边喷着气清鼻子。嘉莉在一旁看着他，心里思绪万千，一会儿回忆着往事，一会儿又想起她现在对他的看法。他擦着脸继续说：“我６月份要争取加薪。我给他们做成了这么多生意，他们可以付得起的。你可别忘了，我一定能提薪的。”“但愿你能如愿以偿，”嘉莉说。 
“等我那笔小地产生意做成了，我们就结婚，”他站在镜子前梳理头发时，做出一副一本正经的样子说。 
“我才不相信你会和我结婚呢，查理，”嘉莉幽怨地说。赫斯渥最近的信誓旦旦使她有了勇气这么说。 
“不对，我当然要和你结婚的-—一定要娶你的--你怎么会这么想呢？”他停止了镜子前的梳理，现在朝她走过来。嘉莉第一次感到她似乎该躲开他才对。 
“可你这话已经说了这么久了，”她仰起她美丽的脸庞看着他说。 
“不错，可是我说这话是真心的。不过我们得有钱才能照我的心愿安排生活。等我加了薪，事情就会差不多了，我们就可以结婚了。别担心，你这个小丫头。”他安慰地拍拍她的肩膀让她宽心。但是嘉莉感到她的希望实在太渺茫了。她很清楚地看出。这个只想逍遥自在地打发日子的家伙根本没有娶她的意思。他只想让事情拖着，因为他喜欢目前这种无拘无束的生活方式，他不想结婚受法律的束缚。 
和他相比，赫斯渥显得可靠真诚，他的举止里没有对她推诿搪塞漫不经心的意思。他同情她，让她看到她自己的真正价值。他需要她，而杜洛埃根本不在乎。 
“哼，你才不会呢，”她埋怨地说，口气里带着一丝胜利，但更多的是无可奈何，“你永远不会的。”“那你就等着瞧吧。”他结束了这个话题，“我一定要娶你的。”嘉莉看着他，感到心安理得了。她一直在寻找让自己问心无愧的理由，现在她找到了。瞧他那副轻漂漂的不负责任的态度，对于她要求结婚的正当要求不加理会。他只会极力表白他要娶她，这就是他履行诺言的方式。 
“你知道吗，”在自以为已经圆满地解决了婚姻这个话题以后，他又开口说，“我今天见到赫斯渥了。他请我们和他一起去看戏。"听到他提起赫斯渥，嘉莉吃了一惊。但是她很快恢复了镇定，没有引起杜洛埃的注意。 
“什么时候？”她装着冷淡地问道。 
“星期三。我们去好吗？” 
“你说去就去吧，”她回答。她的态度冷淡到几乎要引起疑心。杜洛埃也注意到她的情绪有点反常，但是他把这一点归结为刚才谈论结婚引起的不快。 
“他说，他来看了你一次。” 
“是的，”嘉莉说，“他星期天晚上来了一下。”“是吗？”杜洛埃说，“我听他的口气，还以为他一个星期前来的呢。”“上星其他也来了，”嘉莉说。她不知道她的两个情人到底谈了些什么，心里一片茫然，生怕自己的回答会引起什么麻烦。 
“噢，这么说，他来了两次？”杜洛埃问，脸上开始露出困惑的神色。 
“是的，”嘉莉一脸纯洁无邪地说。现在她心里明白赫斯渥一定只提到一次来访。 
杜洛埃猜想一定是自己误会了他朋友的话。对这事他并没有放在心上，没有感到它的严重性。 
“他说些什么呢？”他微微好奇地问。 
“他说他来是因为怕我一个人太寂寞。你那么长时候没去他那里，他不知道你怎么样了。”“乔治真是个好人，”杜洛埃说，自以为经理先生对他很关心，因此心里很高兴。“你快收拾一下，我们出去吃晚饭。”赫斯渥等杜洛埃走了，赶忙给嘉莉写信说：“最最亲爱的：他走时，我告诉他我来看了你。我没有说几次，但是他也许以为只有一次。把你对他说的话告诉我。收到这封信以后，请专差送信给我。亲亲，我必须见你。请告诉我能不能在星期三下午两点到杰克逊街和萨洛浦街的转弯处来。在戏院见面以前，我必须和你谈谈。”嘉莉星期二上午到西区邮局去拿到了这封信，马上写了回信。 
“我说你来了两次，”她写道，“他似乎没有放在心上。如果没有事打岔的话，我会到萨洛浦街去的。我现在似乎越变越坏了。我知道我现在这样做是很不对的。”他们照约定的时间见面时，赫斯渥让她在这一点上不要担心。 
“你不要为此不安，亲爱的，”他说，“等他下次出门做生意，我们就来安排一下。我们把这事解决了，你就不用再说谎了。”尽管他没有这么说，可是嘉莉以为他打算马上和她结婚，因此情绪非常兴奋。她提出在杜洛埃离开以前，他们要尽量维持目前的局面。 
“你要像以前一样，不要对我露出过份的兴趣，”谈到晚上看戏的事，赫斯渥对嘉莉提出忠告说。 
“那你不准这么盯着我看，”想到他的眼睛的魅力，她于是就提醒他。 
“保证不盯着你看。”他们分手时，他紧紧握着她的手，又用她才告诫他的那种目光凝视着她。 
“瞧，你又来了，”她调皮地用一个手指头点着他说。 
“现在还没有到晚上看戏的时候呢，”他回答。 
他温情脉脉地看着她离去，眼光中满含着乞求般的恋恋不舍。如此青春的美色，比醇酒更令他沉醉入迷。 
在戏院里，事情的进展也对赫斯渥非常有利。如果说他以前就讨嘉莉的欢心，那么他现在越发如此了。他的风度因为有人赏识显得更加迷人。嘉莉以欣喜的心情注意着他的一举一动，几乎把杜洛埃给忘了。可怜的杜洛埃还在滔滔不绝地往下说，好像他是东道主似的。 
赫斯渥非常机灵。他一点不动声色，不让人感到和以前有什么不一样。如果说他有什么不同，那就是他对他的老朋友比以前更关心了。他不像通常得宠的情人那样，拿自己的情敌在心上人面前开胃醒脾地打趣。在目前这场游戏中，如果他感到对他的对手有所不公的话，他还不至于卑劣到在这不公之上再加上些精神上的嘲弄。 
只是戏里有一幕似乎是在嘲讽杜洛埃，不过这也怪杜洛埃自己不好。 
台上正在演《婚约》中的一常戏里的妻子在丈夫出外时听凭她的情人勾引她。 
“那是他活该，”这一场结束时杜洛埃说，尽管那个妻子已竭力要赎前愆。“我对这种榆木脑瓜的家伙一点也不可怜。”“不过，这种事也很难说的，”赫斯渥温和地说，“他也许认为他是对的呢。”“好吧，一个男人想保住自己的老妻，他就该对她更加关心一点才对。”他们已经出了休息室，穿过戏院门口那些盛装华服的人群出来。 
“先生，行行好，”有一个声音在赫斯渥身边说，“您能给点儿钱，让我今晚有个过夜的地方吗？”赫斯渥和嘉莉正说到兴头上。 
“先生，真的，我今晚连个过夜的地方也没有。”求乞的是一个３０左右的男人，脸色消瘦憔悴，一副穷困凄惨的模样。杜洛埃首先看到了。他递给他１角钱，心里涌起一阵同情。赫斯渥几乎没有注意到这件事，嘉莉转眼就把它忘了。
Chapter 15 THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES--THE MAGIC OF YOUTH
The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of indifference. 
Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again. There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's feet. When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her eyes were young. 
When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which bound his feet. 
"George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want you to get us a season ticket to the races." 
"Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising inflection. 
"Yes," she answered. 
The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs. Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing, one of her neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of money, made out of the coal business, had done so. In the next place, her favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things and parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an incentive as anything. 
Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering. They were in the sitting room on the second floor, waiting for supper. It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see "The Covenant," which had brought him home to make some alterations in his dress. 
"You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked, hesitating to say anything more rugged. 
"No," she replied impatiently. 
"Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get mad about it. I'm just asking you." 
"I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a season ticket." 
"And I'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her, "that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager will give it to me." 
He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the race-track magnates. 
"We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply. 
"You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs one hundred and fifty dollars." 
"I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I want the ticket and that's all there is to it." 
She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room. 
"Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone of voice. 
As usual, the table was one short that evening. 
The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not mind giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not like to be forced to provide against his will. 
"Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers are getting ready to go away?" 
"No. Where, I wonder?" 
"Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me. She just put on more airs about it." 
"Did she say when?" 
"Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again-they always do." 
"Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of these days." 
Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing. 
"'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed, mocking her acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" in France,'--vain thing. As If it was anything to go to Europe." 
"It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood. 
It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed. 
"Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. 
"Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day, thus revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about. 
"Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never before been kept in ignorance concerning departures. 
"He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight put upon her father. 
"What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think that he should be made to pump for information in this manner. 
"A tennis match," said Jessica. 
"He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it difficult to refrain from a bitter tone. 
"I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. In the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which was a compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in part still existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As it was, it did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The TONE was always modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection, and now he saw that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge was no longer intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not. He heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. Some days he found that he was all at sea as to what they were talking about--things they had arranged to do or that they had done in his absence. More affecting was the feeling that there were little things going on of which he no longer heard. Jessica was beginning to feel that her affairs were her own. George, Jr., flourished about as if he were a man entirely and must needs have private matters. All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a trace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in his official position, at least--and felt that his importance should not begin to wane here. To darken it all, he saw the same indifference and independence growing in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills. 
He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he was not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house, but he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into her comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when Drouet was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cosey little quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby Drouet would be led to inform Carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful. Things were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change. Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory. 
The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--a letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He was not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at his office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of delicately coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept locked in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the cleric and very official-looking nature of his position. The five bartenders viewed with respect the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and penmanship. 
Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law which governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began to feel those subtleties which he could find words to express. With every expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings which there found words took hold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy of all the affection he could there express. 
Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. Experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid lustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment. She had been troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could be traced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. The mouth had the expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might be upon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus ever present. The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity of formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself. 
There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her domination-- superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of some women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently powerful to move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance, but there was that in what she had already experienced which left her a little less than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was confused as to what these things might be. Every hour the kaleidoscope of human affairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith it became for her the desired--the all. Another shift of the box, and some other had become the beautiful, the perfect. 
On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a nature well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle--an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She was constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor. The poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings, hurrying home from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from the depths of her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her little head and wondering. They had so little, she thought. It was so sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded clothes pained her eyes. 
"And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment. 
On the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen with picks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about some work which was a mere matter of strength--and they touched her fancy. Toil, now that she was free of it, seemed even a more desolate thing than when she was part of it. She saw it through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre half-light, which was the essence of poetic feeling. Her old father, in his flour-dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory, revived by a face in a window. A shoemaker pegging at his last, a blastman seen through a narrow window in some basement where iron was being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some window, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back in fancy to the details of the mill. She felt, though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts upon this score. Her sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil from which she had so recently sprung, and which she best understood. 
Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose feelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know, but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. He never attempted to analyse the nature of his affection. It was sufficient that there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner, good nature and hope in her thoughts. He drew near this lily, which had sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below a depth of waters which he had never penetrated, and out of ooze and mould which he could not understand. He drew near because it was waxen and fresh. It lightened his feelings for him. It made the morning worth while. 
In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her smartly and had high heels. She had learned much about laces and those little neckpieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form had filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded. 
Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more, even when Drouet was at home. 
The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year when the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats. In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes. High overhead was the clean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy sparrows. 
Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no need to write. He had come away to this place with the lightness of heart which characterises those who put weariness behind. Now, in the shade of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the lover. He heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The hum of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music. He looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his present fixed condition not at all. He got back in fancy to the old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid position for life. He remembered the light spirit in which he once looked after the girls--how he had danced, escorted them home, hung over their gates. He almost wished he was back there again--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free. 
At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean. She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin-stripe of blue upon a snow-white ground--stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried her gloves in her hand. 
Hurstwood looked up at her with delight. 
"You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking her hand. 
"Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?" 
"I didn't know," he replied. 
He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then he took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and touched her face here and there. 
"Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right." 
They were happy in being near one another--in looking into each other's eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had sub sided, he said: 
"When is Charlie going away again?" 
"I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to do for the house here now." 
Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He looked up after a time to say: 
"Come away and leave him." 
He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were of little importance. 
"Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling her gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree. 
"Where do you want to go?" he enquired. 
There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation. 
"We can't stay in Chicago," she replied. 
He had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal would be suggested. 
"Why not?" he asked softly. 
"Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to." 
He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. It had no serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate decision. 
"I would have to give up my position," he said. The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty scene. 
"I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said, thinking of Drouet. 
"It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as good as moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side." 
He had fixed upon that region as an objective point. 
"Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long as he is here. I wouldn't want to run away." 
The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be gotten over easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. He could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. When he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it was to have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased in value in his eyes because of her objection. She was something to struggle for, and that was everything. How different from the women who yielded willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind. 
"And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly. 
She shook her head. 
He sighed. 
"You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a few moments, looking up into her eyes. 
She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who could feel this concerning her. 
"No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?" 
Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street. 
"I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don't like to be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting? You're not any happier, are you?" 
"Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that." 
"Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our days. If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to you the biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," he exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes, "I can't live without you, and that's all there is to it. Now," he concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall I do?" 
This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance of the load without the weight touched the woman's heart. 
"Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll try and find out when he's going." 
"What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of feeling. 
"Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere." 
She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields. 
Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be persuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was thinking of some question which would make her tell. 
Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way. It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious thought. 
"Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, or this week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you I had to go away--that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more--would you come with me?" His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his mouth. 
"Yes," she said. 
"You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?" 
"Not if you couldn't wait." 
He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. He let it stand. 
"Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an afterthought striking him. 
"If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it would be all right." 
"I meant that," he said. 
"Yes." 
The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered whatever could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she loved him. There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her. 
"Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these evenings," and then he laughed. 
"I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrie added reflectively. 
"I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand. 
She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness. 
"Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely park. 
"All right," said Carrie. 
They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes. 
"'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich."
由于他对嘉莉感情的加深，赫斯渥现在对自己的家一点也不放在心上了。他为这个家做的一切，全是敷衍应付而已。 他和妻子儿女在一张桌上吃早饭，可是心里想着和他们全不相关的事。他边吃饭边看着报，儿女们浅薄的谈话使他看报的兴趣更浓了。他和妻子之间很冷淡，彼此间就好像隔着一条鸿沟。 
现在有了嘉莉，他又有希望重新获得幸福。每天晚上到商业区去现在成了乐事。在昼短夜长的这些日子里，傍晚时分他上街时，路灯已在头顶上方欢快地闪烁。他现在又重新体验了那种使情人加快脚步的心情。这种心情他几乎已经忘记了是什么滋味。他打量自己的漂亮衣服时，心里在想象嘉莉会怎么看--而嘉莉的眼光是青年人的眼光。 
当他心里泛滥着这些情感时，他很恼火地听到了他老婆的声音，听到了那些坚持把他从梦想中唤回到乏味的家庭现实的要求。这使他认识到自己的手脚被这个婚姻关系像锁链一样捆住了。 
“乔洛，”赫斯渥太太用那种他早就熟悉的提要求的口吻说，“帮我们弄一张看赛马的季度票。”“你们场场赛马都要去看吗？”他说话的调门不觉提高了。 
“是的，”她回答。 
他们现在谈的赛马即将在南区华盛顿公园举行。在那些对严格的教规和保守的老派思想不以为然的人们中间。这些赛马会是很重要的社交场合。赫斯渥太太以前从来没有要过全赛季的妻子，但是今年出于某些考虑，她想要一个专门包厢。原因之一是，她的邻居兰姆赛夫妇，一家靠煤炭生意发了财的有钱人，已经订了包厢。其次，她喜欢的比尔医生，一个热衷于养马和玩赌马彩票的先生，已经告诉她他打算让他的一匹两岁小马参赛。第三，她想借此机会炫耀一下已经出落得美丽多姿的女儿杰西卡，她希望杰西卡能嫁一个富人。最后，她希望在这种场合出出风头。在熟人和一般观众面前露露脸的想法和别的想法一样也是重要动机。 
赫斯渥思忖着他太太的要求，好一会儿没有回答。他们当时正坐在二楼的起居间里等着吃晚饭。那晚他已和嘉莉杜洛埃约好去看《婚约》，他是回来换衣服的。 
“你肯定单场票不行吗？”他问道，不敢说出更刺耳的话来。 
“不行，”她不耐烦地回答。 
“喂，”他对她的态度生气了，“你不用这么发火，我只是问一下而已。”“我没发火，”她厉声说，“我只是要你弄一张全赛季的票。”“那么我要告诉你，”他用清澈坚定的目光注视着她回答道，“全赛季的票不是那么好弄的。我不敢肯定马场经理肯给我一张。”他一直在想着他和赛马场那些巨头们的交情。 
“那我们可以化钱买一张，”她尖声地嚷了起来。 
“你说得轻巧，”他说，“一张全赛季票要花１５０元呢。”“我不和你争，”她用不容商量的口气说道，“我就是要一张，就是这么回事。”她已站了起来，怒冲冲地朝门口走。 
“好，那你自己去弄票好了，”他冷冷地说，口气已经不那么严厉了。 
像往常一样，那天晚上饭桌上又少了一个人。 
第二天早上他的态度已经冷静下来，后来他也及时给她弄到了票，不过这并没有弥合他们之间的裂痕。他并不在乎把大部分收入拿出来供家庭开销，但是他不喜欢那种不顾他的反对要这要那的做法。 
“妈，你知道吗？”又有一天杰西卡说，“斯宾赛一家正准备出门去度假呢。”“不知道。他们要去哪里？”“去欧洲，”杰西卡说。“我昨天碰到乔金，她亲口告诉我的。这下她更加得意洋洋了。”“她说哪天动身了吗？”“我想是星期一。他们又该在报上登出发启事了。他们每次都是这样的。”“别理它，”赫斯渥太太安慰地说，“哪天我们也去。”赫斯渥的眼光在报上慢慢移动，可是他什么也没有说。 
“‘我们将从纽约出发驶向利物品，'”杰西卡嘲笑地模仿着她朋友的口气嚷嚷说，“‘预计在法国度过大部分的酷暑'--虚荣的家伙。好像去欧洲有什么了不起似的。”“如果你这么妒忌，那一定是很了不起的了，”赫斯渥插嘴说。 
看到女儿在这件事上的情绪，实在叫他恼火。 
“别为这些人生气吧，好孩子，”赫斯渥太太说。 
“乔治走了吗？”又有一天杰西卡问她母亲。要不是她问起，赫斯渥一点不知道这件事。 
“他去哪里了？”他抬起头问道。在这以前，家里有人出门还没有瞒过他。 
“他去费顿了，”杰西卡说，根本没注意这件事实在没有把她父亲放在眼里。 
“去那里干什么？”他又问。想到他得一再追问来了解家里的事，心里暗暗地恼火和委屈。 
“去参加网球比赛，”杰西卡说。 
“他什么也没有对我说。”赫斯渥说到最后忍不住流露出不快的口气。 
“我猜他一定是忘了，”他的妻子坦然地说。 
以前他在家里总是受到一定的尊敬，那是一种混杂着赞赏和敬畏的尊敬。他和女儿之间现在还残留着的那种随便关系是他自己刻意追求的。但是这种随便只限于说话随便而已，口气总是很尊敬的。不过，不管以往的关系如何，他们之间缺乏一种爱。然而现在，他连他们在干些什么也不知道了。他对他们的事情已经不再熟悉。他有时在饭桌上见到他们，有时见不到。他有时也听到一些他们在干的事情，但大半听不到。有时候他们的谈话让他摸不着头脑，--因为他们谈的是那些他不在时他们打算做或者已经做过的事情。更让他伤心的是，他有一个感觉，家里许多事已经没人告诉他了。杰西卡开始感到她自己的事情不要别人管。小乔治神气活现的，好像他完完全全是男子汉了，因此应该有属于他自己的私事了。这一切赫斯渥都看在眼里，心里不由产生了伤感。因为他习惯了作为一家之主受到尊重--至少在表面上--他感到自己的重要地位不应该在这里开始走下坡路。更糟糕的是，他看到他妻子身上也滋长着这种冷漠和独立不羁的情绪。他被撇在了一边，只有付账单的义务。 
不过他又安慰自己，他自己毕竟也不是没有人爱的。家里的事情只好由着他们来了，但是在外面他总算有了嘉莉。他在心里想象着奥登公寓那个舒适的房间，在那里他曾经度过好几个愉快的晚上。他想象着一旦把杜洛埃完全抛在一边，嘉莉在他们的舒适小屋等着他回来的情景。这一切将多么美妙埃他抱着乐观的态度，相信不会出现什么情况会导致杜洛埃把他已婚的事情透露给嘉莉。事情一直进展那么顺利，因此他相信不会有什么变化的。他不久就会说服嘉莉，那时一切都会令人满意的。 
从看戏的第二天气，他开始不间断地给她写信--每天早上一封信，又恳求她也这么做。他并没有什么文学修养，但是他的社会阅历加上他对她日益增长的爱使他的信写来很有一点风格。每天他趴在办公室的桌上精心构思他的情书。他买了一盒子颜色雅致，上面有他姓名首字母的香水信纸，他把这些信纸锁在办公室的一个抽屉里。他的朋友们对他这么伏案疾书不胜惊异。那五个酒保怀着敬意看他们的经理有这么多笔头工作要做。 
赫斯渥对自己的流畅文笔也不免吃惊。根据主宰一切人类活动的自然规律，他自己所写的东西首先对他自己发生了影响。他开始体会到他笔下表达的那些柔情蜜意。他写得越多，对自己的感情理解越深。他内心的情感经过文字的表达把他自己迷住了。他认为嘉莉配得到他在信里表达的那份情意，对此他深信不疑。 
假如青春和美丽在花信时节应该从生活中得到认可，那么嘉莉确实值得人们的爱恋。她的经历还没有使她的心灵失去清新和纯洁，这正是她的胴体的魅力所在。她的水灵灵的大眼睛里满含着温柔，而没有一丝失意的痕迹。一层淡淡的疑虑和渴望困扰着她，但这些只是使她的目光和话语带上了一种企盼的表情。不管是不是在说话，她的嘴有时会露出伤心欲碎的样子。不过她并不经常忧伤，这是因为她的嘴唇在发某些音时口形的样子就好像是哀怨的化身，惹人怜爱。 
她的举动怯怯的，没有一丝泼辣。她的生活经历使她和那些威风凛凛的夫人们不同，她身上没有专横和傲气。她渴望人们的眷顾，但没有勇气去要求得到它。即使现在她仍缺乏自信，只不过她已有的那点经历已使她不那么胆怯罢了。她想要欢乐，想要地位，不过这些究竟是些什么东西她还糊里糊涂。 
每天，人生的万花筒赋予一些新的事物以光采，于是这个事物就成了她所追求的目标。可是当那万花筒又转动一下时，另外一些别的东西又成了尽善尽美的东西了。 
在她的精神世界中，她天生的多愁善感，像她那样性格的人往往是这样的。许多东西会在她心里引起悲哀--那些弱者，那些凄苦无依的人，一概激起她的伤心。每次那些脸色苍白衣衫褴褛的人带着可怜的麻木神情从她身旁绝望地走过，她的心就为他们痛苦。傍晚时分，从她窗口可以看到衣履寒酸的姑娘们气喘吁吁地从西区某个车间急急往家赶，她从心底深处同情她们。她会站在那里，咬看嘴唇，看着她们走过，摇着头沉思着。啊，她们可以说一无所有，她想，缺衣少钱是多么凄惨。褪了色的衣服从她们身上垂下来，令人看了心酸。 
“而且他们还要干那么重的活！”这是她唯一的喟叹。 
在街上她有时看到男人们在干活--拿着镐头的爱尔兰人，有大堆煤要铲的运煤工人，从事某种重体力活的美国人--这些人令她感慨万分。她现在虽然不用做苦工了，可是苦工比她身历其境时更让她心寒。她透过一层薄雾般的想象看着这些苦工，一种朦胧幽微半明半暗的光线--那正是诗的意境。看到窗口的脸，她有时会想起自己的老父亲在磨坊干活，穿着沾满面粉的工作服。看到鞋匠在往鞋子里打鞋楦，看到地下室的窗子里铁匠正在炼铁，或者看到高处的窗子里木匠脱了外套，袖子卷得高高地在干活，这一切都令她回忆起磨坊的景象，使她伤心不已，虽然她很少说出来。她的同情心始终倾注在做牛做马的下层社会。她自己刚从那个苦海里跳出来，对此当然深有体会。 
赫斯渥并不知道他交往的是这么一个感情细腻温柔的姑娘。不过归根结底，正是她身上的这种气质吸引了他。他从来没有企图分析过自己的爱情的性质。对他来说，只要知道她的温柔的眼神，软软的举动和善良乐观的思想就足够了。她像一朵百合花，但他从未探测过这花从多深的水的深处吸取了她那柔和的美丽和芬芳。他也无法懂得这花植根的淤泥和沃土。 
他接近这朵百合花，因为这花儿温柔清新。它使他的感情变得活泼，它使清晨那么美好有意义。 
从身体上说，她是大大地改善了。举止上的笨拙已经荡然无存，只留下那么一点有趣的痕迹，使她的一举一动就像最完美的风度一样可爱。她的小脚上穿的是漂亮的高跟皮鞋。对于那些花边和能大大增加女性风采的领饰，她现在知道的也不少。她的身段已经发育成熟，显得体态丰腴圆润，令人赞叹。 
一天早上赫斯渥写信给她，约她在门罗街的杰佛逊公园见面。他认为他如今去奥登公寓拜访是不明智的，即使杜洛埃在家也是不去为妙。 
第二天下午１点他来到了这美丽的小公园。他在公园的小路旁丁香树丛的绿叶下找到了一条简陋的长板凳。这正是一年中夏日前春光明媚的日子。旁边的小池塘边，一些穿得干干净净的小孩子正在放白帆布船。在一座绿塔的凉荫里，一个穿制服的警察正在抱着胳膊休息，他的警棍插在皮带里。在草坪上，一个年老的花匠正用一把园丁大剪子修剪一些灌木丛。 
初夏清澄的蓝天下，麻雀在绿叶浓密的树上忙碌，不时在闪亮的绿叶间吱吱喳喳地跳跃。 
那天早上像往常一样赫斯渥带着满肚子的不快离开家门。在酒店里他无所事事地打发时间，因为那天他不需要写信了。当他动身来这里时，他像那些把烦恼抛在身后的人们一样，感到浑身轻快。现在，在凉爽的绿树荫里，他用情人的想象力打量着四周。他听见邻近的街上运货马车沉重地驶过，但是听上去相隔很远。传到他的耳朵里只有微弱的嗡嗡声。周围闹市的嘈杂声只能隐约地听到。偶然传来一声钟声，像音乐一样悠远。他看着想着，憧憬着和他目前的呆板生活毫无联系的新的快乐生活。在他的想象中，他又成了以前的赫斯渥，那个既没有结婚也没有固定地位的赫斯渥。他回忆其他如何无牵无挂地追着女孩子们--和她们跳舞，陪她们回家，在她们的门口留连徘徊。他几乎希望重新回到那个时代去--在这惬意的环境中他几乎感到自己是没有家室牵挂的自由人。 
两点时，嘉莉脚步轻快地沿着小路朝他走来，脸色像玫瑰花瓣一样娇艳，浑身收拾得利索整齐。她头上戴着顶新买的水手帽子，上面缀着条漂亮的白点子蓝绸带，这帽子正是这个季节戴的。身上穿着条用料考究的蓝色长裙和一件白底蓝条纹衬衫，雪白的底子上有头发丝一样细的条子，和裙子很相配。 
长裙下偶而露出棕色的皮鞋。她的手套拿在手上。 
赫斯渥高兴地抬头看着她。 
“你终于来了，亲爱的，”他热烈地说着，站起身来迎接她的到来，把她的手放在自己的手里。 
“是啊，”她嫣然一笑。“你担心我不来吗？”“我不知道，”他回答。 
他看着她，她的前额因为走得急已渗出了汗水。于是他掏出自己的喷了香水的软绸手帕，给她的脸上这儿那儿擦着。 
“好了，”他深情地说，“这下好了。” 
他们在一起，四目交注，感到很幸福。等刚见面的兴奋平静一点时他说：“查理什么时候再出门？”“我不知道，”她回答。“他说公司里有些事要他做。”赫斯渥变得严肃了，他静静地陷入了沉思。 
“我想要你离开他。” 
他的目光转向玩船的孩子们，好像在提一项小要求。 
“那我们到哪里去呢？”她用手卷着手套，眼睛看着附近的一棵树，用同样的口气问道。 
“你想去哪里呢？”他问。 
他说这话的口气使她觉得，她似乎必须表明她不喜欢住在本地。 
“我们不能留在芝加哥，”她回答。 
他没料到她会有这个想法，没料到她有迁移外地的要求。 
“为什么不能呢？”他轻轻问。 
“嗯，因为，”她说，“因为我不喜欢留在这里。”他听着这话，但是并没有深刻理解这话的含意。这些话现在听来并不重要，还没有到马上做决定的时候呢。 
“那样的话，我就得放弃我的职位了。” 
他说这话的口气轻描淡写，好像这事儿不值得严肃考虑。 
嘉莉一边欣赏着周围美丽的景色，一边想了一下。 
“有他在这里，我不想住在芝加哥。”她说这话时想到了杜洛埃。 
“这是一个大城市，我最亲爱的，”赫斯渥回答。“如果搬到南区去，那就好像搬到了另一个城里。”他已看中那个地方作为建香巢的地点。 
“不管怎么样，”嘉莉说，“只要他在这里，我就不想结婚。 
我不想私奔。” 
结婚这个提议给赫斯渥重重一击。他清楚地看出这就是她的念头--他感到这个障碍很难克服。一时间，在他的思想中模模糊糊闪出了重婚这个念头。他实在想不出这事的后果。 
迄今除了赢得了她的感情以外他看不出自己有什么进展。他注视着她，感到她真美。得到她的爱是件多么美妙的事，即使为此陷入纠葛中去也值得！在他眼里，她更可贵了，她是值得拼命追求的，这就是一切。她和那些轻易就能到手的女人多么不同啊！他把那些女人从脑子里驱除了出去。 
“你不知道他什么时候出门吗？”赫斯渥轻轻地说。 
她摇了摇头。 
他叹息了。 
“你真是个固执的小姑娘，是不是？”过了一会儿他抬起头来看着她的眼睛，说道。 
听了这话，她感到一股柔情流遍全身。他的话在她听来是一种赞叹，她为此感到骄傲，也对这么欣赏自己的男人情意绵绵。 
“不是的，”她撒娇地说。“不过我又有什么办法呢？”他又十指交叉地抱着双手，目光投向草坪那边的街道。 
“我真希望你能来到我的身边，”他幽幽地说，“我不愿意和你这样分居两地。我们这样等下去有什么好处呢？你不见得更快乐一点，是吗？”“快乐？”她温柔地叫了起来，“你知道这是不可能的。”“那么我们现在是在白白地浪费我们的时间，”他继续幽幽地说。“如果你不快乐，你认为我快乐吗？我每天的大部分时间都是坐在那里给你写信。你听我说，嘉莉，”他的声音突然充满了激情，他凝视着她的眼睛叫了起来，“没有你我活不下去，就是这么回事。那么，”他无奈地把他白净的手心一摊，最后说，“你叫我怎么办呢？”他这样把责任推到她身上，使嘉莉深受感动。像这样有名无实地似乎把一切决定权都交到了女人手中，最能打动女人的心。 
“你不能再等一些时候吗？”她柔情脉脉地说，“我会想办法弄清他什么时候走的。”“那又有什么用呢？”他仍是那么绝望无奈。 
“那么，也许我们可以安排一起到哪里去。”其实究竟该怎么办，她并不比刚才更清楚。可是现在出于同情，她的心理实已陷入女性屈服和让步的状态。 
可是赫斯渥并不理解她这种思想状况。他仍在想怎么能说服她--怎么能感动她，使她放弃杜洛埃。他开始想知道她对他的感情究竟能使她走到哪一步。他要想个问题来试探她。 
最后他想到了一个提议。这种提议既能掩饰自己的意愿，又能试探出对方对我们的意愿有多大的阻力，以便寻找出一条出路。他的提议只是信口开河，并没有经过认真思考，和他的真实打算毫无联系。 
“嘉莉，”他注视着她的眼睛，装出一副认真的表情，煞有介事地说，“倘若我下星起来找你，或者就是这星期，譬如说就今晚--我来告诉你我必须离开这里--我一分钟也不能再待下去了，我这一去再也不回来了--你会和我一起走吗？"他的爱人深情款款地看着他，他的问题还没说完，她的答案已经准备好了。 
“当然，”她说。 
“你不会和我争论不肯走，或者需要安排安排再走吗？”“不会，如果你等不及的话。”看到她把他的话当真了，他脸上露出了微笑。他想，这机会倒不错，他可以出去玩个把星期。他真想告诉她，他只是开开玩笑，不过那样会把她脸上那股可爱的严肃劲赶跑了。看到她这么认真太让人高兴了，所以他就不说穿这一点，让她继续当真下去。 
“假如我们在这里来不及结婚怎么办呢？”他突然想到这一点，于是又加了一句。 
“如果我们到达目的地以后马上结婚，那也行。”“我原来就是这么打算的。”“好的。”现在在他看来这个早晨的阳光似乎特别地明媚灿烂。他真吃惊自己怎么会想到这个好点子。尽管这事情看来不太可能，他禁不住为自己问话的巧妙而喜容满面。这说明她有多么爱他。他现在脑子里一点疑虑也没有了，他会想个法子把她弄到手的。 
“好，”他开玩笑地说，“哪天晚上我就要来把你带走了，”他说着笑了起来。 
“不过假如你不娶我的话，我不会和你住在一起的，”嘉莉沉思地加了一句。 
“我不会要你这么做的，”他温柔地握着她的手说。 
她现在明白了他的意思，所以感到无比的幸福。想到他将把她从目前的困境中解救出来，她对他爱得更深了。至于他，并没有把结婚这个条款放在心上。他心里想的是，她既然爱他，那就没有什么东西能妨碍他最后得到幸福了。 
“我们走走吧，”他快乐地说，站起身来打量着这个可爱的公园。 
“好的，”嘉莉说。 
他们走过那个年轻的爱尔兰人，他用妒忌的目光看着他们的背影。 
“真是漂亮的一对，”他自忖道，“一定很有钱。”
Chapter 16 A WITLESS ALADDIN: THE GATE TO THE WORLD
In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last trip he had received a new light on its importance. 
"I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Look at Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good house behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree. He's a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret sign that stands for something." 
Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodge headquarters. 
"I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was very prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man that can help us out." 
It was after the business meeting and things were going socially with a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of individuals whom he knew. 
"What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon his secret brother. 
"We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from to-day, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take a part -- it's an easy part." 
"Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply. 
"Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr. Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge. There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we thought we would raise it by a little entertainment." 
"Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea." 
"Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at heavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?" 
"Never did." 
"Well, I tell you, he does it fine." 
"And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned Drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. "What are you going to play?" 
"'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's famous production, which had worn from a great public success down to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the smallest possible number. 
Drouet had seen this play some time in the past. 
"That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. You ought to make a lot of money out of that." 
"We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't you forget now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some young woman to take the part of Laura." 
"Sure, I'll attend to it." 
He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel had ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place. 
Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady's address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her. 
"Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively, scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anything about amateur theatricals." 
He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of her home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out that evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the car he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the "Evening News" -- a small three-line affair under the head of Secret Society Notes -- which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks would give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when "Under the Gaslight" would be produced. 
"George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that." 
"What?" inquired Carrie. 
They were at their little table in the room which might have been used for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal. To-night the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasing repast. 
"Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part." 
"What is it they're going to play?" 
"'Under the Gaslight.'" 
"When?" 
"On the 16th." 
"Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie. 
"I don't know any one," he replied. 
Suddenly he looked up. 
"Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?" 
"Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act." 
"How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively. 
"Because," answered Carrie, "I never did." 
Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies it was the art of the stage. 
True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out. 
"That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there." 
"No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the proposition and yet fearful. 
"Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and it will be lots of fun for you." 
"Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously. 
"You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around here and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever enough, all right." 
"No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly. 
"Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll be fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good. They haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?" 
He frowned as he thought of their ignorance. 
"Hand me the coffee," he added. 
"I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly. "You don't think I could, do you?" 
"Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I know you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you." 
"What is the play, did you say?" 
"'Under the Gaslight.'" 
"What part would they want me to take?" 
"Oh, one of the heroines -- I don't know." 
"What sort of a play is it?" 
"Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best, "it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks -- a man and a woman that live in the slums. She had some money or something and they wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go exactly." 
"Don't you know what part I would have to take?" 
"No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do, too. Laura, that's the thing -- you're to be Laura." 
"And you can't remember what the part is like?" 
"To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seen the play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was an infant -- was picked off the street or something -- and she's the one that's hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." He stopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face. "She comes very near getting drowned -- no, that's not it. I'll tell you what I'll do," he concluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. I can't remember now for the life of me." 
"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her interest and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity for the mastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right." 
"Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to enthuse Carrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come home here and urge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a success of? You can act all right. It'll be good for you." 
"When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively. 
"The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for you to-night." 
"All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make a failure now it's your fault." 
"You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here. Be natural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a corking good actress." 
"Did you really?" asked Carrie. 
"That's right," said the drummer. 
He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie was possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever in the most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was created with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of the active world. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no small ability. Even without practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic situations she had witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the expressions of the various faces taking part in the scene. She loved to modulate her voice after the conventional manner of the distressed heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as appealed most to her sympathies. Of late, seeing the airy grace of the ingenue in several well-constructed plays, she had been moved to secretly imitate it, and many were the little movements and expressions of the body in which she indulged from time to time in the privacy of her chamber. On several occasions, when Drouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror, she was doing nothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouth or the eyes which she had witnessed in another. Under his airy accusation she mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a faint sense of error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more than the first subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-create the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her. In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desire to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art. 
Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic ability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed, concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of hope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt that she could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she looked at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she would look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their place. The glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause, these had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act -- that she, too, could compel acknowledgment of power. Now she was told that she really could -- that little things she had done about the house had made even him feel her power. It was a delightful sensation while it lasted. 
When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window to think about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the possibilities for her. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand and she had exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw herself in a score of pathetic situations in which she assumed a tremulous voice and suffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury and refinement, situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, the arbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity of woe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception, the languour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts of all the charming women she had seen in plays -- every fancy, every illusion which she had concerning the stage -- now came back as a returning tide after the ebb. She built up feelings and a determination which the occasion did not warrant. 
Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed around with a great air, as Quincel met him. 
"Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked the latter. 
"I've got her," said Drouet. 
"Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness; "that's good. What's her address?" and he pulled out his note-book in order to be able to send her part to her. 
"You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer. 
"Yes." 
"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning." 
"What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have any information to send her." 
"Twenty-nine Ogden Place." 
"And her name?" 
"Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge members knew him to be single. 
"That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel. 
"Yes, it does." 
He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner of one who does a favour. 
"He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?" 
"I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that I've said I would." 
"Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company. The rest of them aren't as good as you are." 
"Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her misgivings. 
He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to make his next remark. 
"They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and I gave them the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?" 
"Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She was thinking it was slightly strange. 
"If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on. 
"Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It was clever for Drouet. 
"I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse then if you didn't go. They all know me so well. But you'll go all right. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again." 
"Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determined now to have a try at the fascinating game. 
Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was about to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question. 
The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it, was one of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true to the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he began his career. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the long, explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there. 
"Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her voice out pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of wine before he goes." 
She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing that she must be on the stage while others were talking, and not only be there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic movement of the scenes. 
"I think I can do that, though," she concluded. 
When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with her day's study. 
"Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said. 
"All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorised nearly." 
"That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it." 
"Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she said bashfully. 
"Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than it will there." 
"I don't know about that," she answered. 
Eventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerable feeling, forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about Drouet, and letting herself rise to a fine state of feeling. 
"Good," said Drouet; "fine; out o' sight! You're all right, Caddie, I tell you." 
He was really moved by her excellent representation and the general appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and finally fainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and now held her laughing in his arms. 
"Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked. 
"Not a bit." 
"Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything like that." 
"I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with delight. 
"Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can take my word for that. You won't fail."
杜洛埃这次出差回到芝加哥以后，对于他所属的秘密会社比以前关心了。这是因为上次出门做生意时，他对秘密会社的重要性有了新的认识。 “我告诉你，”另一个旅行推销员对他说，“这是件大事。你瞧瞧人家哈森斯达。他并不怎么机灵。当然他所属的那家商号给他撑了腰，但是光靠这点是不够的。你知道，他靠的是他在会社里的地位。他在共济会里地位很高，这一点起了很大的作用。他有一个秘密切口，那个切口代表了他的身份。”杜洛埃当场决定，他今后对这种事要更关心一点。所以等他回到芝加哥，他就到他那个会社的当地支部所在地去走走。 
“听我说，杜洛埃，”哈莱·昆塞尔先生说，他在兄弟会的这个支部里身居要职，“你一定能帮我们解决这个难题。”当时刚散了会，大家正在活跃地交谈和寒暄。杜洛埃在人群中走来走去，和十来个熟人聊着，开着玩笑。 
“你们有什么打算吗？”他对他秘密会社的兄弟笑脸相迎，态度和气地问道。 
“我们在考虑过两个星期举行一场演出。我们想了解一下你是不是认识什么姑娘可以演一个角色--一个很容易演的角色。”“没问题，”杜洛埃说，“是怎么一回事呢？”他没有费心去想想他其实并不认识什么姑娘可以请来演戏的。但是他天生的好心肠使他一口答应了下来。 
“嗯，我来告诉你我们的打算，”昆塞尔先生继续说道，“我们想给支部买一套新家具。但是目前财务处没有足够的钱。因此我们想搞点娱乐活动筹款。”“对，这主意不错，”杜洛埃插嘴说。 
“我们这里有好几个小伙子很有才能。哈莱·比尔别克善于扮黑人，麦克·刘易土演悲剧没问题。你听过他朗诵《山那边》吗？”“没有。”“那我告诉你，他念得好极了。”“你要我找位小姐来串个角吗？”杜洛埃问道，他急于要结束这个话题，好谈点别的事。“你们打算演哪个戏？”“《煤气灯下》，”昆塞尔先生说。他指的是奥古斯钉戴利写的那个有名的戏。那个戏在戏院演出时曾经轰动一时，非常叫座。现在已经降格为业余剧团的保留节目，其中难演的部分已经删除，剧中的角色也减少到最低的限度。 
杜洛埃以前曾经看过这出戏。 
“好，”他说，“这个戏选得不错，会演好的。你们会赚到不少钱的。”“我们想会成功的，”昆塞尔先生说。“你千万别忘了，给我们找位小姐演罗拉这个角色。”他说完的时候杜洛埃已经显出坐立不安的样子。 
“你放心吧，我会给你们办到的。” 
他说着走开了。昆塞尔先生一说完，他就把这件事几乎丢到脑后去了。他甚至没想到问问演戏的时间和地点。 
过了一两天，杜洛埃收到一封信，通知他星期五晚上第一次排演，请他把那位小姐的地址尽快告诉他们，以便把她的台词送去。杜洛埃这才想起他自己承诺的事。 
“见鬼，我哪里认识什么人啊？”这个推销员搔着他粉红的耳朵，心里想，“会演戏能串个角的人我一个也不认识。”他在脑子里把他认识的那些女人的名字筛了一遍，最后确定了一个人。选中她主要是因为她家住在西区，找起来方便。他心里打算晚上出门时顺便去找她，但是当他坐上街车往西去时，他把这事儿压根忘了，一直到夜里看《晚报》时，才想起自己该干没干的事。报上在秘密会社通知的标题下有一条三行的小消息。消息说，兄弟会寇斯特支部将于１６日在阿佛莱礼堂演出，届时将上演《煤气灯下》一剧。 
“天哪，”杜洛埃叫了起来，“我把这事儿忘了。”“什么事啊？"嘉莉问。 
他们当时正坐在可以当厨房的那间房间的小桌子旁。嘉莉有时在那里开饭。今晚上她心血来潮，准备了一桌子可口的饭菜。 
“嗯，是我们支部演戏的事。他们想演个戏，请我给他们找位小姐串个角。”“他们想演哪出戏？”“《煤气灯下》。”“什么时候？”“１６号。”“那你怎么不给他们找啊？”嘉莉问。 
“我不认识什么人嘛，”他回答。 
他突然抬起头来。 
“嘿，你来演这个角色怎么样？”他问。 
“我？”嘉莉说，“我不会演戏。” 
“你怎么知道不会呢？”杜洛埃沉思地问道。 
“因为我从来没演过戏，”嘉莉回答。 
但是对于杜洛埃的这个提议她仍然感到很开心，她兴奋得眼睛也发光了。如果说有什么事让她感兴趣的话，那就是舞台艺术了。 
杜洛埃按照他的老脾气，一旦有了这个省事的法子，就紧紧抓住不放了。 
“不难的，你能演好戏里那个角色的。”
“不行，我演不上来的。”嘉莉反对得并不起劲，她被这个提议深深吸引住了，可是又感到胆怯。 
“我说你一定行。何不试一下呢？他们需要人手，你可以从中得到乐趣。”“不，不，”嘉莉认真地说。 
“你会喜欢的，我知道你会的。我看到过你在家里跳舞，还看到你模仿别人，所以我才请你演的。你很聪明，会演好的。”“不，我不聪明，”她害羞地说。 
“那么你听我说怎么办。你到排演的地方去试试，你会很开心的。剧团里的其他人都不怎么样，他们什么经验也没有。 
“他们对演戏又懂得什么呢？” 
想到他们的无知，他不禁皱起了眉头。 
“请把咖啡递给我，”他加了一句。 
“我不相信我能演戏，查理。”嘉莉撒娇地说，“你也不相信我会演戏，是不是？”“哪里，你一定会演得棒极了。我敢打赌，你会一炮打响。”
“你答应了，是吗？我知道你会答应的。我回家时就知道你会的，所以我才请你。”“你刚才说是什么戏？”“《煤气灯下》”。 
“他们要我演哪个角色？” 
“噢，是女主角之一，我也不记得是哪个了。”“那个戏是讲什么的？”“嗯，”杜洛埃，他在这种事上记忆力不是最好的，讲的是一个女孩被两个坏蛋-贫民窟里的一男一女--拐走了。 
她有些钱财或别的什么东西，他们想从她那里夺去，确切的我现在记不得了。““你不记得我该演什么角色吗？”“不，说实话，不记得了。“他想了一会儿，”噢，是的，我想起来了，罗拉！对，就是这个角色--你要演的是罗拉。”“你不记得那个角色是个什么样的人物吧？”“天哪，我实在记不得了。嘉莉，"他回答，“我该记得的，这个戏我看过好几遍了。戏里有一个女孩，在孩提时候就被人偷走了--是在街上或者别的什么地方被抱走的--她一直被那两个坏蛋追踪--就是我刚才告诉你的那两个家伙。"他停了下来，手里的叉子上还叉着一小块馅饼举在她面前，“她差一点让人淹死了。--噢，不对，不是这样的。我告诉你怎么办吧，”他最后束手无策地说，“我去给你找那本书。现在要了我的命也记不起来了。”“我真的不知道自己行不行，”嘉莉说。他的话说完以后，她内心思想斗争激烈，她对戏剧的爱好和登台亮相的愿望竭力要胜过她的胆怯害怕心理，“如果你觉得我还行的话，我也许可以去试试。”“当然，你一定行的，”杜洛埃说。他给嘉莉鼓劲时，自己的兴趣也上来了。“如果我不认为你会成功的话，我会回家来怂恿你去干吗？你会演好的，这对你会有好处的。”“我什么时候该去呢？”嘉莉沉思地问。 
“星期五晚上第一次排演，今晚我去给你拿台词。”“好吧，”嘉莉不再反对了，“我去演。不过如果演砸了，那要怪你。”“不会演砸的，”杜洛埃给她鼓劲说，“你演戏时就像在家里一样好了。自然一点，你就能演好了。我经常在想你会成为很了不起的女演员。”“你真这么想过吗？”嘉莉问。 
“是真的，”那个推销员说。 
那天晚上，当他把她丢在家里，一个人出门时，他压根想不到他这个姑娘心里点燃了一把什么样的秘密火焰。嘉莉天生情感丰富，易受感动。这种气质的最高阶段正是伟大的戏剧。造物主赋予她易感的灵魂，它像镜子一样反映着活跃的外部世界。她天生善于模仿，在这方面趣味高雅，不需要什么练习。她有时候在镜子前可以重现她见过的戏剧性场面，模拟这些场面中每个人物的表情和神态。她喜欢模仿传统的悲剧女主人公的声调，复述那些最令她感动的哀伤的片断。最近看了几出构思很好的戏以后，她被戏里那些天真姑娘的轻灵优雅的动作所吸引，就偷偷在家里模仿她们那种飘逸的姿态，反复做着那些形体上的小动作和表情。好几次被杜洛埃发现了，他以为她是在照镜子孤芳自赏，而其实她只是在回忆她在别人身上看到的那些嘴或眼睛的优美表情。在他的轻微责备下，她自己也把这错当成虚荣心，有点歉然地接受了他的批评。其实这只是她的艺术天性的自然流露，努力去完美地再现某些吸引了她的美的形态。要知道，一切戏剧艺术正是来源于这种努力重现生活的微弱倾向和意愿。 
听到杜洛埃这么称道自己的演戏才能，她心满意足精神振奋。她对自己潜在的演戏才华原来就有一些零零星星的感觉，只是不敢相信。现在他的话把这些丝丝缕缕的感觉织成了五彩缤纷的希望的花布，就像火焰把松散的金属碎片焊成结实的整块一样。像旁人一样，她也有点虚荣心。她认为只要她有机会，她是能干出点名堂来的。当她看着舞台上衣服华丽的女演员时，她不止一次地想象如果她在台上演这个角色她会是什么样的，如果她处在她们的位子，心里又会多开心埃辉煌的舞台魅力，紧张的情节，漂亮的戏装，还有观众的掌声，这一切深深地吸引着她，使她感到自己也能演戏--也能让别人承认她的才华。现在有人告诉她，她真能演戏--她在家里做的那些模仿动作使杜洛埃也认识到了她的能力。当她这么想时，心里乐滋滋的。 
杜洛埃走后，她就在窗子旁边的摇椅上坐下来想这件事。 
像往常一样，她的想象力把她的机遇大大夸大了。就好像他在她手里放了五毛钱，她却把它想象成一千元一样。她想象自己在几十个令人伤心的场景里露面，做出痛苦的姿势，声音颤抖地说话。她又自得其乐地想象各种豪华风雅的场面，在这些场面里她是人们目光的焦点，主宰命运的女神。她坐在摇椅里摇晃着，一会儿感到被情人抛弃的深切痛苦，一会儿感到上当受骗后的怒火中烧，一会儿感到失败后的心灰意懒和悲伤。她在各个戏里看到的美人，她对于舞台的各种想象和错觉--这些思绪就像退潮后又涨潮的海水一样，又一起涌上心头。她在心里积蓄起那么多的感情和决心，实在超出了这次演戏机会的需要。 
杜洛埃到市中心去时，顺便到会社的支部所在地去了一下。昆塞尔见到他时，他显出一副得意洋洋的神气。 
“你答应给我们找的那位小姐在哪里啊？”昆塞尔问他。 
“我已经找到了，”杜洛埃回答道。 
“是吗？”昆塞尔对他这么快就找到了演员有点意外。“那很好。她的地址是哪里？”他掏出笔记本打算记下来，好给她送台词去。 
“你是要给她送台词去吧，”推销员说。 
“是埃” 
“这样吧，我给你送去。明早我要从她门口经过。”“你刚才说她住哪里？我们要留个地址，有什么通知的话可以送给她。”“奥登广场二十九号。”“她叫什么名字？”“嘉莉·麦登达，"这个推销员随口说道，支部的成员都知道他是单身汉。 
“这名字听上去像是个会演戏的人，是吗？”昆塞尔说。 
“不错，是这么回事。” 
他把台词拿回家去交给嘉莉。递给她时，脸上露出恩赐的神气。 
“他说这个角色是最棒的，你看你能演吗？”“我要等看完台词才知道。我答应试试后，你想不出我心里有多害怕。”“哎，胆子放大一点嘛。你有什么好怕的呢？整个班子都很差劲，其他人还不如你呢。”“好吧，我就试试。"她尽管胆怯，拿到台词心里还是很高兴的。 
他侧转身子，整理着衣服，坐立不安地忸怩了一阵子才说到下一件事上。 
“他们正要印节目单，”他说，“我给你报的名字是嘉莉·麦登达。你看这样行吗？”“行啊，”他的同伴应声道。她抬头看着他，心里觉得这事有些蹊跷。 
“你知道，我是怕你万一演砸了，”他又说。 
“噢，不错，”她回答道。现在感到很高兴，认为他想得真周到。杜洛埃这么干真是机灵。 
“我不想把你介绍给他们，说你是我太太。因为怕你万一演砸的话，你会感到更尴尬的。他们和我都很熟。不过你会演成功的。不管怎么样，今后你也许再也不会碰到他们中任何一个的。”“好吧，我无所谓，”她孤注一掷地说，现在已横下心来一定要试演戏这个迷人的玩意。 
杜洛埃松了一口气。他刚才一直在担心又要谈到婚姻问题上去。 
嘉莉看了剧本以后发现罗拉是个饱经折磨催人泪下的角色。正像剧作家戴利先生描述的那样，这个戏符合通俗剧的最神圣的传统，这些传统从他当剧作家起就没有变过。悲哀痛苦的姿势，如泣如诉的音乐，长长的说明性道白使情节层层推进，通俗剧的成份一样也没少。 
“啊，可怜的人。”嘉莉一边看着台词，一边读了出来。她的声调因为悲悯而拖长了，“马丁，他走的时候别忘了给他喝杯酒。”她对自己的台词只有短短几页感到吃惊。她没有想到别的角色说话的时候，她也得在台上，不仅在台上，还要和剧情的进展相配合。 
“不过，我看我能干得了，”她最后说。 
杜洛埃第二天晚上回家的时候，嘉莉对自己一天的研究结果非常满意。 
“喂，嘉德，进展如何啊？”他问。 
“不错，”她粲然一笑，“我看我已经几乎全能背出来了。”“那太好了，”他说，“让我们来听听你说台词。”“嗯，我不知道我能不能站在这里说台词，”她扭扭怩怩地说。 
“为什么不行呢？在家里说台词总要比在台上说容易些。”“这一点我可不敢肯定，”她回答。 
她最后还是演了舞后那一幕。她演得很投入，随着剧情的进展，她完全忘了杜洛埃的在场，感情达到了升华的境界。 
“好！”杜洛埃说，“真棒极了。你会演好的，嘉莉，真的。”对于她的杰出表演他确实大受感动。她的小小的身子轻轻摇晃，最后晕倒在地上，那样子真是惹人爱怜。他当时蹦了起来去搂住她。现在她在他怀里咯咯大笑。 
“你难道不怕跌伤了自己吗？”他问道。 
“一点也不。” 
“嘿，你真了不起。我从来不知道你能演得这么棒。”“我也没想到，”嘉莉开心地说，她的脸因为兴奋泛起了红晕。 
“我说，你一定能演好的，”杜洛埃说，“我敢打保票，你一定不会失败的。”
Chapter 17 A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY: HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE
The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take place at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy than was at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written to Hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was going to take part in a play. 
"I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest; "I have my part now, honest, truly." 
Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this. 
"I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that." 
He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability. "I haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must come to the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it." 
Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertaking as she understood it. 
"Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you will do well, you're so clever." 
He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared. As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much of the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her misgivings -- and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day -- she was still happy. She could not repress her delight in doing this little thing which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all. 
Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl had capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour, force, and beauty to the possessor. 
Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She drew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned. Their affection for her naturally heightened their perception of what she was trying to do and their approval of what she did. Her inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot with every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod whereby the treasure of life was to be discovered. 
"Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in the lodge. I'm an Elk myself." 
"Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you." 
"That's so," said the manager. 
"I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't see how you can unless he asks you." 
"I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it so he won't know you told me. You leave it to me." 
This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth talking about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and flowers for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give the little girl a chance. 
Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort, and he was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon and the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation. Drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his progress. 
"Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town again." 
Drouet laughed. 
"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the list." 
"Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy." 
They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company of notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in as many minutes. 
"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed Hurstwood, in the most offhand manner. 
"Yes, who told you?" 
"No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets, which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?" 
"I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get me to get some woman to take a part." 
"I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'll subscribe, of course. How are things over there?" 
"All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds." 
"Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Have another?" 
He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion. 
"I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said abruptly, after thinking it over. 
"You don't say so! How did that happen?" 
"Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told Carrie, and she seems to want to try." 
"Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Do her good, too. Has she ever had any experience?" 
"Not a bit." 
"Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious." 
"She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation against Carrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough." 
"You don't say so!" said the manager. 
"Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she didn't." 
"We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'll look after the flowers." 
Drouet smiled at his good-nature. 
"After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper." 
"I think she'll do all right," said Drouet. 
"I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her," and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compound of good-nature and shrewdness. 
Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he came very near being rude -- failing to remember, as he did, that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not salaried underlings. 
"Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one part uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand like that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over the intrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out across the Avery stage in a most drooping manner. 
Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. She walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that there was something strangely lacking. 
"Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman who was to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you stand here, so. Now, what is it you say?" 
"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth. 
"How is that -- what does your text say?" 
"Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part. 
"Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to look shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked." 
"Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously. 
"No, no, that won't do! Say it this way -- explain." 
"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation. 
"That's better. Now go on." 
"One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father and mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms-" 
"Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. "Put more feeling into what you are saying." 
Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eye lightened with resentment. 
"Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying his manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires feeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted them for alms.'" 
"All right," said Mrs. Morgan. 
"Now, go on." 
"As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse." 
"Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly. 
"A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines that here fell to him. 
"No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that way. 'A pickpocket -- well?' so. That's the idea." 
"Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let alone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we just went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up some points." 
"A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the director did not heed. 
"All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to do it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we run right through, putting in as much expression as we can." 
"Good," said Mr. Quincel. 
"This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl." 
"Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle. 
"The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger. 
"Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep his hands off. 
"The thief!" roared poor Bamberger. 
"Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's. 'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?' 
"'Trying to steal,' said the child. 
"'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father. 
"'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.' 
"'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother. 
"'She -- there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old Judas,' said the girl." 
Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel. 
"What do you think of them?" he asked. 
"Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the latter, with an air of strength under difficulties. 
"I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes me as being a pretty poor shift for a lover." 
"He's all we've got," said! Quincel, rolling up his eyes. "Harrison went back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?" 
"I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up." 
At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking with me." 
"Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand. "My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like that?" 
"Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly. 
The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie, as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing Pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding the words of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late," and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with: 
"Ray!" 
"Miss -- Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly. 
Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present. She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he were not present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon. 
"Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her little scene with Bamberger. 
"Miss Madenda," said Quincel. 
"I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?" 
"I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of our members." 
"Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far -- seems to take an interest in what she's doing." 
"Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel. 
The director strolled away without answering. 
In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in the ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speak with her. 
"Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly. 
"No," said Carrie. 
"You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience." 
Carrie only smiled consciously. 
He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting some ardent line. 
Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with envious and snapping black eyes. 
"She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction of thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly. 
The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that she had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell Hurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet, too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until he should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up. The drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her little experience did not appeal to him as important. He let the conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without solicitation, and Carrie was not good at that. He took it for granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further worry. Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which was irritating. She felt his indifference keenly and longed to see Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend she had on earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the damage had been done. 
She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time she got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came, he shone upon her as the morning sun. 
"Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?" 
"Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet. 
"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?" 
Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she proceeded. 
"Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must get over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?" 
"Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors." 
"I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly. 
She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but she made him promise not to come around. 
"Now you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly. "Just remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the performance worth while. You do that now." 
"I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm. 
"That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shaking an affectionate finger at her, "your best." 
"I will," she answered, looking back. 
The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and are hopeful. And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.
对嘉莉来说至关重要的这场戏要在阿佛莱礼堂上演。某些情况使得这场演出比原来预料的要引人注目。那个戏剧界的小学生收到台词的第二天早晨就写信告诉赫斯渥，她将在一个戏里演一个角色。 “真的，”她写道，生怕他以为她是在开玩笑，“我真要演戏。说实话，我的台词也拿到手了。这是千真万确的。”赫斯渥读到这里，露出溺爱的微笑。 
“不知道会演成个什么样子。我一定要去瞧瞧。”他马上回了信，很讨人喜欢地提到了她的演戏才华。“我毫不怀疑你会成功。你明天早上一定要到公园来，把一切告诉我。”嘉莉很高兴地来赴约，把她所知道的一切和演戏有关的细节都告诉了他。 
“嘿，”他说，“这太好了，我听了真高兴。你当然会演好的，你人那么灵气。”他确实从没见过她像现在这样神采飞扬。她往日那种淡淡的忧伤现在一扫而空了。她说话时眼睛在闪光，脸蛋红朴朴的，浑身洋溢着演戏给她带来的欢乐。尽管她有种种担心--这些担心时时萦绕心头--她仍然感到兴奋。尽管在一般人眼里这事情无足轻重，她却无法克制她的快乐情绪。 
赫斯渥看到嘉莉显露的才华不禁着了迷。在生活中再没有比看到正当的雄心更让人振奋的事了，不管这种雄心多么幼稚。这雄心赋予人以色彩，力量和美感。 
神圣的灵感使嘉莉变得神采奕奕。她还没做什么事，她的两个情人已经对她大加夸赞了。他们既然爱她，她所做的事在他们眼里当然就变得很了不起，值得大肆赞扬了。她则由于年轻无知充满着幻想。这些幻想一遇机会就会泛滥起来，于是一个小小的机会就好像成了金色的魔杖，可以用来发掘生活的宝藏。 
“让我想想，”赫斯渥说，“我在那个支部该有些熟人。我自己也是兄弟会的会员。”“唉呀，你千万别让他知道是我告诉你的。”“好吧，就按你说的去做，”那个经理说。 
“你如果想来的话，我会很高兴的。不过我不知道你怎么能去看演出，除非他邀请你。”“我一定会来的，”赫斯渥多情地说，“我会安排好，这样他不会知道是你告诉我的。这事就交给我好了。”这位经理对演出发生了兴趣，这事本身就非同小可。因为他在兄弟会里地位显要，值得一提。他已经在打算要邀些朋友去订一个包厢，向嘉莉献花。他要让这场演出成为一个社交盛会，给这个小姑娘一个露脸的机会。 
隔了一两天，杜洛埃顺路来到亚当街上这家酒楼。他刚到，赫斯渥就看到了。当时是下午５点，酒馆里挤满了商人、演员、经理、政客。满厅是脸色红润大腹便便的人群，都戴着丝礼帽，穿着浆过的衬衫，手上戴着戒指，领带上别着饰针，真是尽善尽美，无可挑剔。那个著名的拳击家约翰·沙立文正站在酒柜的一端，周围站着许多服装鲜艳的运动员，他们正在热烈交谈。杜洛埃迈着大步，满面春风地穿过大厅，脚上那双黄褐色的新皮鞋走起路来发出喀嚓喀嚓的响声。 
“嘿，老兄，”赫斯渥说，“我正在想你最近怎么样了。我以为你又出门去了呢。”杜洛埃笑了起来。 
“你如果不经常来报到，当心我们要把你除名了。”“实在没办法，”推销员说，“我一直很忙。”他们穿过那些走来走去大声说笑的名人们，慢慢朝酒柜踱去。在３分钟里，这个穿着讲究的经理就三次和人握手。 
“我听说你们支部要演一场戏，”赫斯渥以漫不经心的口气说道。 
“是啊，谁告诉你的？” 
“没人告诉我，”赫斯渥说。“他们给我送了两张票来，要我掏两块钱。有没有可以看的东西？”“我也不知道，”推销员答道，“他们一直要我给他们物色个姑娘演个角色。”“我原来不打算去的，”经理随随便便地说，“当然票是要认购的。那边的事情怎么样？”“不赖。他们要靠演出的收入布置装潢一下。”“好，我祝他们旗开得胜，”那位经理说，“再来一杯吗？”他不打算再谈下去了。现在如果他和几个朋友一起在戏院露面，他可以说是他的朋友怂恿他来的。杜洛埃想到该澄清一下可能造成的误会。 
“我想我那位姑娘将在戏里串演个角色，”他想了一下突然说道。 
“真的？怎么会呢？” 
“你知道，你们缺演员，要我给他们找一个。我告诉了嘉莉，她似乎想试试。”“那太棒了，”经理说。"这事确实太妙了。对她也有好处。 
她以前演过戏吗？” 
“一点没有。” 
“嗯，这也没什么关系。” 
“不过她非常聪明，”杜洛埃不容别人对嘉莉的能力有任何怀疑，于是说道，“她学习她的台词非常快。”“真的吗！”经理说。 
“是啊，老兄，那天晚上她让我大吃一惊。真的，我真是大吃一惊。”“我们要给她来个小小的表示，”经理说，“我来准备鲜花。”杜洛埃对他的好心报以微笑。 
“演出结束以后，你们一定要和我一起吃点夜宵。”“我想她一定会演好的。”“我要看看她演出。她一定要演好。我们会让她成功的。”经理说着脸上闪过一丝不动声色的微笑，透着善意和精明。 
在此期间，嘉莉参加了第一次排演。排演由昆塞尔先生主持，一个年轻人米勒斯先生给他当助手。米勒斯过去在演艺圈干过，有一点资历了，不过究竟有些什么资历旁人就不清楚了。可是，他因为自己有点经验，又摆出一副公事公办的面孔，所以他的态度几近粗暴--事实上，他忘记了自己指导的只是一群业余演员，并不是领工资的下属。 
“听着，麦登达小姐，”他对站在台上不知所措的嘉莉说，“你不要这么站着，脸上带点儿表情。记住，你现在要做出有生人打扰心烦意乱的表情。你要这么走，”他说着做出几乎垂头丧气的样子走过阿佛莱礼堂的舞台。 
嘉莉并不喜欢他的这个提示。但是这种场面太新奇，又有那么多陌生人在场，每人多少有点紧张，再加上她竭力想避免演砸，这一切使她胆怯起来，不敢提出反对意见。她照着导演的要求走动着，心里却感到这么走缺少了点什么东西，令人不自在。 
“喂，莫根太太，”导演又对演珍珠的那个少妇说，“你坐在这里。喂，班贝格先生，你站在这里，这样站。你的台词是什么？”“你要解释清楚，”班贝格先生有气无力地念着台词。他演的是罗拉的情人雷埃，一个公子哥儿，当他发现罗拉嫣然一身，出身低微时，他娶她的决心就动摇了。 
“怎么回事？你的脚本是怎么说的？” 
“你要解释清楚，”班贝格先生紧张地看着他的台词又重复了一遍。 
“不错，是这句词，”导演说，“但是脚本上还说你要做出大吃一惊的样子。你再来一遍，看能不能做出震惊的模样。”“你要解释清楚！”班贝格先生有力地命令说。 
“不对，不对，这样说不行！你要这么说--‘你要解释清楚。'”“你要解释清楚。”班贝格先生有点走样地模仿着。 
“这样好一些了。现在继续往下排。” 
“有一天晚上，”接下来是莫根太太的台词，于是她就接了上来，“爸妈去看歌剧。他们在百老汇过马路时，一群马路上常见的乞儿向他们乞讨--”“等一等，”导演伸着一个胳膊冲上来说，“你刚才念的台词里，感情还要强烈些。”莫根太太的神气好像是害怕他会动手打她，她的眼里流露出恚怒的神色。 
“记住，莫根太太，”他继续说，没有理会她恼怒的眼光，不过态度放和气了一些，“你现在正讲的是一个凄惨的故事。你所说的是件让你伤心的事。这需要注入感情，一种压抑的伤心。要这么说，‘马路上常见的乞儿向他们乞讨。'”“好吧，“莫根太太说。 
“好，继续排下去。” 
“母亲在口袋里掏零钱时，她的手碰到一个冰冷颤抖的手，这只手正抓住了她的钱包。”“很好，”导演打断了她，意味深长地点着头。 
“噢！一个小偷！”班贝格先生把该他念的台词叫了出来。 
“不对不对，班贝格先生，”导演走近来说，“不是这样说。
‘噢，是个小偷？'你要这么说。对，就是这样。”“这样好不好，”嘉莉意识到剧团的各个演员连台词还不一定记住了，更别说注意到细微的表情了，就怯生生地提议说，“我们先来通一遍台词，看看每个人是否记熟了。也许通台词的过程中会有所启发。”“这主意不错，麦登达小姐，”昆塞尔先生说，他坐在舞台一边，安详地看着排演，有时也提些意见，但是导演不予理睬。 
“好吧，”导演有点窘迫地说，“这样也好。”不过他马上又神气起来，用权威的口气说：“现在我们就通一遍。念的时候，尽量把感情放进去。”“好，”昆塞尔先生说。 
“这只手，”莫根太太继续念下去，抬头看了眼班贝格先生，又低头看了眼脚本，“我母亲一把抓住了。她抓得那么紧，一个细细的声音发出一声痛苦的尖叫。妈低下头，看见身旁是个衣衫破烂的小女孩。”“很好，”现在没事可干的导演评价说。 
“是个贼！”班贝格先生叫了起来。 
“响一点，”导演插嘴说，发现自己简直没法撒手不管。 
“是个贼！”可怜的班贝格吼了起来。 
“不错，是个贼，但是这个贼几乎还不到６岁，长着一张天使般的脸。'住手，'妈说，'你想干什么？’”“'想偷钱，'那个孩子说。”“'你难道不知道这么做不对吗？'我爸问。”“'不知道，'那孩子说，'但是挨饿是很难受的。'”“'谁叫你偷的？'我妈问。”“'是她--在那里，'孩子说，手指着路对面门洞里一个邋遢的女人。那女人猛地顺马路逃了。'那就是老犹大，'小女孩说。”莫根太太读这一大段时，语气平淡，导演简直绝望了。他坐立不安地转来转去，然后朝昆塞尔先生走去。 
“你觉得他们怎么样？”他问。 
“嗯，我看我们可以把他们训练得像个样子。”昆塞尔先生回答，露出一副百折不回的神气。 
“我可没有把握，”导演说。“我看班贝格这家伙演情人实在太糟了。”“我们找不到别人了，”昆塞尔先生翻着眼睛说，"哈列生临时变卦不演了，我们还能找谁呢？”“我不知道，”导演说。“我恐怕他永远学不会。”就在这时班贝格先生叫了起来：“珍珠，你在和我开玩笑。”“你瞧瞧，”导演用一只手捂着嘴说，“上帝啊，像这样一个说话拖腔的人，你能拿他怎么办呢？”“尽你所能吧，”昆塞尔安慰地说。 
排演就这样继续下去，直到嘉莉扮演的罗拉走进房间向雷埃解释。听了珍珠的说明以后，他已经写了一封绝交信，不过信还没有寄出。班贝格正在结束雷埃的台词：“我必须在她回来之前离开。啊，她的脚步声！太迟了！”他正慌慌张张地把信往口袋里塞，她温柔地说话了：“雷埃！”“柯--柯脱兰小姐，”班贝格结结巴巴地轻声说。 
嘉莉看了他一会儿，忘记了周围的这些人。她开始把握自己扮演的角色的心理，嘴上露出一丝淡漠的微笑，按照台词的指示转过身来，朝窗子走去，就好像他不在场似的。她这么做的时候，姿态是那么优美，让人看了着迷。 
“那个女人是谁啊？”导演一边看着嘉莉和班贝格的那场戏，一边问。 
“麦登达小姐，”昆塞尔说。 
“我知道她的名字，”导演说，“但是她是干什么的呢？”“我不知道，”昆塞尔说。“她是我们一个会员的朋友。”“嗯，我看她在这些人中最有主动精神--看起来对正在演的戏很感兴趣。”“而且很美貌，对不对？”昆塞尔说。 
接下来在面对舞厅里所有人的那场戏里，她演得更精采了，导演不禁露出了微笑。他被她的魅力吸引住了，就主动走过来和她说话。 
“你以前演过戏吗？”他奉承地问。 
“没有，”嘉莉说。 
“你演得这么好，我还以为你以前上过台呢。”嘉莉只是不好意思地微笑着。 
他走开去听班贝格先生念台词。他正有气无力地念着一段热情激昂的台词。 
莫根太太在旁边都看在眼里。她用发亮的黑眼睛妒忌地瞅着嘉莉。 
“她不过是一个下贱的戏子而已。”她这么一想心里得了些安慰，于是她就把她当戏子来鄙视和憎恨。 
当天的排演结束了。嘉莉回家时感到自己这一天的表现不错。导演的话还在她耳边回响，她渴望有个机会能告诉赫斯渥，让他知道她演得有多出色。杜洛埃也是她吐露肺腑的对象。在他问她之前，她就迫不及待地想告诉他。不过她的虚荣心还没强到自己主动提这事儿。可是这个推销员今晚心里在想别的事，她的小小经历在他看来无足轻重。因此除了她主动说的一些事以外，他并没有继续这个话题，而她又不善于自吹自夸。他想当然地认为她既然干得不错，他就无须再为此操心了。嘉莉的心里话得不到倾吐，感到受了压抑，心里很不痛快。 
她深切感到他对她不关心，因此渴望见到赫斯渥。他现在似乎是她在这世上的唯一的朋友了。第二天早上杜洛埃对她排演的事又感兴趣起来，可是已经为时太晚，他的损失无法挽回了。 
她从经理那里收到一封措辞动人的信，信里说她收到信的时候，他已经在公园里等她了。等她到了公园，他用朝阳般灿烂的微笑迎接她。“嘿，宝贝，”他说，“你排演得怎么样？”“还不错。”她说话时还在为杜洛埃的态度心情不佳。 
“把你排演的事都告诉我吧。排演得愉快吗？”嘉莉把排戏中发生的事一五一十地告诉他，说着说着情绪高涨起来。 
“太棒了，”赫斯渥说，“我真为你高兴。我一定要到那里去看你排演。下一次什么时候排戏？”“星期二，”嘉莉说，“不过他们不准旁观的。” 
“我想我可以想法子进去的，”赫斯渥含有深意地说。 
他这么关心她，使她心情完全好转了，她又感到喜气洋洋了。不过她要他答应不去看排演。 
“那你一定要演好，让我高兴高兴，”他鼓励地说，“记住，我要看到你成功。我们要使这场演出像个样子，你一定要成功。”“我会努力的，”嘉莉说，浑身洋溢着爱和热情。 
“真是个好姑娘，”赫斯渥疼爱地说。“那你就记住了，"他伸出一个手指情意款款地朝她摇了摇，“尽你最大的努力。”“我会的，”她回头说道。 
这天早上整个世界充满了阳光。她轻快地走着，湛蓝的天空好像在她心里灌注了蓝色的液体。啊，那些发奋努力的孩子们是有福的，因为他们在满怀希望地奋斗。那些了解他们，对他们的努力给予微笑和赞许的人同样是有福的。
Chapter 18 JUST OVER THE BORDER: A HAIL AND FAREWELL
By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made itself apparent. He had given the word among his friends -- and they were many and influential -- that here was something which they ought to attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel, acting for the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had appeared in all of the daily newspapers. These he had arranged for by the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry McGarren, the managing editor. 
"Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood at the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "you can help the boys out, I guess." 
"What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the opulent manager. 
"The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean -- a squib or two saying that it's going to take place." 
"Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George." 
At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background. The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as quite a star for this sort of work. 
By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied like Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured, flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he thought of assisting Carrie. 
That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction, much as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the gathered throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to console herself with the thought that a score of other persons, men and women, were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could not disassociate the general danger from her own individual liability. She feared that she would forget her lines, that she might be unable to master the feeling which she now felt concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wished that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire performance. 
In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at least. A loafing professional had been called in to assume the role of Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He swashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning his past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere matter of circumstantial evidence. 
"It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult." 
Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer his fictitious love for the evening. 
At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been provided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the evening to come. 
On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of Society. 
The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box -- rouge, pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eyelids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery -- in short, all the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own. Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly. It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took her by the hand kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for her as if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the names upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of carriages, flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an open door to see all of that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon a secret passage, and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds and delight! 
As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what the result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a real actress. The thought had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in her ears as the melody of an old song. 
Outside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. Without the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately interested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone the rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been taken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This was quite a card. C. R. Walker, drygoods merchant and possessor of at least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who were now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general sense. They were the lights of a certain circle -- the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions. These gentlemen Elks knew the standing of one another. They had regard for the ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain a good mercantile position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who held an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a figure. He was more generally known than most others in the same circle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of influence and solid financial prosperity. 
To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends directly from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet, who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. All five now joined in an animated conversation concerning the company present and the general drift of lodge affairs. 
"Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and talking in the open space back of the seats. 
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the first individual recognised. 
"Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly. 
"Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?" 
"Yes, indeed," said the manager. 
"Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the friend. 
"So it should," said the knowing manager. "I'm glad to see it." 
"Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom, "how goes it with you?" 
"Excellent," said the manager. 
"What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer." 
"Good-nature," returned the manager. "Like to see the boys, you know." 
"Wife here?" 
"She couldn't come to-night. She's not well." 
"Sorry to hear it -- nothing serious, I hope." 
"No, just feeling a little ill." 
"I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you over to St. Joe-" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends. 
"Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side politician and lodge member. "My, but I'm glad to see you again; how are things, anyhow?" 
"Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman." 
"Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble." 
"What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?" 
"Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you know." 
"I didn't know that," said the manager. "Felt pretty sore, I suppose, over his defeat." 
"Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly. 
Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began to roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great show of finery and much evident feeling of content and importance. 
"Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he was talking. 
"That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five. 
"And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a good show, I'll punch your head." 
"You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!" 
To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" the manager replied: 
"I don't know. I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his hand graciously, "For the lodge." 
"Lots of boys out, eh?" 
"Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago." 
It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. Look at him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent group -- a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success. The gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands. Seats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. Through it all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness in a way, small as it was. 
到了１６日晚上，赫斯渥已经巧妙地大显神通。他在他的朋友们中间散布消息说这场演出很值得一看--而他的朋友不仅人数众多，而且很有势力--结果支部干事昆塞尔先生卖出了大量的戏票。所有的日报都为这事发了一条四行的消息。这一点是靠他的新闻界的朋友哈莱·麦格伦先生办到的。 麦格伦先生是芝加哥《时报》的主编。 
“喂，哈莱，”一天夜里麦格伦回家前先在酒馆柜台边喝上两杯时，于是赫斯渥对他说，“我看你能给支部的那些孩子们帮个忙。”“什么事啊？”麦格伦先生问道。这个富有的经理这么看得其他，着实让他高兴。 
“寇斯特支部为了筹款要举办一场小小的演出，他们很希望报纸能发条消息。你明白我的意思--来上两三句说明何时何地有这么场演出就行了。”“没问题，”麦格伦说，“这事我能替你办到，乔治。”这期间，赫斯渥自己一直躲在幕后。寇斯特支部的人几乎无法理解他们的小玩意儿为什么这么受欢迎。于是昆塞尔先生被看作是主办这类事的天才。 
到了１６日这天，赫斯渥的朋友们纷纷去捧场，就好像罗马人听到了他们元老的召唤一样。从赫斯渥决定帮嘉莉那一刻起，就可以肯定，去看演出的将都是些衣冠楚楚，满怀善意，一心想捧场的人士。 
那个戏剧界的小学生这时已经掌握了她那个角色的表演，自己还相当满意。尽管她一想到自己要在舞台强烈的灯光下，在满堂观众面前演戏，不禁吓得发抖，为自己的命运担心。 
她竭力安慰自己说，还有二十来个别的人，有男有女，也在为演出的结果紧张得发抖。可是这没有用。她想到总体失败的可能性就不能不想到她个人失败的可能性。她担心自己会临时忘词，又担心在舞台上她不能把她对角色的情感变化的理解表现出来。有时候她真希望自己当初没有参与这件事就好了。有时候她又担心自己到了台上会吓呆了，只会脸色苍白气喘吁吁地站在台上，不知道说什么好，使整个演出都砸在她手里，这种可能性让她吓得发抖。 
在演员阵容方面，班贝格先生已经去掉了。这个不可救药的先生在导演的唇枪舌剑的指责下只好退出。莫根太太还在班子里，但是妒忌得要命，不为别的，光为这份怨恨，她也决心要演得至少像嘉莉一样好。一个失业的演员被请来演雷埃这个角色。尽管他只是个蹩脚演员，他不像那些没有在观众前亮过相的演员那样提心吊胆，焦虑不安。尽管他已被警告过不要提其他以前和戏剧界的联系，可是他那么神气活现地走来走去，一副信心十足的样子，单凭这些间接证据，就足以让别人知道他吃的是哪一行饭了。 
“演戏是很容易的，”他用舞台上念道白的口气拿腔拿调地对莫根太太说，“我一点也不为观众操心，你要知道，难的是把握角色的气质。”嘉莉不喜欢他的样子。但她是一个好演员，所以温顺地容忍了他这些气质。她知道这一晚上她必须忍受他那装模作样的谈情说爱。 
６点钟，她已一切准备就绪可以出发了。演戏用的行头是主办单位提供的，不用她操心。上午她已试过化装，１点钟时彩排完毕，晚上演戏用的东西也都准备好了。然后她回家最后看了一遍她的台词，就等晚上到来了。 
为了当晚的演出，支部派了马车来接她。杜洛埃和她一起坐马车到了剧场门口，就下车到附近店里去买几支上等雪茄。 
这小女演员一个人惴惴不安地走进她的化妆间，开始了她那焦虑痛苦地期待着的化妆，这化妆要把一个单纯的姑娘变成罗拉，社交皇后。 
耀眼的煤气灯，打开的箱子（令人想起旅行和排场），散乱的化妆用品--胭脂、珍珠粉、白垩粉、软木炭、墨汁、眼睑笔、假发、剪刀、镜子、戏装--总之，各种叫不上名来的化妆用的行头，应有尽有，各有自己独特的气息。自从她来到芝加哥，城里的许多东西深深吸引了她，但那些东西对她来说总是高不可攀。这新的气氛要友好得多。它完全不像那些豪门府第令她望而生畏，不准她走近，只准她远远地惊叹。这里的气氛却像一个老朋友，亲热地拉着她的手，对她说：“请进吧，亲爱的。"它把她当自己人向她敞开大门。戏院广告牌上那些大名鼎鼎的明星名字，报上长长的剧目，舞台上的华丽服装，还有马车，鲜花和高雅服饰带来的剧场气氛--这一切一直令她赞叹和好奇。如今这已不是幻想了。这扇门敞开着让她看看这一切。她就像一个偶然发现秘密通道的人一样，瞎碰瞎撞来到这里。睁眼一看，自己来到了一个堆满钻石和奇珍的宝库！ 
她在自己的小化妆间激动不安地穿戏装时，可以听到外面的说话声，看到昆塞尔先生在东奔西忙，莫根太太和霍格兰太太在忐忑不安地做准备工作，全团二十个演员都在走来走去，担心着戏不知会演得怎么样，这使她不禁暗想，如果这一切能永远地延续下去，那将多么令人愉快埃如果她这次能够演成功，以后某个时候再谋到一个当女演员的位子，那事情就太理想了。这个念头让她非常动心，就像一首古老民歌的旋律在她耳边不断地回响。 
外面的小休息室里又是另一番景象。即使赫斯渥不施加影响，这个小剧场也许仍然会客满的，因为支部的人对支部的事情还是比较关心的。但是赫斯渥的话一传开，这场演出就成了必须穿晚礼服的社交盛会。四个包厢都让人包下了。诺曼·麦克尼·海尔医生和太太包了一个，这是张王牌。至少拥有二十万财产的呢绒商西·阿·华尔格也包了一个。一个有名的煤炭商听了劝说，订了第三个包厢。赫斯渥和他的朋友们订了第四个包厢。杜洛埃也在这群人中间。涌入这剧场来看戏的，总的来说，并不是名流们，甚至算不上当地的要人们，但他们是某一阶层的头面人物--那个颇有点资产的阶层加上帮会的要人们。这些兄弟会的先生们互相都知道各人的地位，对于彼此的能力表示敬意，因为他们都是凭自己的本事，创起一份小家业。他们都拥有一幢漂亮的住宅，置起了四轮大马车或者二轮马车，也许还穿得衣冠楚楚地在商界出人头地。在这群人中，赫斯渥自然是个重要人物。他比那些满足于目前地位的人在精神上要高出一筹。他为人精明，举止庄重，地位显要有权势，在待人接物上天生的圆活机敏，容易博得人们的友谊。 
在这个圈子里，他比大多数人出名，被看作是一个势力很大，财力殷实的人物。 
今晚他在自己的圈子里活动，如鱼得水。他是和一些朋友直接从雷克脱饭店坐马车来戏院的。在休息室里他遇到了杜洛埃买了雪茄回来。五个人都兴高采烈地聊了起来，他们聊的是即将演出的班子和支部事务的一般情况。 
“谁在这里啊？”赫斯渥从休息室走进演出大厅。大厅里灯都点起来了，一群先生正聚在座位后面的空地上高声谈笑着。 
“喂，你好吗，赫斯渥先生？”他认出的第一个人向他打招呼。 
“很高兴见到你，”赫斯渥和他轻轻地握了手，说道。 
“这看上去很像一回事，是不是？” 
“是啊，真不错，”经理先生说。 
“寇斯特支部的人看来很齐心，”他的朋友议论说。 
“应该这样，”世故的经理说道，“看到他们这样真让人高兴。”“喂，乔治，”另一个胖子说。他胖得把礼服领口都绷开了，露出了好大一片浆过的衬衫前胸，“你怎么样啊？”“很好，”经理说。 
“你怎么会来的？你不是寇斯特支部的人嘛。”“我是好心好意来的，”经理回答说，“想看看这里的朋友，你知道。”“太太也来了？”“她今天来不了，她身体不太好。”“真遗憾--我希望不是什么大玻”“不是，只是小有不适。”“我还记得赫斯渥太太和你一起到圣乔旅行--”话题说到这里，这个新来的人开始回忆一些琐碎的小事。又来了一群朋友把这回忆打断了。 
“喂，乔治，你好吗？”另一个人和颜悦色地问道。他是西区的政客又是支部的成员，“哇，我真高兴又见到你。你的情况怎么样？”“很不错。我得知你被提名当市议员了。”“是啊，我们没费多少事，就把他们打败了。”“依你看汉纳赛先生现在会做些什么？”“还是回去做他的砖瓦生意嘛。你知道他有一座砖厂。”“这一点我倒不知道，”经理说。“我猜想他这次竞选失败心里一定很不是滋味。”“也许吧，”对方精明地眨了一下眼睛说道。 
他邀请来的那些和他交情更深一些的朋友现在也坐着马车陆陆续续来到了，他们大摇大摆地进来，炫耀地穿着考究精美的服装，一副明显的志得意满的要人气派。 
“我们都来了，”赫斯渥离开在在谈话的这些人，朝新来的一个人说道。 
“是啊，”新来的人说道，他是个大约４５岁的绅士。 
“喂，”他快活地拉着赫斯渥的肩膀，把他拉过来说句悄悄话，“要是戏不好，我可要敲你的头。”“为了看看老朋友，也该掏腰包才对。这戏嘛，管它好不好！”另一个问他：“是不是有点看头？”经理回答：“我也不知道。我想不会有什么看头的。”然后他大度地扬扬手说，“为支部捧个场嘛。”“来了不少的人，是吧。”“是啊，你去找找珊纳汉先生吧，他刚才还在问起你。”就这样，这小小的剧场里回响着这些春风得意人物的交谈声，考究的服装发出的窸窣声，还有一般的表示善意的寒暄声。一大部分人是赫斯渥召来的。在戏开场前的半个小时里，你随时可以看到他和一群大人物在一起--五六个人围成一圈，一个个身子肥胖，西服领露出一大片白衬衫前胸，身上别着闪亮的饰针，处处显示他们是些成功的人物。那些携带太太同来的先生们都把他招呼过去和他握手。座位发出啪啦啪啦的声响，领座员朝客人们鞠躬，而他在一边温和殷勤地看着。 
很显然，他是这群人中的佼佼者，在他身上反映着那些和他打招呼的人们的野心。他为他们所承认，受到他们的奉承，甚至有一点儿被当作大人物看待，从中可以看出这个人的地位。尽管他不属于最上层的社会，他在自己的圈子里可以算得上了不起了。
Chapter 19 AN HOUR IN ELFLAND: A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD
At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison around to the box. 
"Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in a tone which no one else could hear. 
On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part were representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional, whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure. 
Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward. 
After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme, when Carrie came in. 
One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying: 
"And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock," but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively painful. 
"She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood. 
The manager made no answer. 
She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny. 
"Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill." 
It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit. 
There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of impending disaster, say, sadly: 
"I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call a maid by a married name.'" 
The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for her. 
In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a conversation between the professional actor and a character called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief. 
"She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once. 
"Better go back and say a word to her." 
Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her. 
"Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous. Wake up. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid of?" 
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I just don't seem to be able to do it." 
She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone. 
"Come on," said Drouet. "Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out there now, and do the trick. What do you care?" 
Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous condition. 
"Did I do so very bad?" 
"Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night." 
Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could do it. 
"What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying. 
"Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him." 
"Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "Put in snap, that's the thing. Act as if you didn't care." 
"Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter. 
"Oh, dear," said Carrie. 
"Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet. "Come on now, brace up. I'll watch you from right here." 
"Will you?" said Carrie. 
"Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid." 
The prompter signalled her. 
She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially returned. She thought of Drouet looking. 
"Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal. 
"She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself. 
She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less trying parts at least. 
Carrie came off warm and nervous. 
"Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?" 
"Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You did that about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene. Now go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em." 
"Was it really better?" 
"Better, I should say so. What comes next?" 
"That ballroom scene." 
"Well, you can do that all right," he said. 
"I don't know," answered Carrie. 
"Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out there and do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. If you'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a hit. Now, what'll you bet? You do it." 
The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better of his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in public. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion. 
When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began to make her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy of desire began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the situation rolled around she was running high in feeling. 
"I think I can do this." 
"Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see." 
On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation against Laura. 
Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something -- she did not know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly. 
"It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "that society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, the others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and society, which is made up of pretence, will bitterly resent the mockery." 
At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel the bitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descended upon her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mounting thoughts. She hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood. 
"Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after our things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief enters." 
"Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear. Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of inspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud, shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold, white, helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her scornfully. 
Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the farthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet dissolve the world, was here at work. 
There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling, heretofore wandering. 
"Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of Pearl. 
Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They moved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes. 
Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her. 
"Let us go home," she said. 
"No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a penetrating quality which it had never known. "Stay with him!" 
She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He shall not suffer long." 
Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily good. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that she was beautiful. She had done something which was above his sphere. He felt a keen delight in realising that she was his. 
"Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and went about to the stage door. 
When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His feelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by the strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was Drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The latter was more fascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood. At least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form. 
"Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight. That was simply great. I knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little daisy!" 
Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement. 
"Did I do all right?" 
"Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?" 
There was some faint sound of clapping yet. 
"I thought I got it something like -- I felt it." 
Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in Drouet. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy leaped alight in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached himself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder. He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would have to congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked the old subtle light to his eyes. 
"I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around and tell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful." 
Carrie took the cue, and replied: 
"Oh, thank you." 
"I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with his possession, "that I thought she did fine." 
"Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in which she read more than the words. 
Carrie laughed luxuriantly. 
"If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all think you are a born actress." 
Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's position, and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not understand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could not talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of his presence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outside he set his teeth with envy. 
"Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He was moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking of his wretched situation. 
As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was very much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwood pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her entrance. He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinking his own thoughts, and they were wretched. 
The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie, from now on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, which had been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first gloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where it was not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her part with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the feeling at the end of the long first act. 
Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising feelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that they should see it set forth under such effective circumstances, framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights of sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. She was more than the old Carrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with her until he could tell her. He awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone. 
Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the man beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he would. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth. 
It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers assumed its most effective character. 
Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength -- the power that had grasped him at the end of the first act -- had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing. 
"Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp." 
She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting listlessly upon the polished door-post. 
Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone. 
"And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little actress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home." 
She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a thought to them. 
"With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in conclusion -- and it was almost a sigh -- "my existence hidden from all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife." 
Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom, interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight. 
In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation: 
"I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must." 
There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice saying: 
"No, I shall not ride again. Put him up." 
He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded. 
"I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover. 
"I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road." 
"You and Pearl had no disagreement?" 
"No -- yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.' 
"And whose fault is that?" she said, easily. 
"Not mine," he answered, pettishly. "I know I do all I can -- I say all I can -- but she-" 
This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with a grace which was inspiring. 
"But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was again low and musical. "Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy." 
She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly. 
Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with satisfaction. 
"To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that he was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination. The acting of others could not affect them. 
"And you repent already?" she said, slowly. 
"I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at the mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was your fault -- you know it was -- why did you leave me?" 
Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse in silence. Then she turned back. 
"Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you continually war with your happiness?" 
The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience and the lover as a personal thing. 
At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to me as you used to be." 
Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to you, but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you forever." 
"Be it as you will," said Patton. 
Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent. 
"Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her eyes bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, "beautiful or homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or refuse -- her heart," 
Drouet felt a scratch in his throat. 
"Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you; but her love is the treasure without money and without price." 
The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom he loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that he would be to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry her, by George! She was worth it. 
"She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing the small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra, "that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when you address her your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you shall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you. You look to the trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrained his feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength and grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love is all a woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent on the all, "but it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond the grave." 
The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded. They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace, continuing a power which to them was a revelation. 
Hurstwood resolved a thousand things, Drouet as well. They joined equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouet pounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and started out. As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immense basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward her, she waited. They were Hurstwood's. She looked toward the manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could have leaped out of the box to enfold her. He forgot the need of circumspectness which his married state enforced. He almost forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. By the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if it took his all. He would act at once. This should be the end of Drouet, and don't you forget it. He would not wait another day. The drummer should not have her. 
He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into the lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did not return. In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to have Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling, bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when he wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes were futile. He must even take her to supper, shamming. He finally went about and asked how she was getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying about. Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of excitement and passion. The manager mastered himself only by a great effort. 
"We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that was a mockery of his heart. 
"Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling. 
The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what it was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. She did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once, only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was when the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her. Before Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a gentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with affection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "Ah," he thought, "the agony of it." 
Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled by his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered "to-morrow" passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the drummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie also felt the misery of it. 
"Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness. 
"Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly. 
"The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him yet, and that quick! We'll see to-morrow." 
"Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently, squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on earth."
终于到了幕拉开的时候了。一切化妆都已细心地完成了，演员们坐下来静等。雇来的小乐队指挥用他的指挥棒在乐谱架上暗示地敲了一下，于是乐队开始奏起了启幕时的柔和乐章。 赫斯渥停止了交谈，和杜洛埃以及他的朋友萨加·莫里生一起朝他们的包厢走去。 
“现在让我们来瞧瞧这小姑娘演得怎么样，”他压低声音对杜洛埃说，不让旁人听到。 
第一幕客厅那场戏里已有六个演员出现在舞台上。杜洛埃和赫斯渥一眼就看出嘉莉不在其中，于是他们继续轻轻地交谈。这一场里的主要人物是莫根太太、荷格兰太太和替代了班贝格先生的那个演员。那个职业演员的名字叫巴顿，他除了不怯场这一点外，几乎一无可龋不过就目前而言，不怯场显然是最重要的了。演珍珠的莫根太太紧张得手足无措，荷格兰太太则吓得嗓子也沙哑了。演员们个个腿脚发软，勉强背着台词，一点儿表情也没有。幸亏观众们怀着希望和善意，才没有骚动不安，才没有对令人难堪的演出失败表示遗憾。 
赫斯渥对此根本不在意。他早就预料这演出不值一看。他关心的只是这演出能勉强过得去，这样他在演出结束后可以有个借口向嘉莉表示祝贺。 
但是在最初的惊慌失措以后，演员们已经克服了砸台的危险。他们毫无生气地继续演下去，把原来准备用的表情几乎忘得干干净净，戏演得乏味极了。就在这时候，嘉莉出场了。 
赫斯渥和杜洛埃马上看出，她和别人一样，也吓得膝盖发软了。她怯怯地走上舞台，说道：“啊，先生，我们从８点开始就在等你了。”但是她说得那么有气无力缺乏表情，声音又那么微弱，真是令人为她痛苦。 
“她吓坏了，”杜洛埃低低地对赫斯渥说。 
经理没有吱声。 
接下来她应该用开玩笑的口气说一句幽默的台词：“噢，照你这么说，我是你的救命仙丹了。”但是她说得那么平淡，真让人难受得要死。杜洛埃坐立不安了，赫斯渥却一点不动声色。 
接下来又有一处，罗拉应该悲伤地预感到灾难迫在眉睫，站起身来幽幽地说：“珍珠，我真希望你当时没说这些话。你该知道张冠李戴这句成语埃”由于缺乏表情，这句话说得可笑之极。嘉莉一点没进入角色，她似乎是在说梦话，看起来她非演砸不可了。她比莫根太太还要糟糕，那位太太倒多少有点镇定下来，至少现在已经能把台词说清楚了。杜洛埃掉头看观众的反应，观众们在默默地忍耐，当然在期待整个演出有个气色。赫斯渥把目光固定在嘉莉身上，似乎想施展慑心术使她演得好一些，用心灵感应把自己的决心灌注到她身上。他真为她难过。 
又过了几分钟，该轮到她念那个陌生坏蛋送来的信了。念信前，是那个职业演员和一个叫斯诺盖的角色的对话。斯诺盖是由一个小个子美国人演的。这个角色是个疯疯癫癫的独臂士兵，现在改行当了信差。这小个子演这角色时还真发挥了一点幽默感，让观众耳目略微一新。他用天不怕地不怕的挑战神气大声嚷着他的台词，尽管没有把剧中应有的幽默口气表现出来，演得还是很逗人发笑的。但是现在他下台了，剧情又回到了悲哀的基调。嘉莉是这一幕的主角，可是她还没有克服她的怯常在和强行闯入的歹徒交锋的那场戏里，她演得无精打采，全无生气，让观众无法忍受下去。等她终于下了台，他们才松了口气。 
“她太紧张了，”杜洛埃说，自己也感到这批评太温和，没有说出实际状况。 
“最好到后台去给她鼓鼓劲。” 
杜洛埃很乐意做些什么来改变这令人难堪的局面。他急急绕到侧门，友好的看门人放他进了后台。嘉莉正虚弱地站在舞台的边廊，等着唤她上台的提示，身上的力气和勇气都消失得无影无踪。 
“喂，嘉德，”他看着她说道，“你千万别紧张。打起精神来，不要把外面那些家伙放在心上。你有什么好怕的呢？”“我也不知道，”嘉莉说，“我好像演不上来了。”不过她对推销员的来到很感激。看到其他演员都这么紧张，她的勇气也消失了。 
“来，”杜洛埃说，“鼓起勇起来。有什么好怕的呢？你现在上台去，好好演一常你有什么要担心的呢？"推销员富有感染力的活跃情绪使嘉莉振作了一些。 
“我演得那么糟吗？” 
“一点不糟，你只要再加一点生气就行了。就像你上次演给我看的那样。就像那天晚上那样，把你的头这么一扬。”嘉莉想起在家里她演得非常成功，她现在竭力要使自己相信她能演得上来。 
“下面是哪一场？”他说着看了一眼她正在研究的台词。 
“嗯，就是我拒绝雷埃的那场戏。” 
“好，你演这场戏时要活泼一些，”推销员说，“要演得生气勃勃，这是关键。拿出一副满不在乎的劲儿来演戏。”“下面该你了，麦登达小姐，”提示员说。 
“啊呀，天哪！”嘉莉说。 
“你要是害怕，就是大傻瓜一个，”杜洛埃说，“来吧，振作起来。我就在这里看着你。”“真的？”嘉莉说。 
“真的，上台吧，别害怕。” 
提示员向她做了一个手势。 
她开始往外走，还是像刚才那么虚弱，但是她的勇气突然有点恢复了。她想到杜洛埃在看着她。 
“雷埃，”她温柔地说，她的声音比上一场镇定多了。这场戏在排演时曾大得导演的赏识。 
“她比刚才镇定多了，”赫斯渥心里想。 
她演得没有排演时那么好，但比刚才强多了，观众至少没有反感。整个剧组的演出都有所改善，所以观众没有太注意她的提高。他们现在演得好多了，看来这出戏演得已能将就过去，至少在不太难的那几场里可以过得去了。 
嘉莉下台时又激动又紧张。 
“怎么样？”她看着他问道，“好一些了吗？”“是啊，好多了。就这样演。要演活它。这一场比刚才要强１０倍，比上一场强多了。继续这样演，情绪高昂些。'镇'他们一下。”“真的比刚才强吗？” 
“真的，不骗你。下一场是什么？” 
“就是舞会那一常” 
“哇！这一场你一定可以演好，”他说。 
“我可没有把握，”嘉莉回答。 
“喂，丫头，”他叫了起来，“这一场你不是演给我看过吗？
你上了台就这么演，你会感到好玩的。就像在家里那么演。你如果在台上演得像在家时那么流畅，我敢打赌你一定成功。你和我赌什么？你一定行的。”这个推销员往往热心和好意过了火，说起话来就没个分寸了。不过他真的认为嘉莉在舞会那场演得非常出色。他想让她在台上当着观众也这么表演。他这么热情，全是由于当时这种场合的气氛。 
到了该上场时，他已卓有成效地给嘉莉打足了气。他开始让她感觉到她似乎确实能演好的。他和她说着话时，她以往的那种渴求和伤感情绪又回到了她身上。剧情进展到该她出场时，她的感情正达到高潮。 
“我想我能演得好。” 
“当然，你一定能的。走着瞧吧。” 
台上，凡·达姆太太正在含沙射影地对罗拉进行诽谤。嘉莉听着，突然有了一种感触--她也不知道是什么。她的鼻孔轻轻地嗤着。 
“这就是说，”扮演雷埃的职业演员正在说，“社交界对于侮辱总是残忍地以牙还牙。你有没有听说过西伯利亚的狼群？ 
要是有一个狼因为羸弱而倒下，其它的狼就会把它吞吃下去。 
我这个比喻不文雅，但是社交界有种品性很像狼。罗拉冒充贵小姐欺骗了社交界，这个装模作样的社交界当然对这种欺瞒切齿痛恨。”听到自己在舞台上的名字，嘉莉吃了一惊，她开始体会到罗拉处境的难堪，体会到被社会遗弃的人的种种感情。她留在舞台的边廊，沉浸在越来越激愤的情绪中，除了自己沸腾的血液，她几乎什么也没有听到。 
“来吧，孩子们，”凡·达姆太太道貌岸然地说，“我们要看好自己的东西。有这么一个手段高明的贼进了门，这些东西就得看看牢了。”“该你了，”提示员在她身边说，但她没有听到。她已经在灵感的引导下，迈着优雅的步子沉着镇定地走向前去。她出现在观众面前，显得美丽而高傲。随着剧情的进展，当社交界的群狼轻蔑地将她拒之千里之外时，她渐渐变得冷漠苍白，孤单无依。 
赫斯渥吃惊地眨了眨眼睛，受到了感动。嘉莉的真挚感情已像光波照到戏院的最远的角落，打动了剧场中每个观众的心。能令全世界倾倒的激情的魔力现在出现在舞台上。 
观众原先散漫的注意力和情感现在都被吸引住了，像铆钉一样牢牢地固定在嘉莉身上。 
“雷埃！雷埃！你为什么不回到她身边去？”珍珠在叫。 
每双眼睛都盯着嘉莉。她仍然是那么高傲，带着轻蔑的表情。他们随着她的一举一动而移动，目光紧随着她的目光。 
演珍珠的莫根太太向她走近。 
“我们回家吧，”她说。 
“不，”嘉莉回答。她的声音第一次具有一种震撼人心的力量，“你留下来，和他在一起！”她几乎谴责般地用手指着她的情人。接着她又凄然说道：“我不会让他再难受几天了。”这凄楚因其实单纯而更震人心弦。 
赫斯渥意识到他现在看到的是杰出的表演艺术。落幕时观众的掌声，加上这是嘉莉演的这个事实，更提高了他对这表演的评价。他现在认识到她的美。她所做的事远远超出于他的能力范围。想到她是他的人，他感到极度的喜悦。 
“好极了，”他说道。一阵强烈的冲动使他站起身来，朝后台门走去。 
当他进了后台门找到嘉莉时，她仍然和杜洛埃在一起。他的感情汹涌澎湃，为她所表现的艺术力量和情感所倾倒。他真想以情人的满腔热情倾诉他的赞美，偏偏杜洛埃在常杜洛埃对嘉莉的爱也在迅速复苏，他甚至比赫斯渥还着迷，至少他理所当然地表现得更热烈。 
“哇，”杜洛埃说，“你演得出色极了。真是了不起。我早就知道你能演好。啊，你真是个迷人的小姑娘。”嘉莉的双眼发出了成功的光辉。 
“我真的演得不错吗？” 
“还用问吗？当然是真的了。你难道没听到刚才的鼓掌声吗？”直到现在还隐隐传来掌声。 
“我也想我演得差不离--我有这感觉。” 
就在这时赫斯渥走了进来。他本能地感到了杜洛埃身上的变化。他看出这推销员现在和嘉莉非常亲热，这使他心里马上妒火中烧。他马上懊悔自己不该打发他到后台来，也恨他夹在自己和嘉莉的中间。不过他还是控制住了自己的情感，掩饰得非常之好。他的眼睛里几乎仍然闪着往日那种狡黠的光芒。 
“我心里想，”他注视着嘉莉说道，“我一定要到后台来告诉您，您演得有多么出色，杜洛埃太太。真让人愉快。”嘉莉明白了他的暗示，于是答道：“啊，谢谢你。”“我正在告诉她，我认为她演得棒极了，”杜洛埃插进来说。他现在为自己拥有的姑娘洋洋得意。 
“是啊，棒极了。”赫斯渥说着和嘉莉四目相交。嘉莉从他的眼里看到了那些无声的话语。 
嘉莉开心地大笑。 
“如果您在余下的戏里演得像刚才一样好，您会让我们大家认为您是个天生的女演员。”嘉莉又粲然一笑。她体会到赫斯渥痛苦的处境，因此很希望自己能够单独和他在一起。可是她不理解杜洛埃身上的变化。赫斯渥不得不压抑自己的感情，又无时无刻不在妒忌杜洛埃的在场，所以弄得说不出话来，只好以浮士德般的风度鞠躬告退。一到外面，他就妒忌得咬牙切齿。 
“该死的！”他心里说，“难道他一直要这么挡住我的道吗？”他回到包厢里情绪很坏，想到自己的不幸处境，连聊天的兴致也没有了。 
下一幕的幕布升起时，杜洛埃回到了座位上。他情绪很活跃，很想和赫斯渥说点悄悄话。但是赫斯渥假装在全神贯注地看戏，目光盯在台上，尽管嘉莉还没出常台上演的是一小段她出场前的通俗喜剧场面，但是他并没有注意台上演的是什么，只顾想自己的心事，都是些令人伤心的思绪。 
剧情的进展并没有改善他的情绪。嘉莉从现在起轻易地成了人们兴趣的焦点。观众在第一个坏印象以后，本来以为这戏演得糟透了，毫无可取之处。现在他们从一个极端走到另一个极端，在平庸之处也看到了力度。观众的反应使嘉莉感到振奋，她恰如其份地演着自己的角色，尽管并没有第一长幕结束时那种引起人们强烈反响的激情。 
赫斯渥和杜洛埃两人看着她的俏丽的身影，爱心更加炽烈。她显示出来的惊人才华，在这种金碧辉煌的场面中效果突出地展露出来，又得到剧情表现的情感和性格的适当烘托，使她在他们眼里更加迷人。在杜洛埃眼里，她已经不是原来那个嘉莉了。他盼望和她一起回家，以便把这些话告诉她。他急不可耐地等着戏终场，等着他们单独回家的时刻。 
相反，赫斯渥从她新展露的魅力中更感到自己处境悲惨可怜。他真想诅咒身旁这个情敌。天哪，他甚至连尽情地喝声采也不行。这一次他必须装出无动于衷的样子，这使他心里感到苦涩。 
在最后一幕里，嘉莉的两个情人被她的魅力弄得神魂颠倒，到了登峰造极的地步。 
赫斯渥听着戏的进展，心里在想嘉莉什么时候会出常他没有等很长时间。剧作家安排剧中的其他人兜风取乐去了，于是嘉莉一个人出场了。可以说这是赫斯渥第一次有机会看到嘉莉一个人面对观众，因为在其他几幕里总有某个陪衬的角色在常她刚出场，他就突然有个感觉，她刚才的感染力，第一幕结束时把他紧紧吸引住的感染力，又回到了她身上。随着整个剧情临近尾声，大显身手的机会眼看没有了，她积蓄的情感似乎越来越高涨。 
“可怜的珍珠，”她的悲悯的声音发自肺腑，“生活中缺少幸福已经够不幸的了。可是看到一个人盲目地追求幸福，却与幸福失之交臂，就太惨了。”她哀伤地凝视着外面开阔的海面，一个手臂无力地倚在光亮的门柱上。 
赫斯渥对于她的同情油然而生，同时不禁自怨自哀。他简直认为她是在对他说话。她说话的语气和一举一动就像一支忧伤的乐曲，娓娓叙述着自己内心的感受。再加上他自己和嘉莉之间感情的牵缠，更使他产生了这种错觉。悲伤的感情似乎总是对个人而发，具有令人凄恻的力量。 
“其实，她和他生活在一起会非常幸福的。”那小女演员在继续往下说，“她的快乐性格和她朝阳般的笑脸会给任何一个家庭带来生气和欢乐。”她慢慢转过身来，面对着观众，但她似乎并没有看到他们。她的举止自然简单，就好像只有她一个人在常然后她在一个桌子旁坐下来，一边信手翻着书，一边仍在想心事。 
“我再也不去企盼无望的东西了，”她几近叹息地低低说道，“我再也不在这茫茫世界抛头露面了。这世上除了两个人，谁也不会知道我的下落。那个纯洁的姑娘将会成为他的妻子，我要把她的幸福当作我的幸福。”她的独白被一个叫作桃花的角色打断了，这让赫斯渥感到遗憾。他不耐烦地转动身子，只盼着她继续说下去。她令他着迷--苍白的脸色，婀娜的身影，珠灰色的衣裙，颈子上挂着的珍珠项链。嘉莉看上去疲惫无助，需要人保护。在这感人的戏剧环境中，他的感情越来越激动，他真想走上前去，把她从痛苦中解救出来，自己也从中得些乐趣。 
不一会儿，台上又只剩嘉莉一个人了。她正在心情激动地说：“我必须回城里去，不管有什么危险等在那里。我必须去。 
能悄悄地去就悄悄地去，不能悄悄去就公开去。”外面传来了马蹄声，接着传来雷埃的声音：“不用了，这马我不骑了。把它牵到马厩去吧。”他走了进来。接下来的这场戏在赫斯渥身上造成的感情悲剧，不亚于他的特殊复杂的生涯带来的影响，因为嘉莉已决心在这一场中大显身手。现在提示的信号表示该轮到她说了，一种激情已控制了她的情绪。赫斯渥和杜洛埃都注意到她的感情越来越激烈。 
“我还以为你已经和珍珠一起走了，”她对她的情人说。 
“我是和她一起走了一段路。不过只走了一里路我就和他们分手了。”“你和珍珠没有争吵吧？”“没有。噢，是的，我是说我们一直合不来。我们关系的晴雨表总是'多云转阴'。”“是谁不好？”她从容地问道。 
“不能怪我，”他悻悻地说，“我知道我尽了力了，什么该说的我都说了--可是她--”这段话巴顿说得相当糟糕。但是嘉莉以她感人的魅力补救了局面。 
“不管怎么说，她是你太太。”她说话时将全部的注意力集中在安静下来的男演员身上，声音变得那么轻柔悦耳：“雷埃，我的朋友，婚姻生活中不要忘了谈情说爱时的誓言，你不该对你的婚姻生活发牢骚。”她把她的一双纤手恳求般地紧紧合在一起。 
赫斯渥微微张着嘴专注地看着，杜洛埃满意得简直坐不住了。 
“作为我的妻子，不错，”那男演员接口说。相形之下，他演得差多了。但是嘉莉已经在台上造成了一种温柔的气氛，这种气氛并没有受到他的影响。她似乎没有感觉到他演得很糟。即使跟她配戏的只是一段木头，她也可以演得几乎一样出色。因为她是在和她想象中的角色对话，其他人的演技影响不了她。 
“这么说，你已经懊悔了吗？”她缓缓地说。 
“我失去了你，”他说着一把握住她的小手，“所以只要哪个卖弄风情的姑娘给我一点鼓励，我就昏了头。这要怪你不好--你自己知道--你为什么离开了我？”嘉莉慢慢转过身去，好像在暗中竭力克制某种冲动。然后她又转过身来。 
“雷埃，”她说，“我最感欣慰的是想到你把自己的全部的爱给了一个贤惠的姑娘，一个在身世、财产和才华上和你相般配的姑娘。瞧你现在和我说的是什么话埃你为什么总和自己的幸福作对呢？"她最后的问题问得那么自然，在观众和情人听来，她的话好像是对他们个人而发。 
终于轮到她的情人叫了起来：“让我们恢复以往的关系吧。”嘉莉的回答温柔感人：“我不能像以往那样待你了。过去的罗拉已经死了。不过我可以用罗拉的魂灵和你说话。”“那么你就这样对待我吧，”巴顿说。 
赫斯渥身子前倾。所有的观众都肃静无声，全神贯注地注意着台上。 
“你所看中的女人不管是聪明还是虚荣，”嘉莉悲伤地凝视着重重倒在椅子里的情人说道，“不管是美丽还是平常，不管是有钱还是贫寒，她只有一样东西可以给你，也可以不给你--那就是她的心。”杜洛埃感到嗓子哽咽了。 
“她的美貌，她的智慧，她的才华，这一切她都可以卖给你。但是她的爱是无价之宝，任何金钱也买不到的。”经理觉得这哀诉是对他个人而发，就好像他们俩单独在一起，他几乎忍不住要为他所爱的女子流泪。她是那么孤弱无助，那么悲伤凄婉，又那么妩媚动人，楚楚可怜。杜洛埃也是情不自已，爱得发狂。他决定不能像以往那样对嘉莉了。对，他要娶她！她配做他的太太。 
“她只要一样回报，”嘉莉又说，她几乎没有去听演情人的演员无力苍白的回答，而让自己的声音更和谐地溶入乐队所奏的凄凉的音乐中去：“她只想在你的目光中看到忠诚，从你的声音中听到你的温柔多情和仁爱。你不要因为她不能立刻理解你的活跃思想和远大抱负而瞧不起她。因为在你遭受最大的不幸和灾难时，她的爱还会伴随着你，给你以安慰。”她在继续往下说，赫斯渥必须用他最大的意志力才能压抑和控制自己的感情。“你从树那里可以看到力量和高贵，但是不要因为花只有芬芳而鄙视它。”最后，她用温柔的口气说道：“记住，爱是一个女人唯一可以给予的东西。”她着重强调了“唯一”这个词，说得那么奇妙那么亲切。“但是这是上帝允许我们带到阴间去的唯一东西。”这两个男人倍受爱情的煎熬，十分痛苦，几乎没有听到这一场结束时的几句话。他们眼中只看到他们的偶像以迷人的风度在台上走动，继续保持着他们以前从未意识到的魅力。 
赫斯渥下了种种决心，杜洛埃也是如此。他们一起使劲鼓掌，要嘉莉出来谢幕。杜洛埃把手掌都拍疼了，然后他跳了起来，往后台走去。他离开时嘉莉又出来谢幕，看到一个特大花篮正从过道上急急送上来，她就站在台上等。这些花是赫斯渥送的，她把目光投向经理的包厢，和他的目光相遇，嫣然一笑。 
他真想从包厢里跳出来去拥抱她，全然不顾他的已婚身份需要小心从事，他几乎忘了包厢里还有熟人在常天哪，他一定要把这可爱的姑娘弄到手，哪怕他得付出一切代价！他必须立即行动。这下杜洛埃就要完蛋了，你别忘了这一点。他一天也不愿意再等了，不能让这个推销员拥有她。 
他激动万分，包厢里再也坐不住了。他先走到休息室，随后又走到外面街上思索着。杜洛埃没有回包厢。几分钟后最后一幕也结束了。他发疯似地想和嘉莉单独在一起，诅咒自己的运气太糟了，明明想告诉她他有多么爱她，明明想在她耳边说悄悄话，偏偏还必须装模作样地微笑、鞠躬，装作陌路人的样子。看到自己的希望落空，他呻吟了。甚至在带她去吃夜宵时，他还得装出一副客气的样子。最后他走到后台向她问候。 
演员们都在卸装穿衣交谈，匆匆走来走去。杜洛埃正在自我陶醉地夸夸其谈，激动和激情溢于言表。经理费了好大的劲才克制了自己的情绪。 
“当然我们得去吃点夜宵，”他说。他的声音和他的真实情感大相径庭，成了一种嘲讽。 
“哎，好吧，”嘉莉微笑说。 
这小女演员兴高采烈，第一次体会到被人宠爱的滋味，有生以来第一次成了受人仰慕被人追求的对象。成功带来的独立意识还只是初露萌芽。她和情人的关系完全颠倒过来了，现在轮到她俯允施惠，不再仰人鼻息了。她还没有充分意识到这一点。但是在她屈尊俯就时，她的神态中有一种说不尽的甜美温柔。当她一切就绪时，他们登上等在那里的马车驶往商业区。她只找到一次机会表达自己的感情，那是当经理在杜洛埃前头登上马车坐在她身边的时候。在杜洛埃上车前，她温柔冲动地捏了一下赫斯渥的手。经理欣喜若狂，为了单独和她在一起，就算要他出卖灵魂也愿意。“啊，”他心里说，“爱的痛苦啊！”杜洛埃一个劲地缠着嘉莉，自以为他是嘉莉心目中的唯一情人。吃夜宵时他的过份热情使那两个情人大为不快。赫斯渥回家时感到，如果他的爱无法得到发泄，他就要死了。他热烈地对嘉莉悄悄说：“明天。”她听懂了。和推销员以及他的情人分手时，他真恨不得把他杀了，嘉莉也感到很痛苦。 
“晚安，”他装出轻松友好的神气说道。 
“晚安，”小女演员温情脉脉地说。 
“这傻瓜！”他心里在骂。现在他恨透了杜洛埃：“这白痴！ 
我要让他尝尝我的手段，而且很快！明天走着瞧吧。” 
“哇，你真是个奇迹，”杜洛埃捏了捏嘉莉的手臂，心满意足地说，“你真是世上最妩媚可爱的小丫头。”
Chapter 20 THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT
Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It is no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing outside of my lady's window -- to languish and repine in the face of difficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have given anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended -- to have Carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of Drouet effectually and forever. 
What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence. 
At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down. His wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own in silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof. 
"I've told you about this before, Maggie," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "I'm not going to tell you again." 
Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to him. 
"Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your vacation?" 
It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at this season of the year. 
"Not yet," he said, "I'm very busy just now." 
"Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you, if we're going?" she returned. 
"I guess we have a few days yet," he said. 
"Hmff," she returned. "Don't wait until the season's over." 
She stirred in aggravation as she said this. 
"There you go again," he observed. "One would think I never did anything, the way you begin." 
"Well, I want to know about it," she reiterated. 
"You've got a few days yet," he insisted. "You'll not want to start before the races are over." 
He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to have his thoughts for other purposes. 
"Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the races." 
"What did you want with a season ticket, then?" 
"Uh!" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust, "I'll not argue with you," and therewith arose to leave the table. 
"Say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voice which caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter with you of late? Can't I talk with you any more?" 
"Certainly, you can talk with me," she replied, laying emphasis on the word. 
"Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now, you want to know when I'll be ready -- not for a month yet. Maybe not then." 
"We'll go without you." 
"You will, eh?" he sneered. 
"Yes, we will." 
He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only irritated him the more. 
"Well, we'll see about that. It seems to me you're trying to run things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled my affairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate anything that's connected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won't hurry me by any such talk as that." 
He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor. 
His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with her. 
Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like treatment or she would know why. 
For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and opposition possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagles' wings. He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. What was the night, after all, without her -- what the day? She must and should be his. 
For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling since she had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet's enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which concerned herself, with very little for that which affected his own gain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because her thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood's passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered what he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the misery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was, all in all, exceedingly happy. 
On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning the event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouet himself was not talking so much of as for her. He felt instinctively that, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in her regard. 
"I think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next morning, preparatory to going down town, "that I'll straighten out that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. I was talking with Mosher about that yesterday." 
"No, you won't," said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint power to jest with the drummer. 
"Yes, I will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with the tone of one who pleads, "Don't you believe what I've told you?" 
Carrie laughed a little. 
"Of course I do," she answered. 
Drouet's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental observation, there was that in the things which had happened which made his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still with him, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voice which was new. She did not study him with eyes expressive of dependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of something which was coming. It coloured his feelings and made him develop those little attentions and say those little words which were mere forefendations against danger. 
Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her meeting with Hurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, and hastened down the stairs. At the corner she passed Drouet, but they did not see each other. 
The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into his house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, but found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up. 
"Hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has Carrie gone?" 
"Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago." 
"That's strange," thought Drouet. "She didn't say a word to me. I wonder where she went?" 
He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, and finally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fair neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him. 
"What are you up to?" he said, smiling. 
"Just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel about her hand. 
"Tired of it?" 
"Not so very." 
"Let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over and taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been issued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a picture of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of which could be changed by means of a revolving disk in the back, which showed red, yellow, green, and blue through little interstices made in the ground occupied by the umbrella top. 
"Isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing her how it worked. "You never saw anything like that before." 
"Isn't it nice?" she answered. 
"You can have it if you want it," he remarked. 
"That's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplace setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her. 
"Do you think so?" 
"That's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at examination to secure her finger. "That's fine." 
The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation, pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his. She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest against the window-sill. 
"I didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly, repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. "You must have been away." 
"I was," said Drouet. 
"Do you travel far?" 
"Pretty far -- yes." 
"Do you like it?" 
"Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while." 
"I wish I could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of the window. 
"What has become of your friend, Hurstwood?" she suddenly asked, bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation, seemed to contain promising material. 
"He's here in town. What makes you ask about him?" 
"Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back." 
"How did you come to know him?" 
"Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?" 
"Get out," said the drummer, lightly. "He hasn't called more than half a dozen times since we've been here." 
"He hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling. "That's all you know about it." 
Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as to whether she was joking or not. 
"Tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?" 
"Oh, nothing." 
"Have you seen him recently?" 
"Not since you came back," she laughed. 
"Before?" 
"Certainly." 
"How often?" 
"Why, nearly every day." 
She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what the effect of her words would be. 
"Who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously. 
"Mrs. Drouet." 
He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to correct himself so as not to appear a dupe. 
"Well," he said, "what of it?" 
"Nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one side. 
"He's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire. 
He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the taste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when the girl's name was called from below. 
"I've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily. 
"I'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance at being interrupted. 
When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face, never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and disturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received so many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood lying? What did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there was something odd about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so disturbed when he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called? By George! he remembered now. There was something strange about the whole thing. 
He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one leg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great rate. 
And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be, by George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why, even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and Hurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they would try to deceive him. 
His thoughts burst into words. 
"She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed and gone out this morning and never said a word." 
He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still frowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was now looking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almost forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing. 
"Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined. 
"I'm not mad," he answered. 
"I thought you were," she said, smiling. 
"Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way. "Were you serious?" 
"Certainly," she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not intentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times. I thought you knew." 
The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulate indifference further. 
"Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked. 
"Sometimes. Sometimes they went out." 
"In the evening?" 
"Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though." 
"I'm not," he said. "Did any one else see him?" 
"Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in particular. 
"How long ago was this?" 
"Just before you came back." 
The drummer pinched his lip nervously. 
"Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a gentle squeeze. 
"Certainly not," she returned. "I wouldn't worry over it." 
"All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most excellent impression upon the chambermaid. 
"I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately, feeling that he had been unduly wronged. "I'll find out, b'George, whether she'll act that way or not." 
情欲在像赫斯渥这类人身上出现时，总呈现强烈的形式，绝非沉思梦幻般的东西。像他这种人可不会在情人的窗外唱小夜曲--也不会在遇到挫折时憔悴或者呻吟。夜里他因为想得太多了，久久睡不着；早上又老早醒了，一醒来又立刻去想那个甜蜜的事情，一个劲儿想个不停。他浑身不舒服，心烦意乱。一方面是他更加喜欢他的嘉莉，另一方面又有杜洛埃这个绊脚石，这还不足以使他烦恼吗？想到他的爱人正被那个得意洋洋精力旺盛的推销员所占有，世上再没有人比他更感痛苦的了。在他看来，只要能结束这种三角局面，只要嘉莉肯接受一项安排以便永久有效地摆脱掉杜洛埃，要他付出什么代价他都愿意。 “怎么办呢？”他一边穿衣一边想着这个问题。他在他和妻子共同的卧室里走动，对她视而不见。 
吃早饭时他发现自己一点胃口也没有，叉到盘中的肉还留在那里没有动过。咖啡已经放凉了，可是他仍在心不在焉地浏览报纸。这里那里他也读到一两则小消息，但是读过后他就什么也不记得了。杰西卡还在楼上卧室没有下来，他的妻子坐在桌子的另一头默默地想自己的心事。最近又换了一个女仆，今天新女仆忘了准备餐巾。为了这件事，他妻子大声斥责，令人恼火地打破了宁静。 
“麦琪，这件事我早就告诉过你了，”赫斯渥太太说。“下次我不会再提醒你了。”赫斯渥看了他太太一眼。她正皱着眉头。她现在的举动非常让他恼火。她下一句话是对他说的：“乔治，你有没有决定什么时候去度假？”按老习惯，他们每年都是这个季节商量夏天外出度假的计划。 
“还没有，”他说道，“眼下我正忙着。” 
“嗯，如果我们要动身的话，你得赶忙决定了，是不是？”她答道。 
“我看再拖几天也没关系，”他说。 
“哼，”她说，“别等度假季节过完了再决定。”她这么说时，恼怒地扭动着身体。 
“你又来了，”他批评说，“听你说话的口气，人家会以为我什么事情也不做呢。”“嗯，我一定要知道你的休假日期，”她重复说。 
“你还可以等几天，”他坚持说，“赛马还没有结束，你反正走不了。”他很生气，因为他正有事情要考虑，她偏偏打岔提出这个问题。 
“我们可以走得了。杰西卡不愿意等赛马结束再走。”“那么你们当初为什么非要全赛季的票子不可呢？”“哼！”她用这一声哼表示她极度的厌烦。“我不跟你争论，”说着就站起来离开了桌子。 
“喂，”他站起来说道，“你近来怎么了？我就不能和你说话了吗？”他口气的坚决态度使她停住了脚。 
“当然，你可以和我说话，”她回答说，最后两个字说得特别地重。 
“哼，看你的样子，根本不是这么回事。好，你要知道我什么时候走得了--这个月里我离不开，下个月也不一定。”“那我们就自己去了。”“你真这么想，是吗？”他讥笑地说。 
“是的，我们就这么办。” 
他看到这女人的坚决态度很感惊愕。不过这使他更恼火了。 
“好，我们走着瞧好了。照最近的情形看起来，你想要发号施令，为所欲为了。听你说话的口气还想当我的家了。哼，你别作梦。你别想干预和我有关的事。如果你想走，你就走好了。 
你别指望用这种话来逼我走。” 
他现在怒火中烧了。他的黑眼睛气得一闪一闪的，怒火直冒，把报纸揉成一团扔在一边。赫斯渥太太没有再说什么。不等他说完，她就转身朝外面的客厅走，接着就上楼了。他停顿了一下，好像是在犹豫。然后他又坐了下来，喝了一点咖啡，就站起身，到一楼去拿帽子和手套。 
他太太确实没有料到会有这一场争吵。她下楼来吃早饭时，心绪不佳，脑子里反复盘算着一个计划。杰西卡提醒她，马赛不像她们原来想的那么有趣，今年赛马场没有提供多少社交机会。这位美丽的小姐感到每天去赛马场实在乏味。今年那些贵人到海滨和欧洲度假走得比往年早。她认识的人中，好几个她感兴趣的年轻人已经到华克夏去了。她于是开始想她也该走了。她母亲很赞成这主意。 
基于这些想法，赫斯渥太太决定要提出这个问题。她走到饭桌边来时，心里正想这件事。但是不知为什么气氛有些不对劲。吵完架以后，她还是不明白怎么会争吵起来的。但是她现在已经肯定她丈夫是个粗暴的人。当然她对此绝不会善罢甘休的，她一定要他拿她当个夫人对待，不然她就要追究到底，找出原因来。 
在经理那方面，在去办公室的路上他还在想着这场新的争吵。从办公室出来，他去和嘉莉幽会，这时候他脑子里装的是由爱情、欲望和阻力交织而成的另一种复杂局面。他的思念装上鹰的翅膀飞翔在他前面，他迫不及待地想要和嘉莉见面。 
说到底，没有了她，夜晚有什么意思呢？白天又有什么意思？她必须是也应该是他的。 
在嘉莉这方面，自从前一晚和他分手以后，她生活在一个充满想象和情感的世界里。对于杜洛埃絮絮聒聒的热情表白，她只注意听了和她有关的那一部分，至于他对拥有嘉莉的得意吹嘘，她就没有心思去听了。她尽量和他疏远，一心只想着自己的成功。她感到赫斯渥的爱情把她的成功衬托得更加可喜，她真想知道他会对此说些什么。她也为他难过，不过这种难过里也夹杂着几分沾沾之喜，因为赫斯渥的痛苦本身就是一种恭维。她正初次体验到从一个乞讨者变为施舍者的那种微妙的感情变化。总之，她非常非常地快乐。 
然而第二天早上报纸对这件事只字未提。每天日常的事情还是一如既往地进行着，于是前一天晚上的成功有点黯然失色了。杜洛埃现在与其说是在谈论她的成功，不如说是在竭力讨好她了。他本能地感到，为了这种或者那种的原因，他有必要重获嘉莉的欢心。 
“我打算，”他在房间里穿着打扮，准备上商业区之前说道，“这个月要把我的小买卖清理整顿一下，接着我们就结婚。 
我昨天和摩旭谈了这事。” 
“不，你骗人。”她现在稍稍有了点自信心，敢跟这个推销员开开玩笑了。 
“真的，不骗你。”他叫了起来，这样动感情在他来说还是第一次。他又用恳求的口吻补充说：“你难道对我的话不相信吗？”嘉莉笑了一下。 
“当然我相信，”她回答。 
杜洛埃现在不那么自信了。尽管不善于察言观色，他发现事情起了一些变化，这种变化超出了他小小的分析能力之外。 
嘉莉仍然和他在一起，但是已经不是懦弱无助哀哀乞怜了。她的声音里透出一种轻快活泼，这是以前没有的。她不再用依赖的目光注意他的一举一动。推销员感到了要发生什么事的阴影。这影响了他的情感，使他开始向嘉莉献些小殷勤，说些讨好的话，作为预防危机的措施。 
他刚走不久，嘉莉就为赴赫斯渥的约会做准备。她匆匆打扮了一下，没花多少时间就准备就绪，急急下了楼梯。在马路转弯处，她走过杜洛埃的身边，但是两个人都没有看到对方。 
推销员忘了拿几张他想交给商号的账单。他匆匆忙忙上了楼梯，又冲进房间，结果发现房间里只有公寓女仆在收拾房间。 
“哈啰，”他叫了一声，又半自言自语地说：“嘉莉出去了吗？”“你太太吗？是的，她才走没两分钟。”“真奇怪，”杜洛埃想，“她一句话也没对我提起。她上哪里去了呢？”他匆匆东翻西找，在旅行箱里乱摸了一气，终于找到了他要找的东西，就把它放进口袋。接着他把注意力投向站在旁边的女仆，她长得很俊，对他很和善。 
“你在干什么？”他微笑着问。 
“打扫一下房间。”她说着停了下来，把抹布缠在手上绕着。 
“累了吗？” 
“不太累。” 
“我给你看点东西。”他和气地说着走了过来，从口袋里掏出一张小小的石印画卡片。那是一家烟草批发公司发行的。卡片上印着一个漂亮的姑娘，手里拿着一把条纹太阳桑只要转动卡片后面的小圆转盘，这伞上的颜色就会变化。卡片上伞面部分开了一些小裂缝，从小裂缝里变化出红、黄、蓝、绿的颜色。 
“做得很巧妙，是不是？”他说着把卡片递给她，教她怎么玩。“这种东西你以前从来没有见过吧。”“可不，真漂亮，”她说。 
“如果你想要，你留着好了，”他说道。 
“你的戒指真漂亮。”他说着摸了摸她拿卡片那个手上戴的一个普通嵌戒。 
“真的吗？” 
“真的，”他答道，一边假装要仔细看戒指而握住了她的手指，“是很美。”这样一来，他们之间的拘束感就打破了。他继续聊着，假装忘了他还握着她的手。不过她不久就把自己的手抽了回去，往后退了几步，倚在窗台上。 
“我好久没有见到你了。”她拒绝了他的一次热切的亲近以后，卖弄风情地说，“你一定出门去了。”“是的，”杜洛埃说。 
“你出门到很远的地方去吗？” 
“对，相当远。” 
“你喜欢出门吗？” 
“不太喜欢，你过一段时间就厌倦了。”“我倒很希望我能到外面跑跑。”姑娘说着无聊地看着窗外。 
“你的朋友赫斯渥先生最近怎么样？”她突然问道。照她观察，这个经理似乎是个大有可谈的话题。 
“他就在这个城里。你怎么想起问他？” 
“噢，没有什么。只是自从你回来以后他一直没有到这里来。”“你怎么会认识他的？”“上个月他来了十几次，每次不是我给他通报的吗？”“别瞎说了，”推销员不在意地说，“从打我们住到这里起，他总共只来过五六次。”“是吗？”这姑娘微笑着说，“那是你只知道这几次。”杜洛埃的口气比刚才严肃了，他不能肯定这姑娘是不是在开玩笑。 
“调皮鬼，”他说，“你干嘛这么古怪地笑？”“噢，没什么？”“你最近见到他了吗？”“从你回家来就没有见过，”她笑了起来。 
“这之前呢？” 
“当然见过了。” 
“常来吗？” 
“是啊，差不多每天都来。” 
她是个爱搬弄是非的人，非常想知道她这话会产生什么后果。 
“他来看谁？”推锁员不相信地问。 
“杜洛埃太太。” 
他听了这个回答发了一会儿呆，然后他竭力要掩饰自己露出的傻相。 
“嗯，”他说，“那又怎样呢？” 
“没什么，”姑娘风骚地把头一歪，回答。 
“他是老朋友了，”他继续说，越来越深地陷进了泥沼。 
尽管他暂时已没了兴趣，他本来还会把这小小的调情进行下去，所以当楼下叫这姑娘下去时，他如释重负。 
“我得走了，”她说着轻盈地从他身边走开。 
“等会儿见，”他装出被人打断感到烦恼的神气说道。 
等她一走，他让自己的感情发泄出来。他从来不善于掩饰自己的脸色。这会儿，他心里感到的种种困惑和烦恼都在脸上呈现出来。嘉莉接待人家这么多次，在他面前却一句没有提起。这事情可能吗？赫斯渥在说谎吗？这女仆这么说，是什么意思呢？他当时就感到嘉莉的神色有点反常。他问她赫斯渥来访几次时，她为什么显得那么不安呢？天哪，他现在想起来了。这整个事情是有点古怪呢。 
他在一个摇椅里坐了下来，以便更好地想想。他把一个脚架在膝盖上，眉头皱紧了，思绪在飞快地变幻。 
然而嘉莉并没有什么越轨的举动埃天哪，她不可能是在欺骗他。她从来没有骗过人。对了，就在昨晚她对他还是非常友好，赫斯渥也是如此。看看他们的举止！他几乎无法相信他们要其他。 
他不禁自言自语起来。 
“有时候她的举动是有点怪。今早她穿戴整齐出去了，可是她一个字也没有说。”他挠了挠头，打算去商业区了。他的眉头紧皱着。走到门厅时，又碰到了那个姑娘。她正在打扫另一个房间，头上戴着一项白色的掸尘帽子，帽子下胖乎乎的脸蛋露出和善的笑意。 
看到她朝他微笑，他把自己的烦恼几乎都忘了。他亲密地把他的手搭在她肩上，好像只是路过打个招呼。 
“气消了吗？”她仍然有点调皮地问。 
“我没有生气，”他回答。 
“我还以为你气疯了，”她说着微微一笑。 
“不要开玩笑了，”他随便地说，“这事当真吗？”“当然了，”她回答。接着她用一种并非故意要挑拨是非的神气说：“他来了很多次，我还以为你知道的呢。”杜洛埃放弃了对她掩饰自己的思想的打算，他不想再装出无所谓的神气了。 
“他晚上来这里吗？”他问。 
“来过几次。有时候他们出去。” 
“晚上吗？” 
“是的，不过你不用这么生气。” 
“我没有生气，”他说。“还有别人见到他吗？”“当然了，”这女孩子说道，好像这事毕竟算不得什么似的。 
“这是多久以前的事了？” 
“就是你回来以前不久的事。” 
推销员神经质地捏着嘴唇。 
“这事你什么也别说，好吗？”他握住了姑娘的手臂轻轻捏了一把，说道。 
“我一定不说，”她回答。“我才不为这事操心呢？”“好，就这样。”他说着又继续往外走，生平第一次进行严肃的思考。不过并不是完全没有想到他已给这女仆留下了一个很好的印象。 
“我要看看她对这事怎么说，”他愤愤地想，感到自己受了不该受的委屈。“天哪，我一定要弄明白她是不是做出这种事来。”
Chapter 21 THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT
When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His blood was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who had stirred him so profoundly the night before. 
"Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself. 
"Yes," said Carrie. 
They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt was like music to him. 
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the night before. 
"Are you?" 
He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him. 
"It was wonderful." 
Carrie laughed ecstatically. 
"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he added. 
He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now. 
Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her. Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice. 
"Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a moment or two. "They were beautiful." 
"Glad you liked them," he answered, simply. 
He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and feeling for a way. 
"You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tone modifying itself to one of self-commiseration. 
"Yes," said Carrie, easily. 
He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her with his eye. 
She felt the flood of feeling. 
"How about me?" he asked. 
This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgates were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. 
"I don't know," she answered. 
He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance. 
"Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely. 
"I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and finding nothing at which to catch. 
As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from feeling what he felt. 
And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened, and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Drouet had told him they were not married. There was never anything at all convincing about what Drouet said. 
And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless sea of speculation. 
"Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange for you whatever-" 
"Oh, don't," said Carrie. 
"Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?" 
There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of marriage. 
He himself realised that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in. He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan. 
"Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent feeling. "You know I can't do without you -- you know it -- it can't go on this way -- can it?" 
"I know," said Carrie. 
"I wouldn't ask if I -- I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to stay away from me, do you?" 
She shook her head as if in deep thought. 
"Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?" 
"I don't know," said Carrie. 
"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be serious." 
"I am," said Carrie, softly. 
"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love you. Look at last night." 
His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man's nature was distilling itself. 
Carrie made no answer. 
"How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "You love me, don't you?" 
He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For the moment all doubts were cleared away. 
"Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly. 
"Well, then you'll come, won't you -- come to-night?" 
Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress. 
"I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too soon, come Saturday." 
"When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's wife. 
The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to his mind. 
"Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his present delight with this miserable problem. 
"Saturday?" asked Carrie. 
He nodded his head. 
"Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go." 
The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth. 
Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. 
"Well," she said, "I'll try and get ready then." 
Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more lovely. 
"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talk over the plans." 
He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began to realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world. 
"To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully to his brave demeanour. 
"Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away. 
There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they would be happy.
嘉莉到达的时候，赫斯渥已经等了好几分钟了。他的热血在沸腾，情绪激动，迫不及待地要见到前一晚深深打动了他的这个女人。 “你终于来了，”他克制住自己的激动说道，觉得浑身轻快有力，兴奋异常。这种兴奋本身就是一种悲剧。 
“是啊，”嘉莉说。 
他们一起往前走，好像要到什么地方去似的。赫斯渥走在她的身旁，陶醉在她的光采夺目的美色中。她的漂亮的裙子发出沙沙声，在他听来像音乐那样美妙。 
“你满足吗？”想到她前晚的杰出表演，他问道。 
“你呢？” 
看到她的笑脸，他更紧地握住了她的手。 
“妙极了。” 
嘉莉开心地笑了。 
“这是很长时间来我看到的最佳表演，”他又补充说。 
像昨晚一样，他细细品味着她的可爱之处。这品味融入了他们的幽会激起的情感。 
嘉莉沉浸在这男人所创造的气氛中，变得活泼愉快，神采飞扬。在他的每句话里，她都体会到他对她的倾慕。 
“你送我的那些花太可爱了，”停了一会儿，她说，“都很美。”“你喜欢我就高兴了，”他简单地回答。 
这期间他一直在想，他现在这样是在推迟实现自己的欲望。他急于要把谈话引到他的情感上去。现在时机已经成熟了，他的嘉莉正走在他身旁。他想直截了当地劝嘉莉离开杜洛埃，但是不知道该如何措辞，还在思索怎么开口的问题。 
“你昨晚回家还好吧，”他闷闷不乐地说，他的语气突然变得自叹自怜了。 
“是啊，”嘉莉轻松地说。 
他定定地看了她一会儿，放慢了脚步，凝视着她。 
她感到泛滥的情感向她袭来。 
“你想过我怎么样吗？”他问。 
这使嘉莉大为窘迫，因为她意识到感情的闸门打开了，她却不知道该怎么回答。 
“我不知道，”她答道。 
他的牙齿咬住了了嘴唇，过了一会儿才松开。他在路边停了下来，用脚尖踢着地上的草，然后他用温柔恳求的目光久久探索着她的脸。 
“你不愿意离开他吗？”他热烈地问道。 
“我不知道，”嘉莉回答。她思绪仍然很乱，游移不定，不知如何是好。 
事实上，她正陷入进退两难的困境。眼前这男人是她非常喜欢的。他对她的影响之大，足以使她误以为自己对他一往情深。他的敏锐的目光，温文尔雅的举止和考究精美的衣服仍然让她昏头。她觉得眼前这个男人非常和蔼可亲，富于同情心，对她非常倾心，这份情意令人欣喜。她无法抗拒他的气质和他的明亮的眼睛。她几乎无法不产生和他同样的感觉。 
但是她还有令人不安的担心。关于她，他知道些什么？杜洛埃和他说了些什么？在他眼里，她是别人的妻子呢，还是别的什么？他会娶她吗？他的话使她心软，她的眼睛不觉露出温情脉脉的光辉。但是在他说话的时候，她心里一直在想，杜洛埃是不是已经告诉他，他们并没有结婚。杜洛埃的话总是让人不敢相信。 
不过她并不为赫斯渥的爱情感到担心。不管他知道些什么，他对她的爱没有一点勉强或苦涩。他显然是诚挚的，他的爱真切而热烈，他的话让人信服。她该怎么办呢？她继续这么想着，含糊地回答着，情意绵绵地痛苦着，总的来说她在犹豫不决，陷入了无边无际的臆测之海。 
“你何不离开他呢？”他温柔地说。“我会为你安排一切的。”“哦，不要，”嘉莉说。 
“不要什么？”他问。“你是什么意思？” 
她的脸上露出狼狈和痛苦的表情。她想，为什么要提出这个令人难堪的话题。这种婚姻以外靠男人赡养的可悲生活像刀一样刺痛了她的心。 
他自己也意识到这个话题令人难受。他想估量一下这话的效果，但是估量不出。他继续试探着往下说，和她在一起他感到心情振奋，头脑清醒，一心一意想着实现自己的计划。 
“你不愿意来吗？”他带着更虔诚的感情又重复了一遍。 
“你知道我离不开你--你知道的--这样下去不行--是不是？”“我知道，”嘉莉说。 
“如果我能忍下去的话，我不会求你的。不会和你争论的。 
看着我，嘉莉。设身处地为我想想。你也不愿意和我分离，是不是？”她摇了摇头，好像陷入了深思。 
“那么为什么不把这件事一劳永逸地解决了呢？”“我不知道，”嘉莉说。 
“不知道！啊，嘉莉，你为什么这么说呢？别折磨我了。你认真一点吧。”“我是很认真，”嘉莉轻轻地说。 
“最最亲爱的，你如果认真的话，就不会说这种话了。你要是知道我有多爱你，你就不会这么说了。你想想昨晚的事吧。”他这么说的时候，神态说不出有多宁静。他的脸和身子一动也不动，只有他的眼睛在传情，发出微妙的，令人销魂的火焰。在这目光中他凝聚了他天性中的全部激情。 
嘉莉没有回答。 
“你怎么能这样对我呢，宝贝？”他问道。又过了一会儿，他又说：“你是爱我的，是吗？”他的感情像狂风暴雨向她袭来，她完全被征服了。一时间所有的疑虑都烟消云散。 
“是的，”她回答道，语气是那么坦城和温柔。 
“那么你会到我身边来的，是不是？今晚就来，好吗？”嘉莉尽管难过，还是摇了摇头。 
“我再也不能等下去了，”赫斯渥催促说，“如果今晚太仓促，那么星期六来吧。”“我们什么时候结婚呢？”她犹犹豫豫地问。在这为难的情势下，她忘了自己原来是希望他把她当作杜洛埃太太的。 
经理吃了一惊，被这问题击中了，因为这问题比她的问题还要辣手。不过尽管这些思想像电讯一样在他脑中闪过，他脸上一点声色也没露。 
“你愿意什么时候就什么时候，”他从容地回答，不愿意让这个倒霉的问题影响他眼下的欢乐情绪。 
“星期六怎么样？”嘉莉问。 
他点了点头。 
“好吧，如果你到时候愿意娶我，”她说，“我就出走。”经理看着他可爱的情人，那么美丽，那么迷人，又那么难以到手，他就下了荒唐的决心。他的欲火已经到了不再受理智左右的地步。面对着如此美色，他已经顾不得这一类的小小障碍。不管有多少困难，他也不会退却。他不打算去回答冷酷的事实摆在他面前的难题。他什么都答应，一切的一切他都答应。让命运去解决这些难题吧。他要千方百计进入爱的乐园，不管前面有什么结果等着他。天哪，他一定要得到幸福，哪怕需要他说谎，哪怕要他不顾事实。 
嘉莉温柔地看着他，真想把自己的头靠在他的肩膀上：一切看来是那么令人欣喜。 
“好的，”她说，“我会想办法到时候准备好的。”赫斯渥看着她的美丽的脸庞，那上面浮现着一丝惊异和担心。他觉得他从来没有见过比这更可爱的东西了。 
“我们明天再见面，”他快乐地说，“到时候我们再商量具体细节。”他继续和她往前走着。这么令人高兴的结果让他兴奋得难以形容。尽管他偶然才说上片言只语，他让她感到了他的无限快乐和对她的无限情意。半小时后，他意识到他该结束他们的幽会了：这世界是如此严厉，不肯通融。 
“明天见，”分手时他说道。他的欢乐的情绪使他一往无前的气概更加潇洒。 
“好。”嘉莉说着欢快轻盈地走了。 
这次会面激起了强烈的热情，因此她自以为她是在恋爱了。想到她的英俊的情人，她心满意足地叹息了一声。是的，她星期六会准备好的。她要出走，他们会幸福的。
Chapter 22 THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER: FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH
The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs. Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a social sense he fell short. With his regard died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her presence. 
As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off. 
This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement or satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently, he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunder-clouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already left the house. 
"I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said, addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "Now here the things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten." 
Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to feel the fag end of the storm. 
"I'm not hungry," she answered. 
"Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things, instead of keeping her waiting all morning?" 
"She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly. 
"Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, I don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such an air with your mother." 
"Oh, mamma, don't row," answered Jessica. "What's the matter this morning, anyway?" 
"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I won't have it." 
"I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply, stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "I said I wasn't hungry. I don't want any breakfast." 
"Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll not have it!" 
Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be quarrelled with. 
Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish. George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all feel that he was a man with a man's privileges -- an assumption which, of all things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen. 
Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a lessening understanding. 
Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start to Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was being made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into hardly repressed passion, and wished himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities. 
For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display of temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more than the feeling that she could do it. She had no special evidence wherewith to justify herself -- the knowledge of something which would give her both authority and excuse. The latter was all that was lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath. 
An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come. Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood, met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east on the same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie -- did not know whether it was Hurstwood's wife or daughter. 
"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving, do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood. 
"If I see them, I do. Where was I?" 
"On Washington Boulevard," he answered, expecting her eye to light with immediate remembrance. 
She shook her head. 
"Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband." 
"I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering her husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign. 
"I know I saw your husband," he went on. "I wasn't so sure about you. Perhaps it was your daughter." 
"Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that such was not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details. 
"Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air of acquaintanceship with the matter. 
"Yes, about two or three." 
"It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to seem to attach any importance to the incident. 
The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least. 
Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during the next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted that the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as busy to her. As a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion of her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with people whom he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent, of late? In the last six weeks he had become strangely irritable -- strangely satisfied to pick up and go out, whether things were right or wrong in the house. Why? 
She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye. Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She was fading, while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. He was still an interested factor in the merry-makings of the world, while she -- but she did not pursue the thought. She only found the whole situation bitter, and hated him for it thoroughly. 
Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by flashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was merely a continuation of other things of the same nature. 
The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr. Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing establishment. They had driven out early, and, as it chanced, encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening before. A thousand chances the subject of the performance had never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long ones. It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily that this interesting intelligence came. 
"I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder, "that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening." 
"No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say, "What was it?" when he added, "I saw your husband." 
Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of suspicion. 
"Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell me much about it." 
"Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended. There was one actress who surprised us all." 
"Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood. 
"It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to hear you weren't feeling well." 
Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after him open-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly: 
"Yes, it is too bad." 
"Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?" the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic. 
The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no opportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think for herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out more. 
"Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next of Hurstwood's friends who greeted her, as she sat in her box. 
"Yes. You didn't get around." 
"No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well." 
"So your husband told me," he answered. "Well, it was really very enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected." 
"Were there many there?" 
"The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a number of your friends -- Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins." 
"Quite a social gathering." 
"Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much." 
Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip. 
"So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I am sick and cannot come." 
She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was something back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason. 
By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. She was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her mouth. 
On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of Carrie. He could have been genial to all the world, and he bore no grudge against his wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had been restored to him. 
So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and comfortable appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laid there by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and shiny with glasses and decorated china. Through an open door he saw into the kitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove and the evening meal already well under way. Out in the small back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the piano, the sound of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner of the comfortable home. Every one, like himself, seemed to have regained his good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making. He felt as if he could say a good word all around himself, and took a most genial glance at the spread table and polished sideboard before going upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable arm-chair of the sitting-room which looked through the open windows into the street. When he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing her hair and musing to herself the while. 
He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in making himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. In a few moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of a baseball game which had taken place between the Chicago and Detroit teams. 
The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him casually though the medium of the mirror which was before her. She noticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and smiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more. She wondered how he could think to carry himself so in her presence after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore manifested and would continue to manifest so long as she would endure it. She thought how she should like to tell him -- what stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she could drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be rendered her. Indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but weakly suspended by a thread of thought. 
In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a bunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and chuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife's attention and read it to her. 
"Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny." 
Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning a glance. 
He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt as if his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably still out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that could easily be straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but he didn't care. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wanted to. The sooner the better. He would tell her that as soon as he got a chance, and the whole thing would blow over. 
"Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning another item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to compel the Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" he asked. 
She could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say "No," sharply. 
Hurstwood pricked up his ears. There was a note in her voice which vibrated keenly. 
"It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to himself, half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in that quarter. He withdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly, listening mentally for the little sounds which should show him what was on foot. 
As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood -- as observant and sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his own plane of thought -- would have made the mistake which he did in regard to his wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupied mentally with a very different train of thought. Had not the influence of Carrie's regard for him, the elation which her promise aroused in him, lasted over, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant a mood. It was not extraordinarily bright and merry this evening. He was merely very much mistaken, and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had he come home in his normal state. 
After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that he ought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his wife was not going to patch up peace at a word. So he said: 
"Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?" 
"I don't know," she snapped. 
He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window. He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent and agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding of some sort. 
"Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning?" he said, at last. "We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can go to Waukesha if you want to." 
"So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was drawn a sharp and wrathful sneer. 
He stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant his persuasive, conciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at a wink and puzzled for a word to reply. 
"What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and gazing at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no attention, but went on arranging herself before the mirror. 
"You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were a world of information which she held in reserve -- which she did not need to tell. 
"Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for what should come next. The finality of the woman's manner took away his feeling of superiority in battle. 
She made no answer. 
"Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It was the weakest thing he had ever done. It was totally unassured. 
Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned upon him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow. 
"I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said. 
He looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a cold, steely determination in her eye -- such a cruel look of indifference. She seemed a thorough master of her mood -- thoroughly confident and determined to wrest all control from him. He felt that all his resources could not defend him. He must attack. 
"What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to know what's got into you to-night." 
"Nothing's got into me," she said, flaming. "I want that money. You can do your swaggering afterwards." 
"Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me. What do you mean by your insinuations, anyhow?" 
"Where were you last night?" she answered. The words were hot as they came. "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard? Who were you with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you think I'm a fool to be duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at home here and take your 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and make out that I'm unable to come? I want you to know that lordly airs have come to an end so far as I am concerned. You can't dictate to me nor my children. I'm through with you entirely." 
"It's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other excuse. 
"Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you may call it a lie if you want to, but I know." 
"It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "You've been searching around for some cheap accusation for months, and now you think you have it. You think you'll spring something and get the upper hand. Well, I tell you, you can't. As long as I'm in this house I'm master of it, and you or any one else won't dictate to me -- do you hear?" 
He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous. Something in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as if she were already master, caused him to feel for the moment as if he could strangle her. 
She gazed at him -- a pythoness in humour. 
"I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what I want." 
The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took the wind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not ask her for proofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of all his property which she held in her name, to be shining in her glance. He was like a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rolling and floundering without sail. 
"And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering himself, "what you'll not get." 
"We'll see about it," she said. "I'll find out what my rights are. Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me." 
It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell back beaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contend with. He felt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. What to say he hardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. He was disturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do? 
"Do as you please," he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more to do with you," and out he strode. 
赫斯渥家的不幸在于源于爱情的妒忌并没有随着爱情的消失而消失。赫斯渥太太的妒忌心特别重，后来发生的事情把这种妒忌又变成了仇恨。从身体上说，赫斯渥仍然值得他太太以往的眷恋。但是从两人共同生活的意义上说，他已经令她感到不满了。随着他的爱情消失，他不再能够对她体贴入微。而这一点对于女人来说，简直比杀人放火的暴行还要恶劣。我们往往从利己心出发来决定我们对别人的看法。赫斯渥太太的利己心使她戴上有色眼镜来看待她丈夫的冷漠的性格。那些只是出于夫妻感情淡漠的话和行为，在她看来就成了别有用心了。 这么一来，她变得满腹怨恨和疑心重重。妒忌心使她注意到他在夫妻关系上的每个疏忽不尽职；同样的，妒忌心使她注意到他在生活中仍是那么轻松优雅。他对个人修饰打扮非常讲究细心，从中可以看出他对生活的兴趣丝毫没有减弱。他的每个动作，每个目光都流露出他对嘉莉的喜爱，流露出这新的追求带给他的生活乐趣。赫斯渥太太感觉到了什么，她嗅出了他身上的变化，就像一头动物隔了老远就能嗅出危险。 
赫斯渥的行为直接有力地强化了这种感觉。我们已看到在为家庭效力时，他不耐烦地推诿搪塞，因为那些事已经不能给他带来愉快和满足。对于她那些恼人的催逼，他最近曾大发雷霆。这些小吵小闹其实是由充满不和的气氛造成的。一片乌云密布的天空会下雷阵雨，这一点是不言而喻的。由于他公开挑明对她的计划不感兴趣，因此当赫斯渥太太今早离开饭桌时，她内心怒火中烧。在梳妆间里她看到杰西卡还在慢条斯理地梳头。赫斯渥已经离开了家。 
“我希望你不要这么迟迟不下去吃早饭，”她一边走过去拿她的钩针篮，一边对杰西卡说，“饭菜都凉了，可你还没有吃。”她今天由于发脾气失去了往日的平和，所以该杰西卡倒霉，要遭池鱼之灾。 
“我不饿，”她回答。 
“那你为什么不早说，让女仆把东西收拾掉，害得她等一个上午？”“她不会有意见的，”杰西卡冷冷地说。 
“哼，她没意见，我可有意见，”她妈反驳说，“再说，我也不喜欢你用这种态度对我说话，跟你妈耍态度，你还嫌嫩着点呢。”“哎，妈妈，别吵架吧，”杰西卡说，“今天早上究竟出了什么事啊？”“什么事也没有，我也没有跟你吵架。你别以为我在一些事上纵容你，你就可以让别人等你了。我不允许你这样。”“我并没有要任何人等我，”杰西卡针锋相对地说。她的态度从原先的讽嘲和冷漠变成尖锐的反驳：“我说过我不饿，我不要吃早饭。”“注意一点你对我说话的态度，小姐。我不许你这样。你听清楚了，我不许！”没等赫斯渥太太说完，杰西卡就朝门外走。她把头一扬，又把漂亮的裙子一掸，流露出独立不羁和满不在乎的自我感觉。她可不想和谁吵架。 
这样的小争论是家常便饭。这是独立自私的天性发展的结果。小乔治在所有涉及个人权利的事上，显示出更大的敏感和过份。他企图让所有的人感到他是一个男子汉，享有男子汉的特权--对一个１９岁的青年来说，这实在是狂妄得太没根据，太没道理了。 
赫斯渥是个惯于发号施令，又有一点美好情感的人。他发现自己对于周围的人越来越失去控制，对他们越来越不理解，这使他非常恼火。 
现在，像这种提早去华克夏之类的小事提出来时，他清楚地看出了自己在家中的地位。现在不是他来发号施令，他只是跟在他们后头转。他们不仅向他耍威风，把他排挤出权威的地位，而且还要加上令人恼火的精神上的打击，如轻蔑的讥诮或者嘲讽的冷笑，他的脾气再也忍不住了。他几乎不加克制地大发雷霆，但愿自己和这个家一刀两断。对于他的情欲和机会，这个家似乎构成了最令人烦恼的障碍。 
尽管如此，尽管他的妻子竭力反叛，他仍然保持着一家之主的外表。她发脾气，公开和他唱反调，其实并没有什么根据，只是感觉到她可以这么做。她并没有什么具体的证据，证明自己这么做有理--并没有掌握什么把柄可以作为凭证或者借口。但是现在所缺的就是借口。只要有了借口，她这似乎无根据的怨气就有了牢靠的根据。怀疑的阴云已经密布，只等一件确凿证据提供冷风，愤怒的暴风雨就要倾盆而下了。 
现在终于让她得知了一点赫斯渥行为不轨的消息。就在赫斯渥和嘉莉在华盛顿林荫大道往西兜风这事发生不久，附近的住院医生，漂亮的比尔大夫，在赫斯渥家门口碰到了赫斯渥太太。他那天在同一条大道上朝东走，认出了赫斯渥，不过只是在他过去以后才认出他。他并没看清楚嘉莉--不能肯定那是赫斯渥太太还是他们的女儿。 
“你出去兜风时，见到老朋友也不理睬，是不是？”他开玩笑地对赫斯渥太太说。 
“如果我看到他们，我总是打招呼的。那是在哪里啊？”“在华盛顿大道，”他回答，期待她的眼光会因为想起来这事而发亮。 
她摇了摇头。 
“没错，就在靠近荷恩路的地方，你和你丈夫在一起。”“我猜想是你搞错了，”她回答。接着她想起这件事里有她丈夫，她马上生出许多新的怀疑，但是她表面上没有露出自己的疑心。 
“我敢肯定我见到你丈夫了，”他继续说，“不过我不敢肯定另一个人是你。也有可能是你女儿。”“也许是吧，”赫斯渥太太说，心里却肯定不是那么回事，因为杰西卡好几个星起来都和她在一起。她竭力掩饰自己的情绪，以便打听更多的细节。 
“是在下午吧？”她狡猾地问道，装出一副知道内情的神气。 
“是啊，大约两三点钟。” 
“那一定是杰西卡，”赫斯渥太太说。她不愿意让人家看出她对这事情很在意。 
那医生有一点自己的看法，但是没有说出来。至少就他而言，他认为这事情不值得继续讨论下去了。 
接下来几小时乃至几天里，赫斯渥太太对这个消息详加推敲。她认为医生看到她丈夫这一点是确切无疑的。她丈夫很有可能在和别的女人坐马车兜风，对她却说自己“很忙”。于是她越来越生气地回忆其他怎么经常拒绝和她一起出去，拒绝一起去拜访朋友，事实上，拒绝带她去参加任何社交娱乐活动，而这些是她生活中的基本乐趣。有人看见他在戏院里，和他称之为莫埃的朋友们在一起。现在又有人看见他坐马车兜风。很可能，他对这件事又会有借口。也许还有她不知道的旁的人。不然的话，他为什么最近这么忙，对她这么冷淡呢？在最近六个星期里，他变得出奇地爱发脾气，出奇地喜欢拿起东西往外跑，不管家里有事没事。为什么呢？ 
她以更微妙的情感，想起他现在不再用往日那种满意或者赞赏的目光看她了。很明显，除了别的原因，他还认为她现在人老珠黄没有趣味了。也许他看到了她脸上的皱纹。她已显老，而他却仍然打扮成翩翩佳公子。他还是饶有兴味地去寻欢作乐的场所消遣。而她却--这一点她没有继续往下想。她只是感到整个情况太令人愤慨，因此对他恨之入骨。 
这事情她当时并没有声张，因为事实上这件事并不肯定，没有必要提出来。只是猜忌和反感的气氛更浓了，不时地引起一些毛毛雨般的小吵小闹。这些小吵往往因为怒气勃发而变成大吵。华克夏度假一事只是这类事情的延续而已。 
嘉莉在阿佛莱会堂登台的第二天，赫斯渥太太带了杰西卡去看赛马。同去的还有杰西卡认识的一个小伙子巴德·泰勒先生，当地家俱店老板的儿子。他们坐了马车，很早就出门了。碰巧遇到了好几个赫斯渥的朋友，他们都是兄弟会的会员，其中有两个前一晚去看了演出。本来看戏这个话题可能根本就不会提起，可是杰西卡的年轻朋友对她大献殷勤，占去了大部分时间。杰西卡的注意力被他吸引去了，于是闲得无聊的赫斯渥太太在和熟人应酬性地打了招呼以后，又开始朋友间的简短聊天，这简短的聊天又延长到长时间的聊天。从一个和她随便打一声招呼的人那里她听到了这个有趣的消息。 
“我知道，”那个身上穿着件图案极其漂亮的运动衫，肩上挎着个望远镜的人说道，“昨晚你没有来看我们的小演出。”“没有吗？”赫斯渥太太询问地说，很奇怪他怎么用这口气par提起一场她听都没有听说过的演出。她正想问：“是什么演出？"那人补充说：“我看到你丈夫了。”她的惊奇马上被更微妙的疑心代替了。 
“是啊，”她小心地说，“演得还好吗？他没有告诉我这一点。”“好极了，这是我看到过的业余演出中最出色的一常有一个女演员让我们大家都大吃一惊。”“是吗？”赫斯渥太太说。 
“是啊，你没有去实在太可惜了。听说你身体不舒服，我真为你惋惜。”“不舒服！”赫斯渥太太几乎要脱口而出重复这几个字了。 
但是她克制了自己想否认和质问的复杂冲动，用几乎刺耳的口气说道：“是啊，真太遗憾了。”“看起来，今天来看赛马的人不少，是不是？”这熟人评论说，话题就转到别的事情上去了。 
经理太太还想多问些情况，苦于找不到机会。她一时间还茫无头绪，急于自己琢磨琢磨，他究竟又在玩什么骗局，为什么她没有病却放空气说她有玻这是又一个例子说明他不愿意带她出去，还找了借口掩饰，她下决心要打听出更多的事情来。 
“你昨晚去看演出了吗？”当她坐在专座上，又有一个赫斯渥的朋友向她打招呼时，她就这样问道。 
“去了，可你没有去。” 
“是啊，”她答道，“我当时身体有点不舒服。”“我听你丈夫说了，”他回答说。“噢，戏演得很有味，比我原来估计的要好多了。”“有很多人去了吗？”“戏院客满了。真是我们兄弟会的盛会。我看到好几个你的朋友，有哈里生太太，巴恩斯太太，还有柯林斯太太。”“那么这是个社交聚会了。”“不错，是这样。我太太玩得很开心。”赫斯渥太太咬住了嘴唇。 
“哼，”她想，“原来他就是这么干的。跟我的朋友们说我有病，来不了。”她猜度着他为什么要单独去。这里面一定有鬼。她挖空心思要找出他的动机来。 
这一天琢磨下来，到晚上赫斯渥回家时，她已经满腔怒气，急于要他解释，急于向他报复了。她想要知道他这么做是出于什么目的。她敢肯定事情并不像她听到的那么简单，里面肯定另有名堂。恶意的好奇、猜疑，加上早上的余怒，使她活活就像一触即发的灾难的化身。她在屋里踱来踱去，眼角聚集起越来越深的阴影，嘴角边的冷酷的线条透着野蛮人的残忍。 
另一方面，我们很有理由相信，经理回家时满面春风，心情好到无以复加。和嘉莉的谈话以及和她的约定使他兴高采烈，高兴得简直想唱起来。他沾沾自喜，为自己的成功得意，也为嘉莉骄傲。他现在对任何人都抱着友善的态度，对他妻子也不存芥蒂。他愿意和颜悦色，忘记她的存在，生活在他重新焕发的青春和欢乐的气氛中。 
因此，眼下这个家在他看来非常令人愉快，非常舒适惬意。在门厅里他看到一份晚报，是女仆放在那里的，赫斯渥太太忘了拿的。在饭厅里饭桌已经摆好了，铺着台布，摆好了餐巾，玻璃器皿和彩色瓷器熠熠生辉。隔着打开的门，他看到厨房里柴火在炉子里噼啪燃烧，晚饭已经快烧好了。在小后院里，小乔治正在逗弄一条他新买的狗。客厅里，杰西卡正在弹钢琴，欢快的华尔兹舞曲声传到这舒适的家中的各个角落。在他看来，仿佛人人像他一样，恢复了好心情，倾心于青春和美丽，热衷于寻欢作乐。对周围的一切，他都想赞上两句。他满意地打量了一眼铺好的餐桌和晶亮的餐柜之后才上楼去，准备到窗子临街的起居间去，舒舒服服地坐在扶手椅里看报。但是当他走进去时，他发现他妻子正在用刷子梳理头发，一边刷，一边在沉思。 
他心情轻松地走了进去，准备说上两句好话，作些允诺，好让他妻子消消气。但是他太太一言不发。他在那把大椅子里坐了下来，微微挪动一下身子，使自己坐得更舒服些，然后打开报纸看了起来。没过多久，看见一则芝加哥棒球队和底特律棒球队比赛的有趣报道，他脸上露出愉快的微笑。 
他在看报时，他太太通过面前的镜子不经意地打量着他。 
她注意到他那快乐满足的神气，轻松潇洒的举止，和乐不可支的心情，这使得她更加怒气冲冲。她真弄不懂他在对她加以讥嘲冷漠和怠慢之后，怎么竟会当着她的面，拿出这样的神气来。如果她加以容忍，他还会继续这样做的。她心里想着该怎么对他说，怎么强调她的要求，怎么来谈这件事，才能彻底发泄她心头的怒气。事实上，就像悬在达漠克利斯头上的宝剑只维系于一根发丝一样，她的怒气也只是由于还待措辞才暂时没有爆发。 
与此同时，赫斯渥正读到一则有趣的新闻，讲的是一个初到芝加哥的陌生人如何被赌场骗子引诱上当的消息。他觉得这消息非常有趣，就移动了一下身子，一个人笑了起来。他很希望这能引起他妻子的注意，好把这段新闻读给她听。 
“哈哈，”他轻声叫了起来，像是在自言自语，“这太让人发笑了。”赫斯渥太太继续梳理着头发，甚至不屑朝他瞅一眼。 
他又动了一下身子，接着看另一则消息。终于他感到该让他的好心情宣泄一下了。朱利亚也许还在对早上的事情耿耿于怀，不过这事情不难解决。事实上是她不对，不过他并不介意。如果她愿意的话，她可以马上去华克夏，越早越好。这一点他一有机会就会告诉她，这样这件事就会过去了。 
“你注意到这则新闻没有，朱利亚？”他看到另一则消息时，终于忍不住开口说，“有人对伊利诺州中央铁路公司提起诉讼，不准他们在湖滨区修铁路。”她不想搭理他，但是终于勉强自己说道：“没有。”口气非常尖锐。 
赫斯渥竖起了耳朵。她说话的口气在他脑中敲响了警钟。 
“如果他们真这么做的话，那倒不错，”他继续说道，半自言自语，半对着她说，不过他已经感到他老婆今天有点不对劲。他非常警觉地把注意力又转向报纸，心里却在留神她的动静，想弄明白究竟出了什么事。 
其实，要不是他心里在想别的事，像赫斯渥这样乖巧的人--善于察言观色，对于各种气氛特别敏感，特别是对于那些属于他思想水准以内的气氛非常敏感--本来不会犯这样大的错误，竟然会看不出他妻子正满腔怒气。嘉莉对他的眷顾和许诺使他兴奋异常，神不守舍。不然的话，他不会觉得家里的气氛那么可爱的。今晚的气氛实在没有什么欢乐兴奋之处，是他看走了眼。如果他回家时的心情和往日一样，他本来可以更好地应付眼前的局面的。 
他又看了几分钟报纸，随后感到他应该想个什么法子缓和一下矛盾。显然他妻子不打算轻易和他和解。于是他问：“乔治在院里玩的那只狗是从哪里弄来的？”“我不知道，”她气势汹汹地说。 
他把报纸放在膝盖上，心不在焉地看着窗外。他不打算发脾气，只想保持和颜悦色，希望藉问这问那达成某种温和的谅解。 
“早上那件事，你何必那么生气呢？”他终于说道，“这事情不值得吵架。你知道，如果你真想去华克夏，你去好了。”“你好一个人留下来，跟别人调情，是不是？”她转过身来对他嚷道，铁板着的脸上露出尖刻愤怒的讥嘲。 
他像被人打了一个耳光，一下僵住了。他的劝说和解的态度立刻消失了，他迅速转入守势，可是一时间不知道该如何回答。 
“你是什么意思？”他终于打起精神问道，目光注视着眼前这个冷酷坚决的女人。她却不加理会，继续在镜子前打扮。 
“我是什么意思，你自己心里明白，”她终于说道，好像她手里掌握了大量的证据却不屑于说似的。 
“不，我不明白，”他固执地说，但心里却很紧张，提防着下一步的攻势。这女人那种最后摊牌的神气使他在争吵中感到处于劣势。 
她没有回答。 
“哼！”他把头一歪轻轻哼了一声。这是他最无力的举动，口气中一点也没有把握。 
赫斯渥太太注意到了他的话苍白无力，于是像个野兽一样回过身来面对着他，准备再来一下有力的打击。 
“到华克夏去的钱，我明天早上就要，”她说道。 
他吃惊地看着她。他从来没有见过她的目光露出这么冰冷坚决的表情--这么满不在乎的残酷表情。她似乎镇定自若--充满着自信和决心要从他手中夺去一切控制权。他感到自己的一切机智谋略在她面前无能为力无法自卫。他必须进行反击。 
“你是什么意思？”他跳起来说道，“你要！我想知道你今晚中了什么邪？”“我没中邪，”她怒火直冒，“我就是要那笔钱，你拿出钱以后再摆你的臭架子吧。”“摆臭架子？哼！你别想从我手里拿到钱，你那些含沙射影的话是什么意思？”“昨晚你去哪里了？”她回击道，她的话听上去非常激烈。 
“你在华盛顿大道和谁一起坐马车兜风？乔治那晚看到你时，你和谁在一起看戏？你以为我是个傻瓜，会让你蒙了吗？你以为我会坐在家里，相信你那些'太忙''来不了'的鬼话吗？我会听任你在外面造谣放风说我来不了？我要你放明白一点，你那种老爷派头对我来说已经用不上了。你别再想对我或者孩子们指手划脚了。我和你之间的关系已经彻底完了。”“你说谎，”他说道，他被逼得走投无路，想不出什么别的借口辩解。 
“说谎？哼！”她激烈地说，但随后又恢复了克制，“你爱说这是谎话你就去说好了，反正我心里明白。”“这是谎话，我告诉你，”他用低沉严厉的口气说道。“好几个月来，你就在四处打听，想找出什么罪名来。现在你以为你找到了。你以为你可以突然发难，爬到我的头上来了。哼！我告诉你这办不到。只要我在这房子里，我就是一家之主。不管你还是别的什么人都别想对我发号施令，你听到没有？"他眼冒凶光，一步步朝她逼去。看到这女人那种冷静讥讽，胜券在握，好像她已经是一家之主的神气，一时间他恨不得把她气死。 
她直视着他--活脱脱一个女巫的神气。 
“我并没有朝你发号施令，”她回答。“我只是告诉你我要什么。”她说得那么冷静，那么勇气十足，使他不知怎么泄了气。 
他无法对她反击，无法要她拿出证据来。不知怎么，他感到她的闪烁的目光好像在表明证据和法律在她那一边，也使他想其他的全部财产在她名下。他就像一艘战船，强大而有威慑力，就是没有风帆，只好在海上摇摆挣扎。 
“我要告诉你的是，”他终于略微恢复了一点镇静说道，“哪些东西你别想得到手。”“那就走着瞧好了，”她说。“我会弄明白我有些什么权利。 
如果你不想和我谈，也许你会乐意和我的律师谈。”她这一手玩得真漂亮，马上奏了效。赫斯渥被击败了，只好退却。他现在已经意识到她并不是在装模作样地恫吓，自己面临的是一个不容乐观的难题了。他几乎不知道应该说些什么。这一天的欢乐情绪如今已消失得无影无踪，他又不安又恼火。怎么办呢？ 
“随你的便吧，”他终于说道，“我不想和你再吵了。”他说着大步走出了房间。
Chapter 23 A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL: ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND
When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of decision. She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her promise, or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She went over the whole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument. She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married. She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it came to walking away from him without a word, she felt as if she were doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, and to one who is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent matter, and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "You do not know what will come. There are miserable things outside. People go a-begging. Women are wretched. You never can tell what will happen. Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what you have." 
Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a firm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving, and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from its seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass, and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This majesty of passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it is usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successful mating. 
Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on Carrie's part, we have seen. She might have been said to be imagining herself in love, when she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows from the fact that in each exists a bias towards affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and a natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It persuades them that they are in love. 
Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never took the house-maid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one of the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out. To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet put in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited and full of determination to know all about her relations with Hurstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and looking out. 
"Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes you hurry so?" 
Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see. 
"When did you get home?" he asked foolishly. 
"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?" 
"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and I thought you had gone out." 
"So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk." 
Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most flagrant manner until at last she said: 
"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?" 
"Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking." 
"Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude. 
"Oh, nothing -- nothing much." 
"Well, then, what makes you look so?" 
Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the little toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe that the pretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory to himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, after all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some sort, but he knew not what. 
"Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly. 
"Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie. 
"Sure you did?" he asked. 
"Yes, what makes you ask?" 
She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly. 
"I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in the most useless manner. 
Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm. 
"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty forehead. "You act so funny to-night." 
"I feel funny," he answered. 
They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject. 
"What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked. 
"Me and Hurstwood -- what do you mean?" 
"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?" 
"A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you mean?" 
"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here every night." 
"No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you that?" 
She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with denials. 
"Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?" 
"Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came." 
Drouet paused for a moment and thought. 
"I know what you told me," he said finally. 
He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly. 
"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," said Carrie, recovering herself. 
"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I wouldn't have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know." 
"Who -- who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word. 
"Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he was delivering a telling blow. 
"Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without herself in a half-dazed way. 
"Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of order and exceedingly incriminating. 
"Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet. 
Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which were anything but crumbling cowardice. 
"I thought I told you," he added. 
"No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. "You didn't do anything of the kind." 
Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new. 
"I thought I did," he said. 
Carrie looked around her very solemnly and then went over to the window. 
"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet in an injured tone, "after all I've done for you." 
"You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?" 
Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings -- shame at exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's deception, the mockery he had made of her. Now one clear idea came into her head. He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwood out -- Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind now about Hurstwood's perfidy -- why had he done this? Why hadn't he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had done for her! 
"Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his remark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal." 
"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me -- that's what you've done. You've brought your friends out here under false pretences. You've made me out to be -- Oh," and with this her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically. 
"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer quaintly. 
"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. "No, of course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with your information and your talk about what you have done." 
Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath. 
"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but certain that he was wronged. 
"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward, that's what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing." 
The drummer stared. 
"I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with other men, anyway?" 
"Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men -- you know better than that. I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't you bring him here? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take me out. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn't to go with him and that he's a married man." 
She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. The knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife. 
"Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes dry. "Oh, oh!" 
"Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was away," insisted Drouet. 
"Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's peculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would be to your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me -- a plaything. Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do with you at all. You can take your old things and keep them," and unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things which belonged to her. 
By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He looked at her in amazement, and finally said: 
"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of this thing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after all I did for you." 
"What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown back and her lips parted. 
"I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around. "I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken you everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and more too." 
Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated. She felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably. 
"Did I ask you to?" she returned. 
"Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it." 
"You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You stand there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old things. I'll not have them. You take them to-night and do what you please with them. I'll not stay here another minute." 
"That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his own approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk off. That's just like a woman. I take you when you haven't got anything, and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no good. I always thought it'd come out that way." 
He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if he saw no way of obtaining justice. 
"It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else. You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate you, I tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a big, insulting" -- here she hesitated and used no word at all -- "or you wouldn't talk that way." 
She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over her little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, red cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim or conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the whole difficulty would end. 
"Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out, eh? You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood or you wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't pull out for me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you haven't done me right." 
"I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live with you. You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here." 
"Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered. 
Carrie walked over to the door. 
"Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off. 
"Let me out," she said. 
"Where are you going?" he repeated. 
He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance. 
Carrie merely pulled at the door. 
The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She made one more vain effort and then burst into tears. 
"Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want to rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay here now and be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay here any longer." 
Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so overcome she could not speak. 
"Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You can go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, I don't want to stop you." 
He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the influence of his plea. 
"You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last. 
Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by this thought, angered by that -- her own injustice, Hurstwood's, Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling fibres -- an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift. 
"Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a new idea, and putting his hand upon her. 
"Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchief from her eyes. 
"Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to do. Eh?" 
Carrie made no answer. 
"You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up now. You can't go anywhere." 
Still he got nothing for his words. 
"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get out." 
Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the window. 
"Will you do that?" he asked. 
Still no answer. 
"Will you?" he repeated. 
She only looked vaguely into the street. 
"Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?" 
"I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer. 
"Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking about it. It'll be the best thing for you." 
Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer reasonably. She felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in her had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was in a most helpless plight. 
As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover. Now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at losing Carrie, misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in some way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining of Carrie, the making her feel her error. 
"Will you?" he urged. 
"Well, I'll see," said Carrie. 
This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It looked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get some way of talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouet aggrieved. He pretended to take up the task of packing some things in a valise. 
Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain sound thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. On the other hand there was Hurstwood -- a greater deceiver than he. He had pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had loved him. There could be nothing more in that quarter. She would see Hurstwood no more. She would write him and let him know what she thought. Thereupon what would she do? Here were these rooms. Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain. Evidently things could go on here somewhat as before, if all were arranged. It would be better than the street, without a place to lay her head. 
All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collars and laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was in no hurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which would not down. He could not think that the thing would end by his walking out of the room. There must be some way round, some way to make her own up that he was right and she was wrong -- to patch up a peace and shut out Hurstwood for ever. Mercy how he turned at the man's shameless duplicity. 
"Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that you'll try and get on the stage?" 
He was wondering what she was intending. 
"I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie. 
"If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in that line." 
She made no answer to this. 
"Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me help you," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here." 
Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair. 
"I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way." 
He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on. 
"Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time, "and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?" 
"Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You were to blame." 
"No, I wasn't," he answered. 
"Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever told me such a story as that." 
"But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on Drouet, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her. 
"I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn the peace arrangement had taken. 
"What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer, stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You might let me know where I stand, at least." 
"I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whatever has happened is your own fault." 
"Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely and experiencing a rush of feeling. 
"Oh, stop!" said Carrie. 
"Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed Drouet. "You may trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. You can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer!" 
He shoved the last few remaining things. he had laid out into his valise and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat, which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out. 
"You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as he reached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with a jerk and closed it equally vigorously. 
Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything else at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly believe her senses -- so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. It was not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A real flame of love is a subtle thing. It burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairy lands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds.
等到嘉莉回到家，她又为种种疑虑和担心所困扰。这是缺乏决断的结果。她无法确信自己的允诺是适当的，也无法肯定在作出了这个承诺以后自己是否该信守诺言。离开赫斯渥以后，她把这件事又细细想了一遍，发现了好些在经理热烈说服时她没有想到的小问题。她意识到自己的处境有点不尴不尬--一方面她让人把自己看做已婚女子，另一方面她又答应嫁人。她又想起杜洛埃为她做的好事来，不禁觉得这样不声不响离他而去，像是在做坏事似的。她现在生活安定，这对一个多多少少害怕艰难世道的人来说，是一个至关紧要的问题。这一考虑也向她提出了一些奇怪荒唐的异议来：“你不知道这件事会有什么后果。外面的世界充满着不幸和苦恼，有靠要饭乞讨为生的人，还有命运气惨的妇女。你永远无法知道什么事会落到你头上。别忘了你没饭吃的那些日子。你现在得到的东西应该牢牢把握才对。”说也奇怪，尽管她倾心于赫斯渥，他却没能在理智上也牢牢控制她。她倾听着，微笑着，赞赏着，但是最后却不能苟同。 这要怪他缺少激情的力量，缺少那种辉煌无比的激情。这种激情可以令人神魂颠倒，可以把各种异议假设都熔化融合成一团缠结难理的情结，使理智和思维能力暂时被摧毁。几乎每个人一生中都曾有一次拥有过这种辉煌的激情。但这往往是青年人的特点，最后导致人生中第一次成功的婚姻。 
赫斯渥年纪已经不轻。尽管他确实还拥有一份热烈到丧失理智的激情，却很难说他还保存着青春的火焰。这份激情还可以引起女人的倾慕，这一点我们已经在嘉莉身上看到了。也许我们可以说嘉莉以为自己爱上了他，实际上她并没有。女人往往都是这样的。这是因为希望获得爱情，渴望为人所爱，得到被爱的快乐是每个女人的倾向。女性的特点之一是渴望得到庇护、提高和同情。再加上女人的情感丰富，天生易动感情，使她们往往难以拒绝男人的求爱，于是她们就自以为自己是在恋爱了。 
一到家，她就换了衣服，自己动手收拾房间。在家具布置方面，她和女仆的观点总是相左。那个年轻的女仆总爱把一把摇椅放在房间的角落里，嘉莉总是把摇椅再搬出来。今天她只顾想心事，几乎没有注意到椅子又放错了位置。她在房间里忙来忙去，一直忙到杜洛埃５点钟回家。这个推销员脸涨得通红。神情激动，下决心要弄清她和赫斯渥的全部关系。不过，他整整一天都在脑子里翻来覆去想这个问题，漫长的一天下来，他已经想得有点厌倦了，只希望尽快把这问题了结算了。 
他并没有预见到会产生什么严重后果，然而他踌躇着不知如何开口。他进来时嘉莉正坐在窗前的摇椅里，边摇晃着摇椅，边看着窗外。 
“咦，”她天真地说，这当儿她想心事已经想烦了，看到他匆匆忙忙的样子和难以掩饰的激动神情不由感到奇怪，“你为什么这么慌慌张张的？”杜洛埃迟疑起来。现在和她面面相对，他却不知道该怎么办。他毫无外交家的素质，既不善窥探人的内心思想又不会观察细枝末节。 
“你什么时候回来的？”他傻乎乎地问。 
“噢，大概个把小时前。你问这个干什么？”“今早我回来时，你不在家，”他说，“因此我想你出去了。”“是啊，”嘉莉简单地回答说，“我去散步了。” 
杜洛埃惊讶地看着她。尽管他在这种事上并不怕失了面子，他还是不知道如何开口。他直瞪瞪地看着她，不加一点掩饰，于是她终于开口问道：“你为什么这么看着我？出了什么事了？”“没什么，”他回答说，“我只是在想心事。”“想什么心事？”她微笑地问道，被他的态度弄糊涂了。 
“嗯，没什么--没什么了不起的事。” 
“那你脸上的神气怎么怪怪的呢？” 
杜洛埃站在梳妆台旁边，神情可笑地凝视着她。他已经脱下帽子和手套，现在正摆弄着离他最近的那些小化妆品。他不太相信眼前这个秀丽的姑娘会做出让他不满的事情来。他很乐意相信一切正常，并没有发生什么事情。可是女仆告诉他的消息刺痛着他的心。他想直截了当地提出这事，但是不知道该说什么。 
“今天上午你到哪里去了？”他终于问道，他的话毫无份量。 
“我去散步了，”嘉莉说。 
“真是去散步吗？”他问。 
“是啊，你为什么要这样问？” 
她现在看出他已经听到了什么风声，所以她的态度立刻变得含蓄保留，她的脸色也变得苍白了。 
“我想你也许不是去散步的，”他徒劳无益地旁敲侧击说。 
嘉莉注视着他。这一注视使她正在消失的勇气又开始恢复一点了。她看出他并没有多少信心，凭一个女人的直觉，她感到没有必要惊慌失措。 
“你为什么这样说？”她皱起美丽的额头问道。“你今晚的举动太奇怪了。”“我感到心里不自在，”他答道。 
他们互相注视了一会儿。杜洛埃开始变得不顾一切，直截了当地提出了自己的问题：“你和赫斯渥是怎么一回事？”他问道。 
“我和赫斯渥？你是什么意思？” 
“我不在的时候他来了十几次，是不是？”“十几次，”嘉莉心虚地重复道，“不，没有。你是什么意思？”“有人说，你和他一起坐马车出去兜风，还说他每天晚上都来这里。”“没有这种事，”嘉莉答道，“这不是真的。谁告诉你的？”她脸涨得通红，一直红到了头发根。可是由于屋里的光线已经变得昏暗，杜洛埃并没有看出她的脸色的变化。既然嘉莉矢口否认，为自己辩解，他对嘉莉的信赖又大大恢复了。 
“嗯，反正有人告诉我，”他说。“你肯定没有吗？”“当然肯定，”嘉莉说。“你自己也知道他来过几次。”杜洛埃想了一会儿。 
“我只知道你告诉我的那几次，”他终于说。 
他紧张不安地在屋里走来走去。嘉莉在一旁狼狈地看着他。 
“嗯，我知道我没有跟你说过这样的话，”嘉莉恢复了镇定说道。 
“如果我是你的话。”杜洛埃没有去注意她的最后一句话，自顾自地说下去，“我是不会和他有任何瓜葛的。你知道，他是个结了婚的男人。”“谁--谁结了婚？“嘉莉结结巴巴地问。 
“当然是赫斯渥啊，”杜洛埃答道。他注意到了这话的效果，感到自己这一下显然给了她一个打击。 
“赫斯渥！”嘉莉叫着站了起来。听了这个消息，她的脸色变了好几次。她茫然地看着四周，想着心事。 
“这是谁告诉你的？”她问道，完全没想到她不该对这个消息露出关切，这不合她的身份，这么问简直是不打自招了。 
“怎么，这事我知道。我一向知道的，”杜洛埃说。 
嘉莉正试图从迷茫的思绪中理出一个头绪来。她的样子可怜兮兮的，然而在她心中油然而生的各种感情中却没有一丝令人精神崩溃的怯意。 
“我想我告诉过你了。”他又补充说。 
“不，你没有告诉过我，”她反驳说，她的说话能力突然恢复了。“你根本就没有提到过一丁点这类事情。”杜洛埃吃惊地听她说话，感到她的话里有点新东西。 
“我记得我说过的，”他说。 
嘉莉非常庄重地四周看看，然后走到窗子边去。 
“你不该和他有来往的，”杜洛埃委屈地说，“你也不想想我给你帮了多少忙。”“你，你！”嘉莉说，“你给我帮了什么忙？”各种矛盾的情感在她的小脑袋瓜里汹涌起伏--为事情的暴露而羞愧，为赫斯渥的背信弃义感到耻辱，又为杜洛埃的欺瞒和他现在对她的嘲笑感到气恼。在她思想中有一点现在是明确的了：这事都怪他不好。这是毫无疑问的了。他为什么要把赫斯渥介绍给她--赫斯渥，一个已婚男人，却从来没有提醒她一声？现在先别管赫斯渥的背理悖行--他为什么要这样做？他为什么不警告她一声？他明明可耻地辜负了她对他的一片信赖，现在却还站在那里，高谈他给她帮的忙！ 
“好哇，你说的倒有意思，”杜洛埃嚷道，一点没想到自己刚才的话已经激怒了嘉莉。“我想我已经为你帮过不少忙了。”“你帮了我吗？”她回答说，“你欺骗了我，这就是你帮的忙。你用虚假的名义把你的那些狐朋狗党带到这里来。你把我变成了--呵！”说到这里她的声音哽咽了，悲伤地把她的一双小手紧紧合在一起。 
“我看不出这和你的事有什么联系，”杜洛埃说道，他感到莫名其妙。 
“不错，”她恢复了平静，咬牙切齿地说，“不错，你当然看不出了。你什么东西也看不出来。你不能一开始就告诉我，是吗？你一定要让我出了丑，事情弄得不可收拾了才告诉我。现在你又拿你得到的消息鬼鬼祟祟地来盘问我，还要大谈你给我帮的忙。”杜洛埃从来没想到嘉莉的性格中还有这一面。她情绪激动，两眼冒火，嘴唇颤抖着，全身心感到自己受了伤害而怒气满腔。 
“谁鬼鬼祟祟来了？”他反问道，微微有点愧疚，但是认定自己受了冤枉。 
“就是你，”嘉莉跺着脚说，“你是个自高自大、讨厌透顶的胆小鬼。你就是这样的人。你如果有点男子汉大丈夫的气概，你就不会想到要干这种事。”推销员目瞪口呆了。 
“我不是胆小鬼，”他说。“不管怎么说，你和别的男人来往又是什么意思？”“别的男人！”嘉莉叫了起来。“别的男人--你自己心里明白是怎么一回事。我确实和赫斯渥出去了，可是这要怪谁不好？不是你把他带到这里来的吗？你自己告诉他，让他来这里带我出去玩。现在玩过了，你倒跑来对我说，我不该和他来往的，他是有妇之夫。”她说到“有妇之夫”就说不下去了，痛苦地扭曲着双手。赫斯渥欺骗她的消息像一把刀捅到了她的心里。 
“呵，呵！”她抽泣着，但是竭力克制着，眼睛里竟然还没有冒出泪水，“呵，呵！”“嗯，我没有想到我不在时你会和他交往密切，”杜洛埃固执地说。 
“没想到！”嘉莉说，她现在让这个家伙的古怪态度彻底激怒了。“你当然想不到了，你只想得到一厢情愿的事情。你只想到把我当作你的玩物--一个玩具。哼，我要让你知道这办不到。我要和你一刀两断。把你那些破玩意儿拿回去吧，我不要了。”她说着摘下了他送给她的一个小饰针，用力扔到地上。 
然后在屋里走来走去，像是要收拾属于她的东西。 
她的举动不仅让杜洛埃恼火，也让他进一步迷住了。他吃惊地看着她，终于说道：“我不明白你的怒气是从哪里来的。这件事是我有理。你看在我为你做的一切的份上，不应该做对不起我的事。”“你为我做了什么事情？”嘉莉问。她仰着头，张着嘴，火直往外冒。 
“我看我做的不算少了。”推销员说着看了看四周。“你要的所有衣服，我都给你买了。对不对？我还带你去逛了你想逛的所有地方。我有的，你也有。而且你的东西比我的还多。”不管怎么说，嘉莉不是忘恩负义的人。从理智上来说，她当然认识到杜洛埃给她的好处。她几乎不知道该如何来回答他，然而她的怒气并没有气息。她感到杜洛埃已经给她造成了无法弥补的伤害。 
“是我问你要的吗？”她反问道。 
“嗯，是我送的，”杜洛埃说，“但是你接受了！”“听你说话的口气，好像是我问你讨的，”嘉莉说，“你站在那里唠唠叨叨吹嘘你为我做的事。我不要你这些玩意了，我不要了。你今晚就拿走，你爱拿这些东西怎么办，就怎么办好了。 
这里一分钟我也不想呆了。” 
“这倒真有意思！”他答道，想到自己即将蒙受的损失生气了。“东西用过了，然后把我大骂一通，准备拍拍起股走路了。 
真是典型的女人作风。你一无所有的时候我收留了你。好，等你遇到别人了，我就一无是处了。我早就知道会有这种结果。”想到自己对她这么好，却落到这下场，他确实很伤心，真是天理何在。 
“不是这么回事，”嘉莉说，“我并不是要和别人私奔。是你让人难受，一点不体恤人。我恨你。我告诉你，我不想和你住在一起了。你是个侮辱人的大--”说到这里她打住了，迟疑着没有说出骂人的话，“否则你就不会这么对我说话了。”她已拿了她的帽子和外套，把外套套在单薄的晚装上。几绺卷发从头一侧的发带里掉了出来，在她红得发烧的脸颊上晃荡。她又气又愧，非常地伤心，大眼睛里已经蕴满了痛苦的热泪，不过还没有掉下来。她心烦意乱，束手无策，没有目的也没有结果地东摸摸西想想，不知这场争吵会怎么收常“好哇，这样结束倒不错，”杜洛埃说，“想卷铺盖走了，是不是？你真行埃我敢打赌，你和赫斯渥打得火热，否则你不会这样做的。这房子我不要了。你不用为了我搬走。你可以继续住这里，我才不在乎呢。但是老天爷在上，你对不起我。”“我再也不和你住在一起了，”嘉莉说。“我不愿意和你一起生活了。自从来这里以后，你什么也不干，就会自吹自擂。”“哇，根本没这回事，”他回答。 
嘉莉朝门口走去。 
“你到哪里去？”他说着大步走了过来，拦住了她。 
“让我出去，”她说。 
“你去哪里？”他又问了一遍。 
他这人特别富有同情心。所以虽然满腹委屈，但是看到嘉莉要离家出走，不知会飘零到哪里去，心就不由得软了。 
嘉莉不回答，只是去拉门。 
这局面实在太让她受不了了。她又徒劳地拉了一下门以后，再也忍不住了，就放声哭了起来。 
“好了，嘉德，你理智一点，”杜洛埃柔声说道。“你这么冲出去有什么好处呢？你没有什么地方好去。何不就留在这里，安静下来呢？我不打扰你，我不想再留在这里了。”嘉莉抽抽搭搭地从门边走到窗前，哭得说不出话来了。 
“理智一点嘛，”他说，“我并不是要阻拦你。你想走你就走好了。但何不把这事先仔细想想呢？老天在上，我绝没有拦你的意思。"他没有得到回答，不过他的请求让她安静下来了。 
“你留在这里，我走，”他终于又补充说。 
嘉莉听着他的话，心里百感交集。就像小船失去了锚，她的思绪毫无逻辑地四处漂浮，一会为这个想法难受，一会为那个念头生气。她想到自己的不是，赫斯渥的不是，杜洛埃的不是，又想到他们各自对自己的情意和帮助。她想到出外谋生的艰难--她已经失败过一次了。她又想到不可能再留在这里了，她已经没有资格住在这些房间里了。这些思绪再加上吵架给神经带来的压力，使她的思想就像一团乱麻，理不出个头绪来--一条没有锚的小船受风雨的摆布，除了随波逐流，无能为力。 
这样过了几分钟，杜洛埃有了个新主意。他走过来，把手搭在她身上，开口说，“这样吧--”“别碰我！”嘉莉说着挪开身子，但是仍用手帕捂着眼睛。 
“现在别去管吵嘴这回事了，把它放一边去吧。不管怎样，你可以在这里住到月底。然后你可以想想怎么办好一点。怎么样？"嘉莉没有回答。 
“你最好就这么办，”他说，“你现在收拾行李离开，一点用处也没有。你无处可去。”他仍然没得到回答。 
“如果你同意这么办，我们暂时就不谈了。我搬出去祝”嘉莉从眼睛上微微取下手帕，看着窗外。 
“你愿意这么做吗？”他问道。 
仍然没有回答。 
“你愿意吗？”他重复道。 
她只是茫然地看着窗外的马路。 
“喂，说话呀，”他说，“告诉我，你愿意吗？”“我不知道，”嘉莉迫不得已地轻声说。 
“答应我，就照我说的做。”他说，“我们就不再谈这件事了。这样做对你是最好的。”嘉莉听着他的话，但是没法理智地回答他。她感觉得到他对她很温柔，他对她的兴趣并没有减弱，这使她一阵内疚。她真是左右为难。 
至于杜洛埃，他的态度是一个妒忌的情人的态度。他的感情很复杂，为受骗生气，为失去嘉莉难过，为自己的失败伤心。 
他想以某种方法重获他的权利，然而他的权利包括继续拥有嘉莉，并且让她承认自己错了。 
“你答应吗？”他催促道。 
“嗯，让我想想，”嘉莉说。 
虽然这回答仍模棱两可，但是比刚才的回答进了一步。看起来，如果他们能想个法子聊聊的话，这场争吵就会过去了。 
嘉莉感到羞愧，杜洛埃感到委屈。他开始假装往旅行箱里装东西。 
现在，当嘉莉用眼角打量他时，她的脑子里开始有了正确一点的想法。不错，他是有错，可是她自己干的又算什么事呢？ 
他尽管一心想着自己，但是他和气，善良，心眼好。在这场争吵中从头到尾他没有说过一句严厉的话。另一方面，那个赫斯渥是个更大的骗子。他的温柔和激情全是装出来的，他一直在对她撒谎。啊，男人的奸诈！而她竟然会爱他。当然现在一点爱也谈不上了，她现在再不会和赫斯渥见面了。她要写信给他，把她的想法告诉他。那么，她该怎么办呢？这里的房子还在，杜洛埃仍在恳求她留下来。显然，如果一切安排妥当，她还可以像以往那样住在这里。这要比流落街头无处栖身好得多。 
她脑子里在想着这一切时，杜洛埃在翻箱倒柜地寻找他的衬衫领子。他又化了不少时间，才找到了一个衬衫的饰扣。 
他并不急于收拾行李。他感到嘉莉的吸引力并没有减弱。他无法想象他和嘉莉的关系会随着他走出这个房间而告终。一定会有什么解决的办法，有什么办法能让她承认自己不好，承认他是对的--他们就可以言归于好，把赫斯渥永远排除出去了。老天啊，这个家伙的无耻的欺骗行为，实在让人恶心。 
“你是不是在想上舞台试试？”沉默了几分钟以后，他问道。 
他猜测着她有什么打算。 
“我还不知道我会做什么，”嘉莉说。 
“如果你想上舞台，也许我能帮助你。那一行里我有不少朋友。”她没有回答。 
“不要身无分文地出外闯荡。让我帮助你，”他说，“在这里独自谋生不容易。”嘉莉只是坐在摇椅里摇着。 
“我不愿意你这样出去遇到重重困难。” 
他又提出了一些别的细节问题，但是嘉莉继续在摇椅里摇着。 
过了一会儿，他又说道：“你把这件事都告诉我，我们把这事了结了，不好吗？你并不爱赫斯渥，对不对？”“你为什么又开始提这件事？”嘉莉说，“都怪你不好。”“不！不怪我，”他回答说。 
“没错，你也有不是，”嘉莉说，“你为什么对我撒那样的谎呢？”“但是你并没有和他有多少瓜葛，是不是？”杜洛埃又问，他急于听到嘉莉的直截了当的否定，这样他才可以感到安心。 
“我不想谈这件事，”嘉莉说。这样盘问她来达成和解，实在让她痛苦。 
“嘉德，你这样做有什么用处呢？”推销员固执地问。他停止收拾行李，富有表情地举起一只手：“你至少该让我知道我现在的地位。”“我不愿意说，”嘉莉回答。她感到除了发脾气，她无法躲闪。“不管发生了什么事，都要怪你不好。”“那么说，你确实爱他了？”杜洛埃说。他这次完全停下手来，感到一阵怒气上涌。 
“别说了！”嘉莉说。 
“哼，我可不愿意做傻瓜，”杜洛埃叫道，“你想和他鬼混，你就去和他鬼混好了。我可不会让你牵着鼻子走。你愿意告诉我也好，不愿意告诉我也好，随你的便。反正我不想再当傻瓜了。”他把已经找出来的最后几件东西一下子塞进旅行箱，怒冲冲地啪地关上盖子。然后他一把抓起为了理行李脱掉的外套，捡起手套，就往外走。 
“对我来说，你见鬼去吧，”走到门边时，他说道。“我可不是吃奶的小孩子。”说着他猛地拉开门，出去时，又猛力关上门。 
嘉莉坐在窗边听着这一切，对于推销员的突然发怒感到非常吃惊。她简直不敢相信自己的眼睛和耳朵--他一直是一个那么善良和气的人。她当然不懂得人类强烈情感的来源。 
真正的爱情之火是一种微妙的东西。它会像磷火那样发出捉摸不定的光芒，跳跃着飞向欢乐的仙境。可是它也会像熔炉里的火焰一样熊熊燃烧。而妒忌往往为爱情之火的迸发提供了燃料。
Chapter 24 ASHES OF TINDER: A FACE AT THE WINDOW
That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon his entire future. While he was not sure how much significance might be attached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if long continued, would cause him no end of trouble. She was determined, and had worsted him in a very important contest. How would it be from now on? He walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his room, putting one thing and another together to no avail. 
Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her word law in the future. He would have to pay her the money which she would now regularly demand or there would be trouble. It did not matter what he did. She really did not care whether he came home any more or not. The household would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she could do as she wished without consulting any one. Now she proposed to consult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out at once just what advantages she could gain. 
Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of his situation. "She has that property in her name," he kept saying to himself. "What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool move that was." 
He also thought of his managerial position. "If she raises a row now I'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in the papers. My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he thought of the talk any action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about it? Every man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and deny and make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with him and there would be the devil to pay. 
Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this, and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything -- not a loophole left. 
Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the approaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad to wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned out to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. They were going to meet as usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it would be. Then he would take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture would return. 
In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he felt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began to feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the office, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with him no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to think, perhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out. 
His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something have happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached by his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never once occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as he ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had not been able to get away this morning. That was why no letter notifying him had come. He would get one today. It would probably be on his desk when he got back. He would look for it at once. 
After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the east, and by the time he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all afternoon. 
He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie. Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he needed to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words. 
At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned a messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a feeling of doubt. 
"I'm to bring an answer," said the boy. 
Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and read without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was sharply and coldly worded throughout. 
"I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't matter in the least. I must have some money. So don't delay, but send it by the boy." 
When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also -- the deepest element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words in reply -- "Go to the devil!" -- but he compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing, contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him into submission? He would go up there and have it out with her, that's what he would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These were his first thoughts. 
Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to be done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once. 
"Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make it hot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if I have to use force to do it!" 
He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless; umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm. 
At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get it. 
Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing. Yes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her -- he would go up there and have a talk with her, and that at once. 
He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have some arrangement of this thing. 
He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd got hold of Carrie, who knows -- or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush. She was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good grounds? 
He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other -- that he had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and see, anyhow. He would have no row. 
By the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and wished over and over that some solution would offer itself, that he could see his way out. He alighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob, but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No answer. He rang again -- this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it fiercely several times in succession, but without avail. Then he went below. 
There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen, protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars. When he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and then waited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back to his cab. 
"I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the individual who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin rain-coat. 
"I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby. 
Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily into the cab, relieved and distressed. 
So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by the Lord, that did beat all!
那天晚上赫斯渥整晚都留在商业区，没有回家。下班以后他到帕尔默旅馆过夜。他太太的行为对他的未来和前途造成了可怕的威胁，这使他心里火烧火燎的。尽管他还不知道应该如何估量她的威胁，他已肯定她这种态度如果继续下去，会给他带来无穷无尽的麻烦。她已经铁了心，而且在一次重要的交锋中击败了他。从今以后事情会怎么样呢？他在他的小办公室里踱来踱去，后来又在旅馆的房间里踱来踱去，把各种情况都考虑到了，就是一筹莫展。 另一方面，赫斯渥太太下了决心，不肯因为无所作为而失去她业已取得的优势。现在她既已将他吓倒，她要乘胜追击，提出她的种种要求。只要他让步接受了她的条件，那么今后她的话就成了家里的法律。她要不断地向他要钱，他不给也得给。不然的话，就让他吃不了兜着走。他的任何举动现在都无足轻重。他今后回不回家她才不在乎呢。他不来家，这个家里的一切反而愉快和谐。她可以随心所欲，不用征求任何人的意见。她打算要找律师咨询，还打算雇一个侦探。她要立刻弄明白她从中可以得到什么好处。 
赫斯渥在屋里踱步，心里估量着他的处境的主要方面。 
“产业在她的名下，”他不断对自己说，“这一招真是愚蠢之极。 
该死！这一步走得太蠢了。” 
他又想到了他的经理的职位。“如果她现在弄得满城风雨，我的一切就完了。假如我的名字上了报纸，他们会把我解雇了。而且我那些朋友们！”想到她采取的任何步骤都会造成流言蜚语，他心里更气恼了。报纸会怎么说呢？每个熟人都会在心里犯嘀咕。他将不得不向他们解释和否认，使自己成为众人的话柄。接着莫埃就会来和他商量，这一来他的前途就不堪设想了。 
想到这一切，他的眉头间聚起了许多细细的皱纹，额头也汗湿了。他想不出有什么出路--连一条缝隙也没有。 
这期间，嘉莉和即将来临的星期六的安排不时在他脑海里闪过。尽管他的处境已经一团糟，他并不为他和嘉莉的关系担心。这是他在困境中唯一令人欣慰的事。他可以把这件事安排得称心如意。因为如果有必要的话，嘉莉会乐意等待的。 
他要看明天情况而定。然后他会和她谈谈。他们会像往常一样见面。他在脑海里只看见她的美丽的脸和匀称的体态。奇怪，生活为什么不作美，为什么不让他永远享有和她共同生活的欢乐。如果他能如愿的话，生活会比现在美满得多。这又令他想起他太太的威胁，于是皱纹和冷汗又回到了他的脸上。 
早上他从旅馆来到了店里，打开他的信件。但是这些都只是通常那类信件。不知为什么，他有个感觉，觉得邮局会送来什么坏消息。因此当他仔细看了信件，没有发现什么令人疑心的信时，心里松了一口气。来办公室的路上他一点胃口也没有。现在他的胃口又恢复了，因此他决定在去小公园和嘉莉见面之前，顺路先拐到太平洋大饭店去喝上一杯咖啡，吃上几个小圆面包。到目前为止，他的危险并没有减少分毫，但是也还没有成为现实。在他目前的思想状态中，没有消息就是好消息了。只要他有足够的时间思考，他也许会想出什么法子来的。 
事情不可能演变成一场大灾难。他一定会找到一条出路的。 
但是，当他来到公园等嘉莉，一等再等仍不见她的人影时，他的情绪又低落了。他在他心爱的地点等了足足一个多小时，然后他站起来，开始心神不宁地在周围走来走去。会不会那里出了什么事使她来不了？他的妻子会不会去找她？肯定不会。他压根没有把杜洛埃放在心上，所以他一点没往那方面想，没担心他会发现真相。他左思右想，越来越坐立不安。随后他又猜想，也许没有什么大不了的，也许只是她今天临时走不开而已。所以他没有收到信，通知他来不了。今天他会收到一封信的。他回去时，说不定已有信在办公桌上等他了。他必须马上回去看看有没有她的信。 
过了一会儿，他放弃了等待，无精打采地到麦迪生大道坐街车。刚才还是灿烂的晴空，现在布满了小片小片的白云，把太阳遮住了，这使得他的情绪更为低落。风向转而朝东，等他回到酒店写字间时，天已经是阴沉沉的，看样子毛毛雨会整个下午淅沥淅沥下个没完。 
他走进酒店，查看他的信件，但是没有嘉莉的信。不过他感到庆幸的是，也没有他太太的信。谢天谢地，他还不必去面对那个难题，眼下他有那么多事要考虑。他又踱来踱去，外表装得和平常一样，但是内心的焦虑却难以言传。 
一点半的时候，他去雷克脱饭店吃午饭。等他回来时，一个信差正在恭候他。他心怀疑虑地打量了一下送信的小家伙。 
“要回条，”小伙子说。 
赫斯渥认出是他太太的笔迹。他撕开信，面无表情地看了信。信的格式一本正经，从头到尾的措辞极其尖刻冷淡：我要的钱请即刻送来，我需要这笔钱实施我的计划。 
你不回家，由你自便。这无关紧要。但是钱必须给我。不要拖延。让信差把钱带来。 
他读完了信，还手里拿着信站在那里。这封信的肆无忌惮的口气让他大吃一惊，也激起了他的怒火--他的最强烈的反抗情绪。他的第一个冲动是写四个字回敬：“见鬼去吧！"但是他克制了这个冲动，告诉信差没有回条，作为一种折衷。然后他在椅子里坐下来，两眼呆视着，思忖着这么做的后果。这样一来，她会采取什么步骤呢？该死的东西！她想把他压服吗？ 
他要回去和她吵个明白。他就要这么办。她太专横了。这些是他最初的想法。 
不过他的一贯的谨慎作风接着又抬了头。必须想个法子才行。危机已经迫在眉睫，她不会善罢甘休的。其他对她的了解，他深知她一旦下了决心，就会一竿子走到底。有可能她会把这件事立刻交到律师手里。 
“该死的女人！”他咬牙切齿地骂道。“如果她找我麻烦，我也要给她点颜色看看。我要让她改改说话的腔调，哪怕要动拳头！”他从椅子上站起身来，走到窗边看着外面的街道。绵绵的细雨已经开始下了。行人们竖起了外套衣领，卷起了裤脚边。 
没带伞的人把手插在衣服口袋里，带了伞的人高高举着桑街上成了一片圆圆的黑布伞面的海洋，翻滚起伏着，往前移动着。敞篷和有篷的运货马车嘈杂地鱼贯而行，发出嘎拉嘎拉的响声。到处有人在尽量躲雨。可是赫斯渥几乎没有注意到眼前的景象。在他的想象中，他一直在和他妻子正面交锋，强迫她改变态度，免得皮肉吃苦。 
４点时，他又收到了一张条子，上面简单地说，如果当晚钱没有送到，明天费茨杰拉德和莫埃先生就会得知此事。还会采取其他的步骤。 
赫斯渥看到她这么步步紧逼气得几乎要嚷了出来。是的，他必须把钱给她，他要亲自送去，他要去那里和她谈谈，而且得马上去。 
他戴上帽子，四处找桑对这事他要作出安排。 
他叫了辆马车。马车载着他穿过阴沉沉的雨幕驶向北区。 
在路上，他想到这事情的许多细节，情绪开始冷静下来。她知道些什么？她已经采取了什么步骤？也许她已经找到了嘉莉，谁知道呢--或者找到了杜洛埃。也许她确实掌握了证据，正暗中设下埋伏，准备对他来个突然袭击，像男人之间所做的那样。她是个精明的人。除非她确实有了证据，不然她怎么会对他这样辱骂呢？ 
他开始懊悔他没有用某种方法和她达成妥协--没有早送钱去。也许他现在去还来得及。无论如何，他要回去看看情况。他不想和她大吵大闹。 
等他到了他家所在的那条街时，他充分意识到他的处境的种种为难，一次次盼望某个解决办法从天而降，给他一条出路。他下了车，上了台阶，走到前门，紧张得心砰砰乱跳。他掏出钥匙，想把钥匙插进锁里，但是从里面已经插了一把钥匙。 
他摇了摇门把手，但是门锁住了。他去摇门铃，没有人应门。他又摇门铃，这次更用力了。仍然没有反应。他又一连几次使劲地摇门铃，但是一点用处也没有。于是他走下台阶。 
台阶下有一扇门通到厨房，门上装着铁栅栏，是用于防盗的。他走到这扇门跟前，发现门上了闩，厨房的窗子也放下了。 
这是什么意思？他又摇响了门铃，然后等在那里。最后，看到没人来给他开门，他转身朝马车走去。 
“我猜想他们都出门了，”他抱歉地对马车夫说。马车夫正用他宽大的防水雨衣遮着自己的红脸。 
“我看见上面窗子里有个年轻的姑娘，”马车夫回答说。 
赫斯渥朝上看了看，但是那里已经看不到人影了。他忧郁地上了马车，既松了一口气，又忧心忡忡。 
那么，这就是她玩的把戏了，是吗？把他关在门外，却向他要钱。天哪，这一手可真绝。
Chapter 25 ASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS
When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater quandary than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into? How could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He could hardly realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous, unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him without his let or hindrance. 
Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be the trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any kind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off -- where? He saw that in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan upon that score. He was desperately in love, and would have taken great chances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now -- now what? Supposing she had found out something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and told him that she knew all -- that she would have nothing more to do with him? It would be just like this to happen as things were going now. Meanwhile he had not sent the money. 
He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which affected him. Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap his foot -- signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing. His whole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance. He drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months. He was altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation. 
For all his study nothing came of the evening except this -- he sent the money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up. 
Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place. 
"You take this to this address," he said, handing him the envelope, "and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood." 
"Yes, sir," said the boy. 
"If she isn't there bring it back." 
"Yes, sir." 
"You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy turned to go. 
"Oh, yes, sir. I know her." 
"All right, now. Hurry right back." 
"Any answer?" 
"I guess not." 
The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he had done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the wretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the boy at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the envelope and know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter back he wouldn't send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face. 
For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was wondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope. 
In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking anything out of his pocket. 
"Well?" said Hurstwood. 
"I gave it to her." 
"My wife?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"Any answer?" 
"She said it was high time." 
Hurstwood scowled fiercely. 
There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it. 
Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents. No word from Carrie. Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant. 
The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. He fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think. 
This process of thinking began by a reversion to Carrie and the arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How about that now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly increased as he devoted himself to this subject. He decided to write her care of the West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have her meet him. The thought that this letter would probably not reach her until Monday chafed him exceedingly. He must get some speedier method -- but how? 
He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or a cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding that time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and then began to think again. 
The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had contemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by now in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was afternoon and nothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and no letter. The helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the gloom of defeat. He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in, and nothing done. All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home, from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie, and without the ability to alter his condition one iota. It was the worst Sunday he had spent in his life. 
In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter which held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of the law offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal "Dear Sir," and "We beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that they had been retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matters which related to her sustenance and property rights, and would he kindly call and see them about the matter at once. 
He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook his head. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning. 
"Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know." 
Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket. 
To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quite certain now that she knew he was married and was angered at his perfidy. His loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her most. He thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did not send him word of some sort soon. He was really affected most miserably of all by this desertion. He had loved her earnestly enough, but now that the possibility of losing her stared him in the face she seemed much more attractive. He really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his mind's eye in the most wistful manner. He did not propose to lose her, whatever she might think. Come what might, he would adjust this matter, and soon. He would go to her and tell her all his family complications. He would explain to her just where he stood and how much he needed her. Surely she couldn't go back on him now? It wasn't possible. He would plead until her anger would melt -- until she would forgive him. 
Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there -- suppose she has gone?" 
He was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of and sit still. 
Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing. 
On Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himself into the mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he thought he saw a man watching him and went away. He did not go within a block of the house. 
One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back on a Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite the building of the concern with which his son was connected. This sent a pang through his heart. He had called on his boy there several times. Now the lad had not sent him a word. His absence did not seem to be noticed by either of his children. Well, well, fortune plays a man queer tricks. He got back to his office and joined in a conversation with friends. It was as if idle chatter deadened the sense of misery. 
That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his office. In the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. He troubled over many little details and talked perfunctorily to everybody. He stayed at his desk long after all others had gone, and only quitted it when the night watchman on his round pulled at the front door to see if it was safely locked. 
On Wednesday, he received another polite note from McGregor, James and Hay. It read: 
Dear Sir: 
We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until tomorrow (Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on behalf of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. If we do not hear from you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish to compromise the matter in any way and act accordingly. 
Very truly yours, etc. 
"Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. "Compromise!" Again he shook his head. 
So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what to expect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly. If he did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil. He folded the letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on his hat and went for a turn about the block.
赫斯渥回到办公室以后，感到更加进退维谷。他想，上帝啊，他落入了什么样的困境埃事情怎么会这样突如起来地急转直下？他难以理解这一切是怎么发生的。突然降临到他头上，让他无法抗拒阻挡的这局面在他看来简直是荒诞可怖，不近人情，毫无道理。 与此同时，他不时想到嘉莉。这方面又会发生什么问题呢？既没有信，也没有任何消息。现在已经是夜里了，她原先答应早上和他见面的。本来他们约好明天会合一起私奔的—-到哪里去呢？最近一连串的事情把他弄得焦头烂额，他发现他竟然对这个问题一点没有打算。他疯狂地爱着嘉莉，在正常的情况下，他会不顾一切地把她赢到手。但是现在--现在该怎么办呢？也许她已经得知了什么？假如她写信给他，说她什么都知道了，她再也不愿意和他来往了，那怎么办呢？照目前的形势看，这种事很可能发生的。接着他又想到，他的钱还没有送去。 
他在酒店的打蜡地面上走来走去，手插在口袋里，眉头紧皱，嘴巴紧闭。他抽了支上等雪茄，模模糊糊地感到心里好受了一些。但是雪茄烟无法帮他解决那些给他带来痛苦的倒霉事。他不时地捏紧拳头，用一只脚敲着地--这是他心情激动不安的迹象。他的心灵受到了剧烈的震撼，忍耐力已接近极限。几个月来他第一次喝了那么多白兰地兑苏打水，活脱脱是一副心烦意乱的模样。 
整个晚上，他翻来覆去地思索，但是毫无结果，只干成了一件事--他把钱送去了。经过两三个小时的紧张思想斗争，反复掂量了正反两方面的利弊，他才不情愿地拿过一个信封，把索取的金额装进去，又慢吞吞地封了信口。 
然后他把店里的勤杂工哈里叫了过来。 
“把这信封按地址送去，”他把信交给他时说道，“交给赫斯渥太太。”“是，先生，”仆役说道。 
“如果她不在家，就把信拿回来。” 
“是，先生。” 
“你见过我太太吗？”仆役转身要走时，他又不放心地问了一句。 
“嗯，见过，先生。我认识她。” 
“那好吧，快去快回。” 
“要回信吗？” 
“我看不会有。” 
仆役急急走了，经理又陷入了沉思。现在事情已经做了，再忖量也没有用了。今晚他既然已经认输，对失败还不如泰然处之为妙。可是这样被骗认输太让人难堪了！他可以想象得到她怎么脸带讥笑在门口接待仆役。她会收下信封知道是自己赢了。要是他能拿回信封就好了。他实在不乐意让她拿到那个信封。他粗粗地呼吸着，擦了擦脸上的汗。 
为了消愁，他站起身，加入到正喝酒的几个朋友中去，和他们聊天。他竭力要对周围的事情发生兴趣，可是办不到。他的心思早已飞回家中，想象着家里正在演出的那一幕，猜测当仆役把信封递给她时，她会说些什么。 
过了１小时３刻钟，仆役回来了。很显然他已把信送到了，因为当他向他走来时，并没有做出要从口袋里掏东西的样子。 
“怎么样？”赫斯渥问道。 
“我把信交给她了。” 
“是交给我妻子的吗？” 
“是的，先生。” 
“有答复吗？” 
“她说，信来得正是时候。” 
赫斯渥沉下了脸。 
那天晚上这件事就算了结了。他继续惦量着他的处境，直到夜里１２点回帕尔默旅馆去过夜。他心里想着第二天早上可能发生的新情况，所以这一晚难以入眠。 
第二天早上，他又来到酒店的写字间，打开他的邮件，既忐忑不安又怀着希望。没有嘉莉的信，不过让他欣慰的是，也没有他太太的信。 
他送去了钱，她也收下了，这个事实使他心安了。他不再去想钱是被迫送去的，所以他的懊恼就减轻了，同时对和解的希望也增加了。当他坐在办公桌旁时，他幻想着这一两个星期之内不会有什么事了，这期间他会有时间好好想想。 
他一开始好好想想，思绪就回到了嘉莉身上，回到让她脱离杜洛埃的计划上。这件事现在该怎么办呢？他一门心思地想着这个问题，想到她既没来和他见面，也没写信给他，使他心中痛楚遽增。他决定要给她写封信，通过西区邮局转交。他要请求她给个解释，还要请她来和他见面。想到她也许要到星期一才会收到这封信，他心里痛苦不堪。他必须想出一个更快的办法--但是怎么办呢？ 
这个问题他想了半小时。因为怕暴露，他既不打算差人送信，也不打算坐马车直接上她家。他发现时间在流逝，而办法却想不出来，于是他就先把信写了，然后接着想。 
时间一小时一小时地溜走了。随着时间的消逝，他原先打算的和嘉莉团聚的可能性也消失了。照原先的打算，他现在该兴高采烈地帮助嘉莉，让她和他同甘共苦。现在已是下午，他还一事无成。３点过去了，４点，５点，６点，一直没有信来。这位一筹莫展的经理在屋里踱着步，默默忍受着失败的痛苦。眼看着忙忙碌碌的星期六过去了，又迎来了礼拜天，还是一事无成。星期天酒吧整天关门，他独自沉思着，无家可归。没有热闹的酒店消愁，又没有嘉莉相伴，他内心的凄凉痛苦无法排解，这是他有生以来最糟糕的星期天。 
星期一的第二批邮件中，他收到一封像是法律事务所来的信，好一阵子他注意地看着信封。信上面印着麦·詹·海三人事务所的字样。信里面客套地用“先生阁下”和“敬告”字样开头，接着简短地通知他，他们受朱利亚·赫斯渥太太委托，就她的赡养问题和产权问题进行调停，务请惠顾面谈云云。 
他仔细地读了好几遍，然后摇了摇头。看起来他的家庭麻烦还只是开了一个头。 
“唉！”过了一会儿，他几乎说出声来，“这让人如何是好。”然后他把信迭起来，放进口袋。 
嘉莉仍然没有信来，这更加剧了他心中的痛苦。他现在已可以断定，她已经得知他是有妇之夫，对于他的欺瞒行为非常生气。在他最需要的时候失去她，使他加倍痛苦。他想，如果他再收不到她的信，他就要去找她，非见到她不可。在所有的事情中，她的遗弃确实让他最为痛苦。他确确实实一心一意地爱着她，现在面临失去她的危险，她在他眼中显得分外可爱。 
他苦苦盼着她的来信，如痴如醉地思念着她。不管她怎么想，他不能失去她。无论如何，他要解决这个问题，而且尽快地解决。他要去见她，把他家里的纠葛都告诉她。他要向她解释目前的处境，告诉她他有多么需要她。当然，她不会在这种时候抛其他吧？当然不会。他要苦苦哀求，一直到她消了气，一直到她原谅他。 
他突然想到：“会不会她已经不在那里了--会不会已经走了？”这个念头使他跳了起来。坐在那里想这种可能性太让人受不了了。 
然而站起来也于事无补。 
星期二情况照旧。他确实鼓起勇气出去找过嘉莉，但是当他走到奥登广场时，他感到有人在注意他，只好走开了。他没有走近公寓所在的那条马路。 
这次拜访中还发生了一件让他难堪的事情。他坐蓝道夫大街的街车回来时，不知不觉地，差一点来到了他儿子上班的那家商号大楼的对面。这使他心里一阵刺痛。他曾好几次去那里看望他的儿子。而如今，他儿子连一个字也没写给他。他的两个儿女似乎谁也没有注意到他没回家。唉，命运真会捉弄人埃他回到酒店，加入到朋友们中间聊天，好像闲聊可以麻痹他心中的痛楚。 
那天晚上，他在雷克脱大饭店吃了晚饭。饭后他立刻回到他的办公室。只有在熙熙攘攘气派豪华的酒店里，他才能得些安慰。他过问店里的琐细事务，和每个人都聊上两句。在所有的人都离开后，他还久久地坐在办公桌旁。直到巡夜人巡逻到酒店，试着拉前门是否锁好的时候，他才离开。 
星期三，他收到了麦·詹·海事务所的通知。上面客客气气地写道：阁下：本事务所受命通知您，本所将恭候阁下到明天即星期四下午一时。届时如不光临，本所将代表朱利亚·赫斯渥太太就离婚和赡养事务一案提起诉讼。在此期限之前，敬乞覆示。否则本所将认为阁下无意和解，而采取相应行动。 
某某谨启 
“和解！”赫斯渥恨恨地嚷道。“和解！”他又摇了摇头。 
现在一切都明摆在面前，他知道什么样的结果等待着他。 
如果他不去见他们，他们立刻会对他提出诉讼。如果他去见他们，他们会向他提出苛刻的条件，让他气得热血沸腾。他把信折起来，把它和上封信放在一起。然后他戴上帽子，在街区周围散步。
Chapter 26 THE AMBASSADOR FALLEN: A SEARCH FOR THE GATE
Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed out. It was some moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the rooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite the same towards them. She went over to the dresser and struck a match, lighting the gas. Then she went back to the rocker to think. 
It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she did, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone. Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear anything more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last long. She would have to quit them. 
To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood. She could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret. For a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash. She would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet she could not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only this one deed seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with all she felt and knew concerning the man. 
But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken about that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell completely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking it over. 
She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts. She looked at these things with certain misgivings. The contemplation of food had more significance than usual. 
While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had. It struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the insignificance of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of the month. She began also to think what she would have done if she had gone out into the street when she first started. By the side of that situation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable. She had a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out all right, after all. 
Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He only acted as if he were hurry. He would come back -- of course he would. There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his collars. He had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked about and tried to assure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived. Supposing he did come back. Then what? 
Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing. She would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to admit that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with him. 
On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and the passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her exceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street dress, and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion once again. She must look for work. 
The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served equally well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors as it did to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day. 
The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters, and besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass shining exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she went out the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses. She could not help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that life was a joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she wished over and over that something might interfere now to preserve for her the comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want Drouet or his money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with Hurstwood, but only the content and ease of mind she had experienced, for, after all, she had been happy -- happier, at least, than she was now when confronted by the necessity of making her way alone. 
When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock, and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was not necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to encounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of self-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew that she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed. Her clothes were becoming, and men -- well-dressed men, some of the kind who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished railings and imposing office partitions -- now gazed into her face with a soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and satisfaction of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She looked for nothing save what might come legitimately and without the appearance of special favour. She wanted something, but no man should buy her by false protestations or favour. She proposed to earn her living honestly. 
"This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and satisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to enter and inquire for work. It gave her an excuse, and after encountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clock registered 12.15, she decided that it would be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a car and went to Lincoln Park. There was always something to see there -- the flowers, the animals, the lake -- and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be up betimes and searching. Besides, many things might happen between now and Monday. 
Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing whip, that action -- immediate action -- was imperative. At other times she would look about her and assure herself that things were not so bad -- that certainly she would come out safe and sound. At such times she would think of Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw some chance for herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that opportunity on the morrow. 
Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made, but she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one about the theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was anything, you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how. 
She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever, and did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. She only knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all things, she did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her intimacy with his wife. 
There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera House, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, David A. Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one or two elaborate performances there and had heard of several others. She knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely enough to the showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet box-office, but she could get no further. A noted comic opera comedian was holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity overawed her. She could not imagine that there would be anything in such a lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which might have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find heart only to look at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. It seemed to her as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy to think of applying in that quarter again. 
This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of several playhouses fixed in her mind -- notably the Grand Opera House and McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions -- and then came away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored sense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her claims upon society, such as she understood them to be. 
That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and protracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet had not put in an appearance. She had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It was evident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no resource. 
In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction. Nothing but sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return. That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a cruel thing. 
Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage to approach. 
She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however. 
"Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by Carrie's looks. 
"I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question. 
"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow," volunteered the young man. "He's out of town." 
He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish to see about?" 
"I want to see about getting a position," she answered. 
"You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but he isn't here now." 
"When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this information. 
"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here after two o'clock." 
Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop. 
"Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself. 
One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an engagement at the Grand opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been sent on from New York to fill it. 
"His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office. 
Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk -- the manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of whom -- the occupants of the window -- were already observing her carefully. 
"I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr. Frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!" 
Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one motioned her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been talking went away quite crest-fallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at some papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern. 
"Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin, Harris?" 
"No," said the person addressed. "What was it?" 
"Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night. Better look it up." 
Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald." 
"What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets. 
Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain. Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called for advice. 
"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?" 
It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as did the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal their humour. 
"I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have you ever had any experience upon the stage?" 
"A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur performances." 
She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his interest. 
"Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended as much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie. 
"No, sir." 
"Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on the stage?" 
She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer to his engaging smirk, and say: 
"I need to make a living." 
"Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's a good reason, isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what you want to do. You ought to be in New York. There's more chance there. You could hardly expect to get started out here." 
Carrie smiled genially, grateful that he should condescend to advise her even so much. He noticed the smile, and put a slightly different construction on it. He thought he saw an easy chance for a little flirtation. 
"Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear. Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink. 
"Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so addressing the manager. "See you this afternoon." 
"All right," said the manager. 
The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read. 
"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?" asked the manager softly. 
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with." 
"I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?" 
"Yes, sir." 
The manager smiled most blandly. 
"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming a more confidential air. 
Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in his manner. 
"No," she said. 
"That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage. It's a good way to get experience." 
He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive manner. 
"I didn't know that," said Carrie. 
"It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a chance, you know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said, "and I've got to go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with me? We can talk it over there." 
"Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at once. "I have an engagement myself." 
"That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come in later. I may know of something." 
"Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation, and went out. 
"She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion, who had not caught all the details of the game he had played. 
"Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been lost. "She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus girl-that's all." 
This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish. 
"Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be in New York." 
Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not find any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person to whom she was referred was not to be found. 
These little expeditions took up her time until quite four o'clock, when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receive Hurstwood's letters. There was one there now, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled feelings. There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write and let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all over between them. 
At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult. 
"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she wrote in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to have anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances. Oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "You have caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get over your infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye." 
She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town. 
This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar. 
"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are you experienced?" 
At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much the same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly they would like to have her. 
When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but could not be sure. Everything had not been taken. 
So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now? Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone, very much alone. 
Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace. 
Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out. He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on the stair. 
When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood. 
Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival, he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others. He would find out how things stood. 
As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the little jacket he had first bought her -- her face a little more wistful than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him. 
"You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing her in the flesh. 
Then he went to the door, took a good look around, and went out.
杜洛埃走后，只剩下嘉莉一个人。她听着他远去的脚步声，几乎不明白怎么回事。她只知道他怒冲冲地走了。过了好一会儿，她才开始想，他是否还会回来。当然不是现在，而是以后还会不会回来。外面暮色已浓。她打量着房间，很奇怪这些房间今天为什么给人异样的感觉。她走到梳妆台前，划了根火柴，点亮了煤气灯。然后她走到摇椅边，坐下来思索。 好一会儿她才能集中思想。可是她一集中思想，就意识到了问题的严重性。她现在孤身一人，假如杜洛埃不回来怎么办呢？假如她再也听不到他的消息呢？这些漂亮的房间不能久住，她将不得不搬出去。 
应该指出的是，她一次也没想到要求助于赫斯渥，这是应该赞扬的。每次想到他都给她带来伤心、悔恨和痛苦。说实话，这事足以证明人类的邪恶。这证据让她大为震惊和害怕。他会不动声色地把她骗了，连眼皮也不眨一下。她差一点落入更糟糕的境地。然而她不能把他的音容笑貌从脑海里驱除出去。 
只有这一点似乎太奇怪太糟糕了，因为这不符合她现在对他的看法和情感。 
但她现在凄然一身。这一点在目前是首当其冲的问题。怎么办呢？她是不是该出外重新工作呢？是不是要在商业区首先找事呢？上舞台演戏！嗯，对。杜洛埃讲到过这一点。有没有希望当个演员呢？她在摇椅里摇来摇去，陷入深思，各种思绪纷至沓来。时间一分钟一分钟地过去了，夜幕已经完全降临。她还没有吃一点东西，然而她们坐在那里，心里反复掂量。 
她想起自己肚子饿了，就到后房的小柜跟前，那里还留着早饭吃剩下的一点食物。她忧心忡忡地打量着这些食物。食物现在比以往来得重要。 
吃着饭的时候，她开始考虑她还有多少钱。她想到这问题非常重要，就立刻去找她的钱包。钱包在梳妆台上，里面有７块钱的钞票，还有一些零钱。想到只有这么一点钱，她心里很沮丧。不过想起这个月的房租已经付过了，她心里又高兴起来。她还想到如果她刚才真的离家出走了，现在的境遇又会怎么样。这么一比，她感到眼下的处境还不算太糟，至少她还有点时间，也许以后一切又会好起来的。 
杜洛埃走了，但是这又怎么样呢？他并不像是真生气，他只是装出一副恼怒的样子。他会回来的--他会的，这是理所当然的。他的手杖还留在角落里，这儿还有他的一个衬衫领子。他的薄大衣也还留在衣橱里。她四处看着，用看到的这样那样的东西宽慰自己。但是随后她又想到另一个问题：如果他真的回来了，那又会怎么样呢？ 
这个问题尽管没有前一个难题那样令她不安，也好不到哪里去。她将不得不和他谈，向他解释。他会要她承认他没错。 
那样的话，和他继续生活在一起是不可能的。 
星期五，嘉莉想起她和赫斯渥有个约会。她看着他们约会的那个小时一分分地过去，心里重新清晰地感受到自己身受的灾难。她紧张不安，心里沉甸甸的，感到非采取行动不可。于是她穿上一件棕色的外衣，１１点钟的时候出门，再度到商业区去碰运气，她必须找份工作。 
１２点钟的时候，天阴沉沉的像要下雨。１点钟时真的开始下雨了，这场雨使嘉莉只好回家，整天呆在家里。这场雨也使赫斯渥情绪低落，一整天闷闷不乐。 
第二天是星期六，许多商行只营业半天。天气和暖怡人，阳光灿烂。下了一晚的雨以后，树木和草坪显得分外青翠。她出门时，大群的麻雀在叽叽喳喳地欢唱。看着可爱的公园，她不由感到，对于那些衣食无忧的人来说，生活真是趣味盎然。 
她一再盼望会出现什么奇迹，让她保住迄今享有的那份舒适生活。当然，她这么想时，并不是想要杜洛埃或者他的钱，也不是想和赫斯渥再有什么瓜葛，只是渴望继续过原来那种心满意足无忧无虑的日子。因为毕竟这些日子生活是快乐的，至少比眼下不得不单枪骑马地出外闯荡谋生要快乐得多。 
她来到商业区时，已经１１点了，这一天的营业时间所剩不多了。她一开始并没有意识到这一点。上次在这个紧张苛刻的地区闯荡带来的痛苦仍记忆犹新，影响着她的情绪。她四处游荡，竭力使自己相信她正打定主意要找工作，同时却又感到似乎她不必那么急于找工作。找工作太为难了，她还有几天可拖。此外，她并不认为她真的已经面临自食其力的难题。不管怎么说，她现在的条件比那时强：她的外貌比以前漂亮。她现在衣服合体，举止大为改进。男人们--那些衣冠楚楚的男人们，以前坐在他们气派的写字间里，从光亮的铜栏杆后面冷淡地看着她，现在却用柔和的目光注视着她的脸。她有几分感到了自己外貌的力量，心里沾沾自喜。但是这些并不足以使她感到完全自信。她要的并不是男人们的额外恩赐，而是合法正当地得到的工作。她有需求，但是任何男人也别指望用花言巧语或者小恩小惠来收买她。她要清清白白地自食其力。 
“本店星期六下午１点打烊。”她正感到该进去问问有没有工作的时候，店门口的这个告示让她如释重负欣喜满意。这下她有了一个不去求职的借口。这样的招牌看多了，钟的指钟又已指到１２点１刻，她就决定这一天再继续找工作是徒劳无益的。于是她就坐上一辆街车，到了林肯公园。这里总有不少值得观看的东西--花啦，动物啦，湖啦。她又宽慰自己，星期一她会早点起来找工作。再说，从现在到星期一这段时间里，什么事都可能发生的。 
星期天过去了，这一天充满着同样的疑虑，担忧，自我宽慰，和天知道还有些什么别的异想天开。每隔半小时，她就痛楚地想到该采取行动，而且必须立刻采取行动。这个念头像呼啸的鞭子梢抽打在身上。有的时候，她又会朝四周看看，安慰自己，事情还不算太糟--她一定能度过难关，安然无恙。这种时候她就会想起杜洛埃的建议，觉得在当演员方面，她也许会有一点机会。她决定第二天就去试试。 
为此，星期一早上她早早起来，细细地穿着打扮了一番。 
她不知道这种求职该如何着手，但是她认为这事肯定和剧场有较为直接的关系。你只要去剧场向人打听一下，求见经理，然后向他申请一个职位。如果有空缺的话，你也许会被录用。 
至少他会指点你该如何申请。 
她和这一类人从来没有打过交道，并不知道演艺圈里这些人的好色和诙谐。她只知道海尔先生担任的职务，但是由于她和他太太关系密切，她最不希望遇到的就是这位先生。 
不过当时有一个剧场--芝加哥歌剧院，声誉甚隆，剧院经理大卫·艾·汉德生在当地很有一点名气。嘉莉在那里看过一两场精心排演的戏，还听人说起过这个戏院上演的好几出别的戏。她对汉德生本人一无所知，也不知道申请工作的方法。但是她本能地感到这个地方很可能找到工作，所以她在戏院附近留连转悠。最后她鼓起了勇气，步入堂皇气派的戏院大门。里面是金碧辉煌的大厅，墙上的镜框里陈列着时下走红的名角和剧照。再进去就是安静的售票处。可是她没有勇气再往前走了。一个著名的滑稽歌剧演员本周在这里公演，那种赫赫声名和豪华气派把她震住了。她不敢想象在这种高贵的地方能有她一席之地。想到自己如此狂妄，竟敢到这里来找工作，想到差一点让人粗暴地骂出来，她吓得几乎发抖。她只有勇气看看墙上那些争芳斗艳的剧照，就退了出来。在她看来，她这么溜出来再妙不过了。如果还想在这里找工作，就真是太愣头愣脑不自量力了。 
这场小小的冒险，结束了她一天的求职努力。她又到别处去转转，不过现在只是从外面打量一番。她的脑子里记住了好些戏院的地理位置--其中最重要的有大歌剧院和麦克维加戏院，这两个戏院都很叫座--然后走开了。这一番经历让她重新意识到这些财大气粗的企业高不可攀，而她个人的资格照她自己看来实在太微不足道，无法得到社会的重视。这一来她的勇气和信心又一落千丈。 
那天晚上海尔太太来看她。她坐在那里聊天，半天不走，所以嘉莉无暇去想自己的处境或者当天的运气。不过上床前，她坐了下来思考，心里充满了悲观的预感。杜洛埃还没有露面，一点儿消息也没有。她已经从她那笔宝贵的钱里花掉了一块钱，用于吃饭和坐车。她的钱维持不了多久，这是明摆着的。 
此外她还没找到一点挣钱的门路。 
在这种情况下她的思绪回到了凡布伦大街她姐姐那里。 
自从那天晚上出逃，她还没有见过她姐姐。她也想到了哥伦比亚城的老家，那些仿佛成了她永远无法重返的那个世界的一部分。她并不指望从那里得到庇护。她也想到赫斯渥，但是想到他，只给她带来悲伤。他竟会毫无顾忌地想要欺骗她，在她看来真是太残忍了。 
到了星期二，她仍是左思右想举起不定。前一天的失败经历使她无心无绪，并不急于出去找工作。但是她责备自己前一天太畏首畏尾了。于是她又出发重返芝加哥歌剧院，虽然她几乎没有勇气走近它。 
但是她最后还是走到售票处去打听。 
“你想见剧团经理还是戏院经理？”那个穿着华丽的售票员问道。嘉莉的美貌给他留下了好印象。 
“我也不知道，”嘉莉回答。这个问题出乎她的意料之外。 
“不管怎样，你今天见不到戏院经理，”那个青年主动告诉她说，“他今天不在城里。”他注意到她脸上困惑的表情，于是又问道：“你有什么事要见他？”“我想问问是不是有空缺，”她答道。 
“那你最好去见剧团经理，”他回答说。“不过他现在不在这里。”“他什么时候会来？”嘉莉问道。这个消息让她稍微松了一口气。 
“嗯，你也许在１１点到１２点之间可以找到他。２点以后他在这里。”嘉莉向他道谢以后，就轻快她走了出来。那个年轻人还从装饰华丽的售票处边窗注视着她的背影。 
“真漂亮，”他心里想道，于是开始想入非非，想象她对他屈尊俯就，让他不胜荣幸。 
当时一家主要的喜剧团正在大歌剧院按合同进行演出。 
嘉莉来到这里求见剧团经理。她不知道这人并没有多大权力。 
如果有空缺，演员将从纽约派来，这一点她一无所知。 
“他的办公室在楼上，”票房的一个人告诉她。 
经理办公室里有几个人。有两个懒散地靠在窗口旁，另一个正在对坐在拉盖办公桌旁的人说话，那个坐着的就是经理。 
嘉莉心情忐忑地朝四周打量了一下，开始担心她必须当着这么多人的面求职。其中的两个人，就是靠窗口那两个，开始细细打量她。 
“这一点我办不到，”那个经理正在说话。“富罗门先生有规定，不准来访者到后台去。不行，不行！”嘉莉站在那里，怯怯地等着。旁边有椅子，但是没有人示意她坐下来。和经理谈话的那人垂头丧气地走了。那个大人物一本正经地看起面前的报纸来，仿佛那些报纸是他头等关心的事情。 
“哈里斯，你看到今天早上《先驱报》上登的一则关于耐特·古德温的消息吗？”“没有，”被问的那个人回答。“是关于什么的？”“昨晚在胡利大戏院他作了一场精彩的幕前演说，你最好看一看。”哈里斯伸手到桌子上找《先驱报》。 
“你有什么事？”他问嘉莉，显然刚刚看到她。他以为是个来问他要免费戏票的。 
嘉莉鼓起了全部勇气，其实充其量也没有多少勇气可言。 
她意识到自己是个新手，非遭到断然回绝不可。对这一点她深信不疑，所以她现在只想装出一副来向他请教的样子。 
“你能告诉我怎么才能登台演戏吗？”说到底，这是求职的最佳办法。坐在椅子里的那人开始对她有几分感兴趣，她的直截了当的请求和说话方式很合他的心意。他露出了微笑，屋里其他人也微笑起来，不过那些人对他们的笑意稍加掩饰。 
“我也不知道，”他厚颜无耻地打量着她。“你有过登台演出的经验吗？”“有过一点，”嘉莉回答说。“我曾经在业余戏剧演出里演过一个角色。”她想她必须稍微炫耀一下才能继续让他感兴趣。 
“没有研究过舞台表演吧？”他说，装出一副煞有介事的神气，既是给嘉莉看的，也是给他的朋友们看的。 
“没有，先生。” 
“那么，我也不知道该怎么办了，”他回答道，懒洋洋地朝椅背上一靠，她还站在他面前。“你为什么想要登台当演员？”那个男人的放肆让她感到窘迫，但是对于他的得意的迷人笑容只能报以微笑。她回答说：“我需要谋生。”“噢，”他答道。他看上了她的匀称漂亮的外貌，感到兴许他可以和她结交一番。“这个理由不坏，是不是？不过，芝加哥不是达到你的目的的好地方。你应该到纽约去。那里机会更多一点。你在这里很难有机会开始演员生涯。”嘉莉温柔地微微一笑，很感激他屈尊赐教，给她提供那么多忠告。他注意到她的微笑，但是对这个微笑作了略为不同的解释，认为自己有了一个调情的好机会。 
“请坐，”他说着从桌子侧面把一把椅子往前拉了拉。他把声音压低，不让屋里另外两个人听见。那两个人心照不宣地相互眨了眨眼睛。 
“喂，巴纳，我要走了，”其中一个突然离去，临走时对经理打了声招呼，“今天下午见。”“好吧，”经理说。 
留下的那人拿起一份报纸，像是要看报的样子。 
“你想过要演一个什么样的角色？”经理轻声问。 
“噢，没有，”嘉莉说，“刚开头什么角色都行。”“我明白了，”他说。“你住在这个城里吗？”“是的，先生。”经理讨好地微笑着。 
“你有没有试过当合唱队队员？”他拿出一副推心置腹讲悄悄话的神气。 
嘉莉开始感到他的态度浮夸不自然。 
“没有，”她说。 
“大多数女孩子当演员都是那样开始的，”他继续说。“这是取得舞台经验的好办法。”他用友好诱惑的目光看着她。 
“这一点我原先没有想到。” 
“这事很困难，”他继续说，“不过，你知道，机会总有的。”接着他好像突然想起了什么，掏出怀表看了看。“我２点钟还有一个约会，”他说。“我现在得去吃午饭了。你愿意和我一起去吃饭吗？吃饭时我们可以继续谈谈。”“噢，不用了，”嘉莉说，立刻明白了他的全部动机。“我自己也有一个约会。”“那太遗憾了，”他说，意识到自己的邀请提出的时机略嫌早了一点，现在嘉莉要走了。”以后请再来。我也许会有点工作的消息。”“谢谢，”她说着胆战心惊地走了出来。 
“长得不错，是不是？”经理的伙伴说，他并没有听清楚经理玩的全部把戏。 
“是啊，有几分姿色，”经理说道，痛心自己的把戏失败了。 
“不过她不会成为一个女明星。只能当个合唱队队员。”这次小小的涉险几乎打消了她去芝加哥歌剧院拜访剧团经理的决心。但是过了一会儿，她决定还是去一趟。这个经理是个较为严肃正派的人。他立即说，他们剧团没有空缺，而且似乎认为她的求职是愚蠢的。 
“芝加哥不是初登舞台的地方，”他说。“你应该去纽约。”但是她没有放弃登台的念头，又赶到麦克维加大戏院。可是到了那里她扑了一个空。那里正在上演《故居》这出戏。人们指点她求见的人却哪里也找不到。 
这些小小的探险活动让她一直忙到４点。她已经精疲力尽想回家了。她觉得她该到别的地方再打听打听，但是迄今为止的结果太让她失望了。她坐上街车，３刻钟后到了奥登广常但是她决定再坐下去，到西区邮局下车，她一向是从那里拿到赫斯渥的信的。那里已有一封信等着她，是星期六写的。 
她带着复杂的感情拆开信看了起来。信里充满着热情，对她的失约和随后的沉默万分苦恼，使得嘉莉心软了。他爱她，这一点是明摆着的。但是他作为有妇之夫竟敢爱她，这又太大逆不道了。她觉得这封信似乎该有个答复，因此决定写封回信，让他明白她已经知道他的婚姻状况，因此对他的欺骗行为理所当然地感到气愤。她要告诉他，他们之间的关系已经完结了。 
一回到家，她就动手写信。这封信的措辞很费斟酌，这信太难写了。 
“你不需要我来解释我为什么不来见你。”她在信里写道，“你怎么能这样欺骗我呢？你不该指望我还会和你来往。无论如何，我不会再和你来往了。你怎么可以这样对待我呢？”她一阵感情迸发又补充说，“你给我造成了你无法想象的痛苦。我希望你能克服对我的迷恋，我们不能再见面了。别了！”第二天早上她拿着信出门，在马路的转弯处不情愿地把信投进邮筒。因为她一直拿不定主意，不知道该不该写这封信。然后她坐上街车，去商业区。 
现在是百货公司的淡季，不过人们倾听她的求职申请时态度非常关注，这是一般女孩子求职时得不到的关注。这当然是因为嘉莉模样齐整，楚楚动人。他们问她的仍是那些她早就熟悉的老问题：“你会做些什么？你以前有过在零售商店工作的经历吗？ 
你有没有经验？” 
在商场，在西公司，和所有别的大百货公司，情况都大同小异。现在是淡季，她可以晚些时候来看看，那时他们也许会雇她的。 
傍晚，当她精疲力竭垂头丧气地回到家时，她发现杜洛埃来过了。他的伞和薄大衣已经拿走了。她感到还少了些别的什么东西，但是不肯定。他并没有把所有的东西都拿走。 
这么看来，他的离开已成定局，他再也不会回来了。她现在该怎么办呢？很显然，一两天之内，她又得像从前那样面对冷酷的世界了。她的衣服渐渐地又会变得破旧寒酸。她习惯地合起双手，富有表情地把手指紧紧按在一起。大滴泪珠在她眼中聚集，热泪滚下脸颊。她很孤单，孤单极了。 
杜洛埃确实来过了。不过他来的心情和嘉莉想的完全不一样。他期望见到她在家，他将声称他是回来拿留下的衣服的。然后在离开以前，他将设法和她言归于好。 
因此他来时，看到嘉莉不在家，感到很失望。他东摸摸西拿拿，希望她就在附近什么地方，快回来了。他一直竖起耳朵听着，期待着听到楼梯上传来她的脚步声。 
当他这么等着时，他打算等她回来时要装出刚到家的样子，还要假装被她撞见很狼狈的样子。然后他就解释，他需要衣服所以回来的。他要瞧瞧眼下情况如何。 
可是他等了又等，嘉莉一直没有回来。起初他在抽屉里胡乱地翻着，随时防备她回来。接着他又走到窗口去张望，最后他在摇椅里坐了下来。嘉莉迟迟未归。他开始焦急得坐立不安了，于是点着了一支雪茄。那以后，他在房间里来回踱着。他又朝窗外张望，发现乌云在聚集。他想起来３点钟还有一个约会，于是感到再等无益，就拿起了伞和薄大衣。不管怎样，他打算把这两样东西拿走。他希望这样能吓唬吓唬她。明天他会回来取别的东西，那时再看情况如何。 
他起身离开时，对于没有见到她，心里确实很遗憾。墙上有一张她的小照，照片里的她穿着他第一次给她买的那件小外套，脸上带着近来已不常看到的忧愁渴望的表情。他确实被这照片打动了，用一种他身上很少见的深情，注视着照片里她的眼睛。 
“你对不起我，嘉德，”他说，好像那照片就是她本人似的。 
然后他走向门口，朝房间四周久久地打量了一眼，才走出门去。
Chapter 27 WHEN WATERS ENGULF US WE REACH FOR A STAR
It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets, after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it open. 
"Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at all." 
He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few minutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she didn't care for me." 
This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he thought he knew. 
There was really something exceedingly human -- if not pathetic -- in his being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for comfort -- and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they bind us all. 
The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could get out of the whole entanglement -- perhaps it would not matter. He wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart. 
It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away. It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie. 
It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away! 
While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some clean linen in the morning. 
This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk. 
"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk. 
"I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list. "Yes." 
"Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his astonishment. "Alone?" he added. 
"Yes," said the clerk. 
Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal his feelings. 
"How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row." 
He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had gone to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call at once. 
"I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if Mr. Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and where Carrie is." 
He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He decided to go immediately after supper. 
On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his hotel. 
"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk. 
"No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a card?" 
"No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled out. 
He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place, this time walking boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock. 
"Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly. 
"He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this to Mrs. Hale. 
"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" 
"No, she has gone to the theatre." 
"Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if burdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?" 
The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes, Hooley's." 
"Thank you," returned the manager, and tipping his hat slightly, went away. 
"I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so -- in the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him. 
This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of the room. Several young merry-makers were chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into his office. 
About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office came to the door. 
"Hello, George!" he exclaimed. 
"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little room. 
"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum. Haven't lost at the track, have you?" 
"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day." 
"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that." 
Hurstwood smiled. 
While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some actors began to drop in -- among them some notabilities. 
Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in America resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the plane he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate him, but, in situations like the present, where he could shine as a gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend and equal among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on such occasions, if ever, that he would "take something." When the social flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever approached intoxication -- or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which precedes the more sloven state -- it was when individuals such as these were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily. 
It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop up -- those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of the conversation among American men under such circumstances. 
Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the cashier, who soon left. 
It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the safe in order to see that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock his own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe, after which he would take his departure. 
Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe. His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left for the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of course, to inspect the drawers and shut the door. 
"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought. 
The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He had been revolving the problem of a business of his own. 
"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all. 
As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers. In that were the receipts of the day. 
"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it." 
He looked at the other drawer and paused again. 
"Count them," said a voice in his ear. 
He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack, letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted ten such. 
"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "What makes me pause here?" 
For answer there came the strangest words: 
"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?" 
Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He was worth more than forty thousand, all told -- but she would get that. 
He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door, which he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts. 
"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little crack in it. The lock has not been sprung." 
The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up and stood stock-still, looking at the floor. 
"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly up and scratched his head. 
The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him. He could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh, yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that. He went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out. 
With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with Carrie for years. 
Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He took the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly closed the door again. 
To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless graphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to judge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental conflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It is instinct which recalls the criminal -- it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear of wrong. 
At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation. 
When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself. 
The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again. He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely no harm could come from looking at it! 
He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth, so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then he looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To be sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that -- all of it would. No one would think anything of it either. He went into the little office and took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk and went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it out in the big room. 
First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating. 
The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it -- to ponder over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did not know what evil might result from it to him -- how soon he might come to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him, and never would have, under any circumstances. 
After he had all the money in the hand bag, a revulsion of feeling seized him. He would not do it -- no! Think of what a scandal it would make. The police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the two boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There were the two boxes mixed. 
He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had gone. Why be afraid? 
While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed. Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough. 
The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him and decided instantly. There was no delaying now. 
"Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will happen." 
At once he became the man of action. 
"I must get out of this," he thought. 
He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly. 
"I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake." 
He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that quickly. 
"I wonder how the trains run?" he thought. 
Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past one. 
At the first drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone booth inside. It was a famous drug store, and contained one of the first private telephone booths ever erected. 
"I want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk. 
The latter nodded. 
"Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent. 
"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked. 
The man explained the hours. 
"No more to-night?" 
"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There is a mail train out of here at three o'clock." 
"All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?" 
He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon. 
"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't get on my track before noon." 
Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab standing by. 
"To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more if you make good time." 
The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop, which was fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking the servant. 
"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked. 
"Yes," said the astonished girl. 
"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the hospital, injured, and wants to see her." 
The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and emphatic manner. 
"What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes. 
"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab's downstairs." 
Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting everything save the necessities. 
"Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Come quickly." 
Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story. 
"Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after. 
The cabby began to turn the horse around. 
"Michigan Central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so low that Carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go."
　赫斯渥收到麦·詹·海事务所的那份明确的通知以后，心烦意乱地上街转了一会儿，然后回到家时，才发现嘉莉那天早晨写给他的信。一看见信封上的笔迹，他激动万分，急忙将信拆开。 “这么说，”他想，“她是爱我的，否则她就压根不会给我写信。”起初几分钟，他对信的内容感到有点沮丧，但很快又振作起来。“若是她心里没我，就决不会写信的。”只有这么想，他才不致于沮丧透顶。从信的措辞上看不出什么，但他自以为能领会信的精神。 
明摆着是一封谴责他的信，他竟能从中得到宽慰，倘若不是可悲，也是人性弱点的过份体现。这个一向自足的人，现在竟要从身外找寻安慰，而且是这样一种安慰。多么神奇的爱情绳索！我们谁也挣脱不了。 
他的脸上又有了血色。他暂时把麦·詹·海事务所的来信置之脑后。但愿他能得到嘉莉，这样也许他就能摆脱一切纠葛--也许这就无关紧要了。只要不失去嘉莉，他就不在乎他太太要做什么。他站起身来，一边走动，一边做着今后和这个可爱的心上人共同生活的美梦。 
可是没过多久，他的思路又回到了老问题上，真让人厌倦！他想到明天和那场诉讼。转眼一个下午就要过去了，他还什么都没做。现在是４点差１刻。５点钟律师们就会回家了。 
他还有明天上午的时间。就在他想着这些时，最后１５分钟也过去了，到５点了。于是他不再想当天去见律师的事，而转念去想嘉莉。 
值得一提的是，这人并不向自己证明自己是对的。他不屑烦这个神。他一门心思只是想着怎样说服嘉莉。这样做并没错。他很爱她，这是他们两人幸福的基矗杜洛埃这家伙不在就好了！ 
正当他美滋滋地想着这些时，他想起自己明天早晨没有干净的衬衫可换。 
他买来衬衫，还买了半打领带，然后去帕尔默旅馆。进门时，他觉得似乎看见杜洛埃拿着钥匙上了楼。可千万别是杜洛埃！他又一想，也许他们临时换了个地方祝他直接去了柜台。 
“杜洛埃先生住这儿吗？”他问帐房。 
“我想是的，”帐房说，并查了一下他的旅客登记表。“是的，他住这儿。”“真是这样？”赫斯渥忍不住叫道，虽然他努力掩饰自己的吃惊。“他一个人吗？”他又问。 
“是的，”帐房说。 
赫斯渥转身走开。他紧闭双唇，尽量掩饰他的感情，可是正是这个举动将他的感情暴露无遗。 
“怎么会这样呢？”他想。“他们是吵架了。”他急急忙忙、兴高采烈地去了自己的房间，把衬衫换了。 
他在换衣服时暗下决心，不管嘉莉是一个人留在那里，还是去了别的地方，他都应该去弄个明白。他决定马上就去看看。 
“我知道该怎么做，”他想。“我走到门口，问一声杜洛埃先生是否在家。这样就能知道他是否在那里以及嘉莉的去向。”他这样想着，兴奋得几乎要手舞足蹈了。他决定一吃完晚饭就去。 
６点钟，他从房间下来时，仔细地看了看四周，杜洛埃不在。然后，他出去吃饭。可是他急着去办事，几乎什么也吃不下。动身前，他想最好确定一下杜洛埃此刻在哪里，于是又回到旅馆。 
“杜洛埃先生出去了吗？”他问帐房。 
“没有，”后者回答。“他在房间里，您想递张名片上去吗？”“不用了，我迟一点去拜访他。”赫斯渥说完就走了出去。 
他上了一辆麦迪逊街的有轨电车直奔奥登公寓。这次他大胆地径直走到门口。女仆替他开了门。 
“杜洛埃先生在家吗？”赫斯渥和悦地说。 
“他出城了，”女仆说，她听到嘉莉是这样告诉海尔太太的。 
“杜洛埃太太呢？” 
“她不在家，去看戏了。” 
“是吗？”赫斯渥说，着实吃了一惊。随后，他做出有要事的样子。“你知道她去了那家戏院？”实际上女仆并不知道她去了哪里，但是她讨厌赫斯渥，存心捉弄他，便答道：“知道，是胡利戏院。”“谢谢，”经理回答，他伸手轻轻地抬了抬帽子便离开了。 
“我去胡利戏院找她，”他想，但是他并没有真去。在到达市中心之前，他把整件事情想了一遍，认定去了也没用。虽然他极想看见嘉莉，但是他也知道嘉莉现在有别人作伴，他不想闯去向她求情。晚些时候也行--明天早上吧。只是明天早上他还得去见律师。 
这趟路跑得他大为扫兴。他很快又陷入了老烦恼，于是回到酒店，急着找寻安慰。一大群绅士在这地方聊天，很是热闹。 
后面的一张樱桃木圆桌旁，围着一群当地的政客在谈着什么事。几个寻欢作乐的年青人，在酒吧边说个没完，去戏院为时已晚却还不想走。酒吧的一头有一个寒酸却又要体面的人，长着红鼻子，戴着顶旧礼帽，在那里安安静静地喝着淡啤酒。赫斯渥向政客们点点头后走进他的办公室。 
１０点左右，他的一个朋友，弗兰克·勒·泰恩特先生，当地一个热衷体育和赛马的人，来到这里。看见赫斯渥一个人在办公室里，他走到门口。 
“你好，乔治！”他叫道。 
“你好吗，弗兰克？”赫斯渥说道，不知怎么看见他觉得轻松了一些。“请坐吧，”他向他指了指小房间里的一把椅子。 
“怎么啦，乔治？”泰恩特问道。“你看上去有点不大高兴。 
该不是赛马输了吧？” 
“我今晚不太舒服。前些日子有点小伤风。”“喝点威士忌，乔治，”泰恩特说，“你该很在行的。”赫斯渥笑了笑。 
他们还在那里谈话时，赫斯渥的另外几个朋友进来了。１１点过后不久，戏院散场了，开始有一些演员来到这里--其中还有些名角儿。 
接下去便开始了美国娱乐场所最常见的那种毫无意义的社交性交谈，那些想成名的人总想从大名人那里沾点光。倘若赫斯渥有什么可倾心的，那就是倾心名流。他认为，若是替他划圈，他属于名流。如果在场的人中有不赏识他的，他很清高，不会去拍这些人的马屁，但他又很热心，依旧严格地履行着自己的职责。但是在像眼前这样的情况下，他就特别高兴。因为在这里他能像个绅士一样光彩照人，人们毫不含糊地把他视作名流的朋友同等看待。而且在这种场合，如果能碰到的话，他就会“喝上几杯”。当社交气氛很浓时，他甚至会放开与朋友们一杯对一杯地喝。轮到他付帐，他也规规矩矩地掏钱，就像他也同其他人一样，是个外来的顾客。如果他也曾差点喝醉过--或者说处于醉酒失态前脸红、发热、浑身舒坦的状态，那就是当他置身于这些人之中，当他也是闲谈的名流中的一份子。今晚，虽然他心绪不佳，但有人作伴他还是很觉宽慰。现在既然名流聚到了一起，他也就将自己的麻烦事暂时搁在一边，尽情地加入他们之中。 
很快，喝酒喝得有效果了。大家开始讲故事--那些常讲不厌的滑稽故事，美国男人们在这种情况下谈话的主要内容就是这类故事。 
１２点钟，打烊的时间到了，客人们开始离开。赫斯渥十分热忱地和他们握手道别。他浑身舒坦，处于那种头脑清醒，但却充满幻想的状态。他甚至觉得他的那些麻烦事也不那么严重了。他进了办公室，开始翻阅一些帐本，等着堂倌们和出纳离开。他们很快都走了。 
等所有的人走后，看看是否每样东西都已锁好，能够安全过夜，这是经理的职责，也成了他的习惯。按照常规，只有银行关门后收的现金才会放在店里，由出纳锁在保险柜内。只有出纳和两位店东知道保险柜的密码。但是赫斯渥很谨慎，每晚都要拉拉放现金的抽屉和保险柜，看看是否都锁好了。然后，他锁上自己的小办公室，开亮保险柜旁的专用灯，这才离开。 
他从未发现任何东西出过差错，可是今晚，他锁好自己的写字台后，出来检查保险柜。他检查的方法是用力拉一拉门。 
这次他一拉，保险柜的门竟开了。这令他有点吃惊，他朝里看了看，发现装钱的抽屉里像白天那样放着，显然没有收好。他的第一个念头当然是检查一下抽屉并把门关上。 
“明天，我要和马休说一下这事，”他想。 
马休半小时前离开时，肯定以为自己将门上的锁钮旋到了位，门锁上了。他以前从来都是锁好门的。但今晚马休另有心事，他一直在盘算自己的一笔生意。 
“我来看看里面，”经理想着，拉出装钱的抽屉。他不知道自己为什么会想看看里面。这完全是多此一举，换个时间也许就根本不会发生的。 
他拉出抽屉，一眼就看见一叠钞票，１０００元一扎，像是从银行取来的原封。他不知道这有多少钱，便停住仔细看看。随后，他拉出第二个现金抽屉，里面装着当天的进款。 
“据我所知，费茨杰拉德和莫埃从未这样放过钱，”他心里自言自语。“他们一定是忘了。”他看看另一只抽屉，又停住了。 
“数一数，”一个声音在他耳边说。 
他把手伸进第一只抽屉，拿起那叠钞票，让他们一扎扎地散落下来。这些钞票有５０元票面和１００元票，一扎有１０００元。他想他数了有十扎这样的钞票。 
“我为什么不关上保险柜？”他心里自言自语，迟疑不决。 
“是什么使我还呆在这儿？” 
回答他的是一句非常奇怪的话。 
“你曾有过１万块钱的现钞吗？” 
瞧，经理记得他从未有过这么多钱。他的全部财产都是慢慢攒起来的，现在却归他太太所有。他的财产总共价值４万多块--都要成为她的了。 
他想着这些，感到困惑。然后他推进抽屉，关上门，手放在锁钮上停住了。这锁钮只消轻轻一旋，就可以将保险柜锁上，也就不再有什么诱惑了。可是他仍旧停在那里。最终，他走到窗边拉下窗帘。他又拉了拉门，在此之前，他已经把门锁上了。 
是什么使他这么多疑？他为什么要如此悄悄地走动？他回到柜台的一端，像是要在那里枕着胳膊，好好想一想。然后，他去开了他的小办公室的门，开亮灯。他连写字台都打开了，坐在台前，开始胡思乱想。 
“保险柜是开的，”一个声音说。“就差那么一小条缝。锁还没锁上。”经理脑子里一团乱麻。这时，他又想起白天的全部纠葛。 
也想到眼前就有条出路。那笔钱就能解决问题。要是既有那钱又有嘉莉该有多好！他站起身来，一动不动地立在那里，眼睛盯着地板。 
“这办法怎么样？”他心里问。为找寻答案，他慢慢地抬起手来抓抓头。 
经理可不傻，还不至于会盲目地被这样的一念之差引入岐途，但是他今天的情况特殊。他的血管里流着酒。酒劲上了头，使他对眼前的处境有些头脑发热。酒也渲染了一万块钱可能为他带来的好处。他能看见这笔钱为他提供的大好机会。他能够得到嘉莉。啊，他真的能够得到她！他可以摆脱他的太太，还有那封明天早上要谈的信。他也不用给予答复了。他回到保险柜旁，把手放在锁钮上。然后，他拉开门，把装钱的抽屉整个儿拿了出来。 
一旦抽屉完全展现在他面前，再想不去动它似乎很愚蠢了。当然愚蠢。嗨，有了这些钱，他可以安安静静地和嘉莉生活很多年。 
天哪！怎么回事？他第一次紧张起来，好像一只严厉的手抓住了他的肩膀。他恐惧地看看四周。一个人也没有，一点声音都没有。外面的人行道上有人拖着脚走过。他拿起抽屉和钱，把它放回保险柜。然后，他又将门半掩上。 
对于一个意志不够坚强，在责任与欲望之间徘徊不定的人所处的困境，那些良心上从不动摇的人很难理解，除非有人细细地向他们描绘。那些从未听过那内心深处幽灵般的时钟，用庄严的声音滴答滴答清清楚楚地告诉你“你应该”、“你不应该”、“你应该”、“你不应该”的人，根本没有资格对此加以评判。过种思想斗争，不仅那些思维敏捷且很有条理的人会有。 
即使那些最愚蠢的人，当欲望驱使他去犯罪时，正义感也会去提醒阻止他，而且犯罪倾向越大，正义感也越强。我们必须记住，这也许并不是对正义的认识，因为动物本能地畏惧罪恶，但并不基于它们对正义有所认识。人在受知识控制之前，仍旧受本能的支配。正是本能在提醒罪犯--正是本能（当不存在很有条理的推理时）使罪犯有了危险感，害怕做错事。 
因此，每当人们第一次冒险，去干某种从未干过的罪恶勾当时，心里总会犹豫不决。思想的时钟滴答滴答地表达着欲望和克制。那些从未经历过这种思想困境的人，会喜欢下面的故事，因为它给人以启示。 
赫斯渥把钱放回去以后，又恢复了他那从容大胆的气度。 
没有人看见他，就他一个人。谁也不知道他想干什么。他可以自己处理好这件事。 
晚上的酒劲还没有完全消失。尽管在经历了那阵无名的恐惧后，他额头冒汗，手也发抖，但是他仍旧给酒气弄得满脸通红。他几乎没注意到时间在消逝。他又考虑了一遍自己的处境，眼睛老是看见那些钱，心里老是想着那些钱可派的用常他走进自己的小房间，又回到门口，又来到保险柜旁。他伸手拉住锁钮，打开了保险柜。钱就在里面。看一看总不会有什么害处吧。 
他又拿出抽屉，拿起那些钞票。这钞票多么光滑、多么结实、多么便于携带。也就是很小的一包而已。他决定拿走它们。 
是的，他要拿。他要把它们装进自己的口袋。他又看看那些钱，觉得口袋装不下。对了，他的手提包！手提包肯定行！那些钱能装下--全都装得下，而且没人会怀疑手提包。他走进小办公室，从墙角的架子上取下手提包。他把包放在写字台上，出来走到保险柜旁。因为某种原因，他不想在外边的大房间里往包里装钱。 
他先拿了那些钞票，然后又拿了当天进的散钱。他要全部拿走。他把空抽屉放回去，推上铁门，差一点就关严了，然后站在旁边沉思起来。 
在这种情况下，心里的那种犹豫不决，几乎是件不可思议的事，但却是千真万确的。赫斯渥无法让自己果断行事。他要好好想一想--仔细地考虑一下，决定这是否是上策。他这么想要嘉莉，那些乱七八糟的私事又逼得他走投无路，他一直认为这是个上策，但是他还在犹豫。他不知道这样做会给他带来什么恶果--他什么时候会遇到麻烦。至于这件事本身对不对，他从未想过。在任何情况下，他都决不会想到这一点。 
当他把所有的钱都装进手提包后，他突然想变卦。他不能这样做--不能！想想这会成为多大的丑闻。还有那些警察！ 
他们会追捕他的。他得逃走，但逃到哪里去呢？唉呀，成为一个躲避法律的逃犯是多么可怕！他拿出两个抽屉，把所有的钱又放了回去。慌乱中，他忘了自己在干什么，把钱放错了抽屉。 
当他关上保险柜的门时，他想起没放对，又把门打开。两只抽屉弄错了。 
他把抽屉拿出来，重新放好钱，可是这时恐惧感消失了。 
为什么要害怕呢？ 
他手里还拿着钱时，保险柜的锁咔嗒一响，锁上了！是他锁的吗？他抓住锁钮使劲地拉。锁死了。天哪，现在他肯定脱不了关系了。 
当他一意识到保险柜的确锁上了。他额头直冒冷汗，身上一个劲地抖。他看了看周围，立刻作了决定。现在不能耽搁了。 
“就算我把钱放在保险柜顶上，”他说，“然后走开，他们照样会知道是谁拿的。我是最后一个关门的。另外，还会发生其它的事情。”他立刻变成了行动果断的人。 
“我得离开这里，”他想。 
他慌慌忙忙地走进他的小房间，取下他的轻便大衣和帽子，锁好写字台，拎起手提包。然后，他关了所有的灯，只留下一盏亮着，开门出来。他试图装出平日里那副自信的样子，但几乎做不到。他很快就后悔了。“但愿我没干这个，”他说，“这是个错误。”他照直沿着街走下去，碰到一个认识的查夜人在检查门户，还打了声招呼。他得出城去，而且要快。 
“不知道什么时候有火车，”他想。 
他立刻取出怀表看了看。这时快１点半了。 
走到第一家药店，他看见店里有个长途电话间，于是停了下来。这是家很有名气的药店，装有私人电话间。 
“我想借用一下你们的电话，”他对夜班职员说。 
后者点点头。 
“请接１６４３，”他查到了密执安中心火车站的号码后，对总机说。很快就接通了售票员。 
“去底特律有什么时间的火车？”他问。 
那人说了几个开车时间。 
“今天夜里没有车了吗？” 
“没有挂卧汽车厢的车。噢，对了，还有一班，”他补充说。 
“有一班邮车３点钟从这里开出。” 
“好的，”赫斯渥说。“那班车什么时候到达底特律。”他在想。只要他到了底特律，从那里过河进入加拿大，他就可以从从容容地去蒙特利尔了。当他得知火车中午就到，心里感到轻松了一些。 
“马休要到９点才会打开保险柜，”他想。“他们中午之前是找不到我的行踪的。”这时，他想起了嘉莉。他若想真的得到嘉莉，必须火速行动。她得一起走。他跳上旁边最近的一辆马车。 
“去奥登公寓，”他厉声说。“如果你跑得快，我加你一块钱。”车夫鞭打他的马，使它做出飞奔的样子，不过还是比较快。一路上，赫斯渥想好了怎么去做。到了公寓，他急忙跨上台阶，照旧按铃叫醒了女仆。 
“杜洛埃太太在家吗？”他问。 
“在家，”女孩吃惊地说。 
“告诉她马上穿好衣服到门口来。他丈夫受了伤，人在医院里，他要见她。”女仆看到这个人紧张而郑重的神情，相信了，急忙上楼去。 
“什么？”嘉莉说。她点亮煤气灯，找衣服穿。 
“杜洛埃先生受了伤，人在医院里，他要见你。马车在楼下等着。”嘉莉飞快地穿好衣服，很快下来了，除了几件必需品，什么都没有拿。 
“杜洛埃受伤了，”赫斯渥说得很快。“他要见你，快走。”嘉莉完全被弄糊涂了，想也没想就相信了这一切。 
“上车吧，”赫斯渥说，扶她上了车，随后自己也跳上车。 
车夫开始调转马头。 
“去密执安中心火车站，”他站起身来说道，声音压得很低，以免嘉莉听见。“越快越好。”
Chapter 28 A PILGRIM, AN OUTLAW: THE SPIRIT DETAINED
The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked: 
"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?" 
"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He was very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law. Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such words as would further his plans distinctly. 
Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage. 
"Where is he?" 
"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the train. It's the quickest way." 
Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of the city by night held her attention. She looked at the long receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses. 
"How did he hurt himself?" she asked -- meaning what was the nature of his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger. 
"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and get you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you." 
The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent, wondering. 
Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated himself. 
In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on. 
"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the waiting-room, "while I get the tickets." 
"Have I much time to catch the train for Detroit?" he asked of the agent. 
"Four minutes," said the latter. 
He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible. 
"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back. 
"Not very," he said. "We must get right in." 
He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could not see, and then hurried after. 
There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and few passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen waiting. They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost immediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the train started. 
Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious -- this going to a depot -- but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined. 
"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier. 
"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood contemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be so. He did not trouble because she was moved sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the qualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how he should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his mind, however. His own deed and present flight were the great shadows which weighed upon him. 
"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a mistake!" 
In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had been done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice. He had often read of such things, and had thought they must be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked into the past. The future was a thing which concerned the Canadian line. He wanted to reach that. As for the rest, he surveyed his actions for the evening, and counted them parts of a great mistake. 
"Still," he said, "what could I have done?" 
Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless, harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the proposition he had in the presence of Carrie. 
The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible without. The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently the bell rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. They were locking the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long run. 
Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent streets flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger to important crossings. 
"Is it very far?" asked Carrie. 
"Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile at her simplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but he also wanted to be well out of Chicago. 
In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow. 
"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond the city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at a great rate. 
"No," he said, "not where we are going." 
There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in an instant. 
Her pretty brow began to contract. 
"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked. 
He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come now as later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative. 
"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the errand being different from what she had thought. 
He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way. 
"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice showing the quality of fright. 
"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along with me to another city." 
"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off. I don't want to go with you." 
She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something which had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was to get off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the terrible trick would be amended. 
She arose and tried to push out into the aisle -- anywhere. She knew she had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her. 
"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a moment." 
She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they were attempting to doze. 
"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began to gather in her eyes. 
Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased to think of his own situation. He must do something with this girl, or she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion with all his powers aroused. 
"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make you feel bad." 
"Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh -- oo -- o!" 
"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me? Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this thing. I couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?" 
Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear a word he said. 
"Won't you listen?" he asked. 
"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me out of this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a shame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression. 
Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could straighten this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come through for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. Before everything he must make her quiet. 
"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said Hurstwood. "It won't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out then if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to listen a moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?" 
Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the window, where outside all was black. The train was speeding with steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. The long whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings were approached. 
Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed out the tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She did not look about. 
When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved. 
"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't mean to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay away from you after the first time I saw you." 
He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a factor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut out of his mind. 
"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go away from me. I am going to get out at the very next station." 
She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke. 
"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After all you have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want to do you any harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you go. I merely want to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving you, whatever you may think." 
He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. 
"You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do it willingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me. I'll never see her any more. That's why I'm here to-night. That's why I came and got you." 
"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceived me. You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to run away with you." 
She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed. 
"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain. If you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my wife is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I wouldn't have ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as soon as I can. I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person I want. If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again." 
Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman, especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of her. 
The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie could feel that she was being borne a long distance off -- that the engine was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing -- so far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while Hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him. 
"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do." 
Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this. 
"When I saw you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to put everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while, and then anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you say." 
"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to get off this train. Where are we going?" 
"To Detroit," said Hurstwood. 
"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a point seemed to increase the difficulty. 
"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great danger that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travel with me. I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be better than trying to go back to-night." 
The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She thought, but made no sign. 
Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his ardour. 
"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago any more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?" 
"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly. 
Hurstwood kept silent for a while. 
Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily. 
"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for me at all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say. I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it over. I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I tell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!" 
There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed it with all the force of an appeal. 
The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still. 
She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading. 
"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she now had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued. 
"Of course," he answered, "you know I will." 
Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely. 
The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject. 
"Aren't you very tired?" he said. 
"No," she answered. 
"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?" 
She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was beginning to notice what she had always felt -- his thoughtfulness. 
"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better." 
She shook her head. 
"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head. 
"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little." He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her and thought a moment. 
"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said. 
"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on frantically through the shadow to a newer world. 
The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his time to devote to the consideration of his own error. 
His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends, his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have her. He was shut out from Chicago -- from his easy, comfortable state. He had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more unbearable it became. He began to think that he would try and restore himself to his old state. He would return the miserable thievings of the night and explain. Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him and let him come back. 
By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives would be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters had been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled somewhat. His hands felt as if they must have something to do. He simulated interest in several scenes without which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his foot upon the floor. 
Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what it meant or that it was important. 
He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have saved time. He jumped up and sought the conductor. 
"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked. 
"Yes, the next sleeper back does." 
He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to inquire at the depot. 
The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing. 
"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said to Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off." 
He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do. 
The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that indicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office. 
"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked. 
"In twenty minutes," said the man. 
He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to Carrie. 
"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked tired and weary. 
"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily. 
"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said. 
"I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a handkerchief." 
"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he explained. "You can call in a dressmaker." 
Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh. 
"It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his relief. "We get there the first thing in the morning." 
Carrie scarcely deigned to reply. 
"I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry."
马车刚走了一小段路，嘉莉就镇定了下来，夜晚的空气使她完全清醒了。 “他出什么事了？伤得重吗？” 
“不是很重。”赫斯渥神情严肃地说。他被自己的处境弄得心慌意乱，现在既然嘉莉已经在他身边，他只想起安地逃脱法网。因此，除了明显有助于实现他的计划的话以外，他什么也不愿意说。 
嘉莉没有忘记，她和赫斯渥之间还有未了结的事，但是她现在很焦虑，也就顾不上想它了。她只想结束这段奇怪的旅程。 
“他在哪里？” 
“在南区，离这里很远，”赫斯渥说。“我们得乘火车去，这样最快。”嘉莉没再说话，马在继续奔跑。夜间城市的古怪景象吸引了她的注意力。她看着那长长的、一排排向后退去的路灯，琢磨着那些黑暗沉默的房屋。 
“他怎么受的伤？”她问--意思是到底伤得怎样。赫斯渥懂得她的意思。除非不得已，他不愿意多撒一句谎，但是在他脱险之前，他不想嘉莉有任何抗议。 
“具体的我也不知道，”他说。“他们只是叫我来找你，把你带去。他们说没必要惊慌，只是我必须带你去。”这个人的态度严肃，嘉莉相信了他，于是她不再说话，心里犯着嘀咕。 
赫斯渥看看表，催车夫再快点。就一个处境如此微妙的人而言，他倒是出奇地冷静。他一心只想着，最重要的是赶上火车，悄悄离开。嘉莉看上去很温顺，他暗自感到庆幸。 
他们及时到达了车站，他扶她下车后，递给车夫一张５块的钞票，赶忙进站。 
“你等在这里，”到了候车室，他对嘉莉说，“我去买票。”“我能赶上去底特律的火车吗？”他问售票员。 
“还有４分钟，”售票员说。 
他小心翼翼地付了两张票的钱。 
“那地方远吗？”当他匆匆回来时，嘉莉说。 
“不太远，”他说。“我们得马上上车。”在进口处，他把她推在前面走。检票员检票时，他站到她和检票员之间，挡住她的视线，然后赶快跟上去。 
站内停着一长列快车和客车，还有一两辆普通的硬席客车。因为这班火车是最近新开的，乘客不会多，所以只有一两个列车机务员等在那里。他们上了后面的一辆硬席客车。刚坐下，就听见外面隐约传来叫喊声：“乘客们，请上车！”接着，火车开动了。 
嘉莉开始觉得这事有点蹊跷--这样来到一个火车站--但是没有说话。整个这件事情都是这样异常，她对自己心里想的事也就不大重视了。 
“你过得好吗？”现在赫斯渥感觉轻松一些了，于是温柔地问道。 
“很好，”嘉莉说。她心里很乱，不知道对这件事情该采取什么样的态度才合适。她仍然急着想见到杜洛埃，看看他到底出了什么事。赫斯渥打量着她，感觉到了这一点。但是这并没有令他不安。他并不因为她在这件事上表现出的同情和激动而感到烦恼。这正是她的美德之一，他对此十分欣赏。他只是在考虑该怎么向她解释。然而，在他心中，甚至连这一点也还不是最严重的问题。他自己犯下的事和眼前的逃跑则是沉重地压在他心头的巨大阴影。 
“我真傻呀，竟然会做出那种事，”他反复地说，“这是多么大的错误啊！”他现在清醒了，几乎不相信自己真的干了那件事，他无法想象自己成了一个逍遥法外的罪犯。他经常从报上看到这种事，想象着那一定很可怕。可是现在这种事落到了他自己的头上，他却只是坐在这里，缅怀着过去。将来是和加拿大边界连在一起的。他想去那里。至于其它的事，他回顾了一下今晚的所有行动，认为都是一桩大错的组成部分。 
“况且，”他说，“我又能怎么做呢？” 
于是他决定尽量挽回这件事的影响，为此他又把整个事情考虑了一遍。但是这样反复考虑仍然毫无结果而且令人烦恼，弄得他在面对嘉莉实行自己的计划时，都有些神经兮兮的了。 
火车隆隆地穿过湖边的车场，慢慢地朝二十四街驶去。车外的分轨闸和信号灯清晰可见。机车的汽笛发出短促的呜呜声，车铃也不时地响着。几个列车机务员提着灯走过。他们把车厢之间通廊的门锁上，整理好车厢，准备作长途旅行。 
很快，火车开始加速，嘉莉看见沉静的街道接连迅速地闪过。机车也开始在过重要的道口时，发出断续四响的汽笛声，作为危险信号。 
“那地方很远吗？”嘉莉问。 
“不太远，”赫斯渥说。见她如此天真，他都忍不住想笑了。 
他想向她解释，安慰她，但是他还是想先远离芝加哥再说。 
又过了半个钟头，嘉莉开始明白，他要带她去的地方，不管是哪里，总之是个很远的地方。 
“那地方在芝加哥城里吗？”她紧张地问。他们这时早已远离市区范围，火车正飞速越过印第安纳州界。 
“不，”他说，“我们去的地方不在芝加哥。”他说这话的口气立刻使她警觉起来。 
她那美丽的前额开始皱了起来。 
“我们是去看查利，不是吗？”她问。 
他觉得是时候了。迟早都要解释，现在就解释也一样。因此，他极其温柔地摇摇头表示否定。 
“什么？”嘉莉说。她想到这趟出门与她先前想的可能不一样，一时间不知所措。 
他只是用十分体贴和安抚的目光看着她。 
“哦，那么，你要带我去哪里？”她问，声音里透着恐惧。 
“如果你能安静下来的话，嘉莉，我会告诉你的。我要你跟我一起去另一个城市。”“啊，”嘉莉说，她的声音响了起来，变成了一声柔弱的呼喊。“让我走。我不想跟你去。”这家伙的大胆无礼把她吓坏了。她的头脑里从未想到过会有这种事情。她现在只有一个念头，就是下车离开他。要是能让这飞驰的火车停下来就好了，这样就可以挽回这场可怕的骗局。 
她站起身来，想用力走到过道上--什么地方都行。她知道她得采取行动，赫斯渥伸出一只手，轻轻地按住了她。 
“坐着别动，嘉莉，”他说，“坐着别动，现在站起来对你没有任何好处。听我说，我会告诉你我将怎么做。请等一会儿。”她在推着他的膝头，而他只是把她拉了回来。没有人注意到这场小小的争吵，困为车厢里人很少，而且都想打瞌睡了。 
“我不愿意，”嘉莉说，可是她还是违心地坐了下来。“让我走，”她叫道。“你怎么敢这样？”她的眼睛里开始涌出大滴眼泪。 
赫斯渥现在得全神贯注地对付眼前的麻烦，他不再去想自己的处境。他必须先把这姑娘安顿好，否则她会给他带来麻烦的。他使出浑身解数，试图说服她。 
“现在你听着，嘉莉，”他说。“你没必要这样做。我并没想让你伤心。我不想做任何令你难过的事。”“唉，”嘉莉啜泣着。“唉，唉--呜--呜。”“好了，好了，”他说。“你不用哭了。听我说好吗？就听我说一分钟，我会告诉你我为什么要这样做。我没有其它的办法。我向你保证，我真是想不出别的办法。你听我说好吗？”他被她的啜泣弄得十分不安，以为他说的话她肯定一句也没听见。 
“你听我说好吗？”他问。 
“不，我不要听。”嘉莉说着，大怒起来。“我要你让我离开这里，否则我要喊列车员了。我不会跟你去的。真可耻。”恐惧的啜泣又一次打断了她想说的话。 
赫斯渥有些吃惊地听着这些。他觉得她完全有理由这么伤心，但他还是希望能尽快摆平这事。马上列车员就要过来查票了。他不想声张，不想有什么麻烦。首先他必须让她安静下来。 
“火车不停，你是下不了车的，”赫斯渥说，“要不了多久，我们就到下一站了。那时你想下车就下去好了。我不会阻拦你的。我只想你能听我说一下。让我告诉你，好吗？”嘉莉似乎并没在听。她只是把头转向车窗，窗外一片漆黑。火车正平稳地向前飞奔，越过田野，穿过树丛。当火车驶近荒凉的林地中的道口时，便传来长长的汽笛声，充满忧伤的、音乐般的韵味。 
这时列车员走进车厢，检查了一两个在芝加哥上车的旅客的车票。他走近赫斯渥时，赫斯渥把两张票递了过去。嘉莉虽然作好了采取行动的准备，但是她没有动弹。她甚至都没回头看看。 
列车员走后，赫斯渥松了一口气。 
“你生我的气，是因为我骗了你，”他说，“我不是有意的，嘉莉。我的的确确不是有意的。我是不得已才这样做的。第一次看见你以后，我就离不开你了。"他撇开不提最后的这次欺骗，似乎这事可以给忽略过去。他要使她相信，他太太已经不再是他们之间的障碍了。他偷的钱，他则试图忘个一干二净。 
“不要对我说话，”嘉莉说。“我恨你。我要你给我走开。我一到下一站就下车。”当她说话时，由于激动和反抗，她浑身颤抖。 
“好的，”他说，“可是你得先听我说完，好吗？毕竟你曾经说过爱我的话，你还是听我说吧。我不想做任何伤害你的事。 
你走时，我会给你回去的路费。我只是想告诉你，嘉莉，不管你怎么想，你不能阻止我爱你。”他温柔地看着她，但是没有听到回答。 
“你以为我卑鄙地欺骗了你，可是我并没有骗你。我不是有意这样做的。我和我的太太已经了断。她再也不能对我提出任何要求了。我再也不会去见他。这就是为什么今天晚上我会在这里。这就是为什么我会来带你走。”“你说查利受了伤，”嘉莉恶狠狠地说道。“你骗了我。你一直在欺骗我，现在你还要强迫我和你一起私奔。”她激动得站起身来，又要从他身边走过去。他让她过去了，她坐到另一个座位上。接着他也跟了过去。 
“别离开我，嘉莉，”他温柔地说，“让我解释。只要你听我说完，就会明白我的立常我告诉你，我太太对我来说一文不值。很多年都是这样了，否则我也不会来找你。我要尽快离婚。 
我再也不会去见她。我把这一切都结束了。你是我唯一想要的人。只要能得到你，我决不会再去想任何其他女人。"嘉莉怒气冲冲地听了这番话。不管他做过些什么，这番话听起来倒还很诚恳。赫斯渥的声音和态度都透着一种紧张，不能不产生一定的效果。她不想和他有任何来往。他有太太，已经骗过她一次，现在又来骗她。她觉得他很可怕。然而，他这种大胆和魅力对一个女人还真有些诱惑力，若是能使她觉得这一切都是因爱她而骗的，那就特别能让她着迷。 
火车的行进大大地有助于化解这场僵局。向前飞奔的车轮和向后消失的乡村把芝加哥甩得越来越远。嘉莉能感觉到她正被带往很远的一个地方--机车差不多是在直奔某个遥远的城市。她有时觉得像是要喊出声来，大吵一场，这样有人会来帮她；有时又觉得这样做似乎毫无用处--不管她做什么，都不会有人来帮她。赫斯渥则一直在煞费苦心地求情，想使她受到感动而同情他。 
“我实在是不得已而为之呀。” 
嘉莉不屑一听。 
“当我明白除非我和你结婚，否则你不愿和我来往时，我就决定抛开一切，带你和我一起走。我现在要去另一个城市。 
我想先去蒙特利尔住一阵子，然后你想去哪里就去哪里。只要你说去纽约，我们就去纽约祝”“我不想和你有任何关系，”嘉莉说，“我要下车。现在我们去哪里？”“去底特律，”赫斯渥说。 
“啊！”嘉莉说，心里一阵剧痛。目的地这么遥远，这么明确，看来事情更难办了。 
“你和我一起去好吗？”他说，似乎生怕她不愿意。“你什么都不用做，只管随我旅行。我绝对不会打扰你。你可以看看蒙特利尔和纽约，以后如果你不想留下来，你可以回去。这总比你今夜就回去要好。”嘉莉第一次听到一个还算合理的建议。这个建议似乎还可行，尽管她十分害怕如果她真要照这个建议去做，会遭到他的反对。蒙特利尔和纽约！而此刻她正在向这些伟大而陌生的地方飞奔，只要她愿意，她就能看见它们了。她这么想着，却不动声色。 
这时，赫斯渥觉得自己看见了一线希望，她可能会同意这个建议，便加倍地表现他的热忱。 
“想想看，”他说，“我所放弃的一切。芝加哥我是再也回不去了。倘若你不和我一起去，我现在只得一个人流落他乡了。 
你不会抛弃我的，是吧，嘉莉？” 
“我不要听你说话，”她坚决地回答。 
赫斯渥沉默了一会儿。 
嘉莉觉得火车在减速。如果她真的要采取行动，现在是行动的时候了。她心神不安地动了起来。 
“别想着走，嘉莉，”他说。“倘若你曾经喜欢过我，就和我一起去，让我们从现在开始吧。你怎么说，我就怎么做。我可以娶你，也可以让你回去。给你自己一点时间想一想。倘若我不爱你，我就不会叫你来。我告诉你，嘉莉，苍天作证，没有你我就活不下去。没有你我就不想活了。”这人的请求如此强烈，深深激起了嘉莉的同情。此刻驱使他的是吞噬一切的烈火。他爱她爱得太深，不能想象在这个时候，在他痛苦的时候放弃她。他紧张地抓住她的手，带着恳切的哀求，紧紧地握着。 
这时火车差不多要停下来了。它正驶过旁边轨道上的几节车厢。车外一片黑暗和凄凉。车窗上开始有几滴水珠，表明下雨了。嘉莉正左右为难。想下决心，又觉得无助。火车已经停了下来，而她却还在听他哀求。机车向后倒了几英尺，随后一切都静止了。 
她仍旧动摇不定，根本无法采取行动。时间在一分一分地过去，她还是犹豫不决，他则还在哀求着。 
“倘若我想回去，你会让我回去吗？”她问，似乎现在是她占了上风，彻底征服了她的同伴。 
“当然罗，”他答道，“你知道我会的。” 
嘉莉只是听着，就像一个暂时宣布了大赦的人一样。她开始觉得仿佛这件事情完全在她的掌握之中。 
火车又飞奔起来。赫斯渥换了一个话题。 
“你很累了吧？”他说。 
“不，”她答道。 
“我给你在卧铺车厢要个铺位好吗？” 
她摇了摇头，尽管她满脑子烦恼，他一肚子诡计，但她却开始注意到她过去一直感觉到的一点--他很会体贴人。 
“还是要一个吧，”他说。“你会感觉舒服多了。”她摇了摇头。 
“那就让我给你垫上我的大衣，”他站起身来，把他的轻便大衣舒服地垫在她的脑后。 
“行了，”他温柔地说，“现在你试试能否休息一下。”见她顺从了，他很想吻她一下。他坐在她身边的座位上，沉思了一会儿。 
“我看会有一场大雨，”他说。 
“看来是这样，”嘉莉说。听着一阵阵风送来的雨点声，她的神经渐渐地安静了下来。火车正穿过黑暗，朝着一个更新的世界疾驶而去。 
赫斯渥对自己能使嘉莉多少平静了一些感到满意，但这只是个很短暂的安慰。现在既然她不反对了，他就能用所有的时间来考虑他所犯的错误。 
他的处境十分痛苦，因为他并不想要他偷来的那笔可耻的钱，他不想像个贼。那笔钱或其它任何东西，都永远无法补偿他如此愚蠢地抛下的过去的境况。它无法还给他的那些成群的朋友，他的名声，他的房子以及家庭，也无法还给他一个他臆想中要得到的嘉莉。他被驱逐出了芝加哥--驱逐出了他那轻松、安逸的环境。他亲手剥夺了自己的尊严、欢乐的聚会和怡人的夜晚。而这为了什么？他越想越觉得无法忍受。他开始考虑，他要努力恢复他原有的境况。他要把那笔昨夜偷来的可耻的钱还回去，解释清楚。也许莫埃会理解。也许他们会原谅他，让他回去。 
中午时分，火车隆隆地开进底特律，他开始感到异常的紧张。现在警察一定在追捕他了。他们可能已经通知了各大城市的警察，会有侦探在监视他。他想起一些盗用公款的罪犯被捉拿归案的例子。因此，他呼吸沉重，脸色有点发白。两只手也不知所措，像是想干点什么事。他假装对车外的几处风景感兴趣，实际上他一点兴趣也没有。他反复用脚敲着地板。 
嘉莉看出了他的焦虑不安，但没有说话。她完全不知道这意味着什么或者有什么重要性。 
此时，他不明白自己为什么没有问一下这班车是否直达蒙特利尔或加拿大某地。也许他可以省点时间。他跳起来，去找列车员。 
“这班车有开往蒙特利尔的车厢吗？”他问。 
“有，后面一节卧汽车厢就是。” 
他原想多问几句，但又觉得不大明智，便决定到车站上去问。 
火车喷着气，隆隆地开进车常 
“我想我们最好直接去蒙特利尔，”他对嘉莉说，“我去看看我们下车后该怎么转车。”他非常紧张，但他极力装出镇静的样子。嘉莉只是不安地张大眼睛看着他。她心里很乱，不知如何是好。 
火车停了，赫斯渥领着她出来。他小心地看了一下四周，假装是在照顾嘉莉。确定没人在监视他，他便向票房走去。 
“下一班去蒙特利尔的火车什么时候开？”他问。 
“２０分钟以后，”售票员说。 
他买了两张车票加头等卧铺票。然后，他匆忙回到嘉莉身边。 
“我们马上又上车，”他说，几乎没注意到嘉莉看上去又累又乏。 
“但愿我没卷进来，”她抱怨地叫道。 
“到了蒙特利尔你就会感觉好些的，”他说。 
“我什么东西都没带，”嘉莉说，“连一块手帕都没有。”“一到那里，你就可以去买你所需要的一切，最亲爱的，”他解释道。“你可以请个裁缝来。”这时，站台上的人高声喊着火车要开了，于是他们上了车。火车开动了，赫斯渥松了一口气，不久火车就开到了河边，他们在那里渡过了河。火车刚开下渡轮，他就放心地吸了口气，安坐下来。 
“再过不久就要到了，”他说道。放下心来，他又想起了嘉莉。“我们明天一大早就到了。”嘉莉不屑回答。 
“我去看看有没有餐车，”他又说，“我饿了。”
Chapter 29 THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL: THE BOATS OF THE SEA
To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic expression -- "I am going away." 
As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much. Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom -- who knows? Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring. She was saved in that she was hopeful. 
The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood had been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it called anew by a busman. 
"We'll go right up and get rooms," he said. 
At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down. With the latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name he had seen out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough. With an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was the largest concession to necessity he felt like making. His initials he could not spare. 
When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured her a lovely chamber. 
"You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you are ready." 
Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk, no change of linen, not even a hair-brush. 
"I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a hair-brush. Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go for a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go out and look for some clothes for you." 
He smiled good-naturedly as he said this. 
"All right," said Carrie. 
She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for the boy, who soon knocked. 
"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water." 
"Yes, sir." 
"I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding out his hands, but she did not move to take them. 
"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly. 
"Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently. 
"Don't you care for me at all?" 
She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window. 
"Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one of her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said you did." 
"What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie. 
"I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much." 
"You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking cleanly home. 
"Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now. Won't you try and care for me a little?" 
He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her. 
She shook her head negatively. 
"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from today on." 
Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he slipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held her quite close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the all-compelling desire. His affection took an ardent form. 
"Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him. 
"Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?" 
Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment before she had been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection for him. He was so handsome, so daring! 
Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was, began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose bosom she was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and she was alone. If she did not turn to him -- accept of his love -- where else might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong feeling. 
She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What magnetism there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were for the moment all forgotten. 
He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further opposition was useless. 
"Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how. 
"This very day," he said, with all delight. 
Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her regretfully. 
"You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?" 
"Yes," she answered. 
"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour." 
Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy. 
Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. For the moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie seemed to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life seemed worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold. 
He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. Instantly his heart sank. 
"Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are you doing down here?" 
Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the stock-broker. 
"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did not know -- he had not read the papers. 
"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny genially. "Stopping here?" 
"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the register. 
"Going to be in town long?" 
"No, only a day or so." 
"Is that so? Had your breakfast?" 
"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave." 
"Won't you come have a drink?" 
"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later. Are you stopping here?" 
"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: "How are things out in Chicago?" 
"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially. 
"Wife with you?" 
"No." 
"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for breakfast. Come in when you're through." 
"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This man called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort -- all these were in his greeting and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel. 
Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear, and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous place. 
Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician's. This individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly. 
Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type. Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective -- that he was being watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie should find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be out of it. 
Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked refreshed -- more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about her forbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own experiences and reflections below stairs. 
"You're ready, are you?" he said kindly. 
"Yes," she answered. 
"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal to me very much." 
"All right," said Carrie. 
They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the fellow's eye was galling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning the city. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they entered. 
"What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely because it was not like Chicago. 
"It isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like it?" 
"No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great Western city. 
"Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood. 
"What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this town. 
"Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There's some pretty scenery about here." 
Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation. 
"We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really glad to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon as breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like that. It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago." 
He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these detectives would do -- what move his employers at Chicago would make -- then he would slip away -- down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of mystification were infinite. 
The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him -- Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave Canada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a state! 
Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious faces were about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked them over. Very little was given to his crime, but it was there, several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders, accidents, marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he could undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. There could have been an easier way out if he had only known. 
He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them out of the hands of Carrie. 
"Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in looking out of the window. 
"Oh, all right," she answered. 
He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a knock came at their door. 
"Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie. 
Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom he had so thoroughly suspected. 
"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of affected shrewdness and assurance. 
"Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that some of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as these were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped out and closed the door. 
"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man confidentially. 
"I can guess," said Hurstwood softly. 
"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?" 
"That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly. 
"You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly. 
"Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you. Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside. You'll have to excuse me." 
"Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said the man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make a lot of trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't know you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable." 
"What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood. 
"Whether you're going to send back that money or not." 
Hurstwood paused and studied the floor. 
"There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last. "There's no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know just what you can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of trouble if you want to. I know that all right, but it won't help you to get the money. Now, I've made up my mind what to do. I've already written Fitzgerald and Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait until you hear more from them." 
All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door, down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near the end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour. 
"You won't give it up?" said the man. 
The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his brain. Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't want the money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy, maybe it would be all right again. 
"See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people who know." 
"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man. 
"I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready there'll be nothing to stop me for." 
He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room. 
"Who was it?" asked Carrie. 
"A friend of mine from Chicago." 
The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was the fact that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the nature of that social injustice which sees but one side -- often but a single point in a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the money. How and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with. All the complications which led up to it were unknown. He was accused without being understood. 
Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town. 
For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He finally narrowed it down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining friends, had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the money out, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much. He was sorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he could by sending the money back -- the major portion of it. The remainder he would pay up as soon as he could. Was there any possibility of his being restored? This he only hinted at. 
The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him. He forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. He was always forgetting something -- his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present situation, or something -- and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless, he sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending the money. 
Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what joy out of it he could. 
Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in the air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him wholly -- only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which he had seen her in the little park in Chicago -- how happy he would be! It would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He would not care. 
"Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are you going to stay with me from now on?" 
She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen and strong -- love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help smiling. 
"Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me worry any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a nice flat. I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't you be mine?" 
Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of affection. She felt rather sorry for him -- a sorrow born of what had only recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt for him. She would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings, but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke down the barriers between them. 
"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked. 
"Yes," she said, nodding her head. 
He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks. 
"You must marry me, though," she said. 
"I'll get a license to-day." he answered. 
"How?" she asked. 
"Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a new life. From now on I'm Murdock." 
"Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie. 
"Why not?" he said. 
"I don't like it." 
"Well, what shall I take?" he asked. 
"Oh, anything, only don't take that." 
He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said: 
"How would Wheeler do?" 
"That's all right," said Carrie. 
"Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this afternoon." 
They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found convenient. 
At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had come about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not trouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had not quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on. 
The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom. He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send, keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence, explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day, took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He was slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to make it, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he might be seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was scarcely possible. He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he had it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to be observing him, but he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest at the first station across the border or at the depot in New York there should be waiting for him an officer of the law. 
Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into the latter city in the morning. The round green hills sentinelling the broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty as the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the Hudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out, filling her mind with the wonder of it. 
As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with Chicago, she expected long lines of cars -- a great highway of tracks -- and noted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more in the East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign of the great sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and then the train plunged into the tunnel. 
"Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension. With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie. 
"I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said. 
"I was trying remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he answered. 
Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene. 
"How large is New York?" she asked. 
"Oh, a million or more," said Hurstwood. 
He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way. 
For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing. 
He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed. 
"We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said. 
Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew. He stood up and spoke to the driver. 
"Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less frequented by those whom he knew. Then he sat down. 
"Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the tall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families. 
"Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. "There are no lawns in New York. All these are houses." 
"Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a few opinions of her own.
没有旅行过的人，对家乡以外的陌生地方总是很着迷。除了爱情，也就数这事能给人安慰，令人愉快了。所遇到的新鲜事物都十分重要，不容忽视。而人的头脑只是各种感官印象的反映，会被这些潮水般涌来的事物所征服。于是恋人被忘却，忧愁被撇开，死亡也看不见了。那句富有戏剧性的老话"我要走了"的背后，蕴藏着无限的情感。 当嘉莉望着窗外飞逝而过的景色对，她几乎忘了自己是被起来作这次违心的长途旅行的，也忘了她没带旅行的必需用品。她有时连赫斯渥的存在都忘了，只顾用惊奇的目光看着远处那些乡村中简朴的农舍和舒适的小屋。对她来说，这个世界很有趣。她的生活才刚刚开始。她一点也不觉得自己被打败了。她也不认为希望已经破灭。大城市有的是机会。很有可能，她会摆脱束缚，获得自由--谁知道呢？也许她会幸福。 
想到这些，她便不再考虑自己是否做错了。她很乐观，因此不至于无法自拔。 
第二天早晨，火车平安抵达蒙特利尔，他们下了车。赫斯渥很高兴已脱离了危险，嘉莉则惊叹着这北方城市的新奇气氛。很久以前，赫斯渥曾来过这里，这时他想起了他当时住过的旅馆的名字。当他们从车站正门出来时，他听到一个公共马车的车夫正在反复地叫着那个旅馆的名字。 
“我们这就去那里开个房间，”他说。 
在帐房间里，赫斯渥把登记簿转过来时，帐房走上前来。 
他正考虑用什么名字来登记。面对着帐房，他没有时间再犹豫了。他忽然想起在车窗外瞧见的那个名字。是个很讨人喜欢的名字。他大笔一挥，写下了“乔·威·默多克夫妇”。这是他在万不得已的情况下所能作出的最大让步了。对自己名字的缩写，他是不能省去的。 
他们被领到自己的房间后，嘉莉一眼就看出他给她找了一间可爱的卧室。 
“那边还有一间浴室，”他说，“等你准备好了，就可以去梳洗一下。”嘉莉走过去看着窗外。赫斯渥在镜子里照了照，觉得自己又脏又乱。他没带箱子，没带换洗衣物，连把梳子都没有。 
“我按铃叫他们送肥皂和毛巾来，”他说，“还给你送把梳子。然后你就去洗澡，准备吃早饭。我先去修个面，再回来接你，然后我们出去给你买些衣服。”他边说边和蔼地笑着。 
“好的，”嘉莉说。她在一把摇椅上坐下来，赫斯渥在等茶房，很快茶房就敲门了。 
“给我们拿肥皂、毛巾和一壶冰水来。” 
“是，先生。” 
“我现在要走了，”他对嘉莉说，向她走过来并伸出了双手，但她却不伸手去接。 
“你没有生我的气，是吧？”他温柔地问。 
“哦，没有！”她答道，口气相当冷淡。 
“难道你一点都不爱我吗？” 
她没有回答，只是盯着窗口。 
“难道你就不能有一点点爱我吗？”他恳求着，握住她的一只手，而她却使劲想甩开。“你曾经说过你爱我的。”“你为什么要这样欺骗我？”嘉莉问。 
“我也是没有办法呀，”他说，“我太想要你了。”“你没有任何权力要我，”她答道，一下就打中了要害。 
“哦，可是，嘉莉，”他说，“事已至此，现在已经太晚了。你能否试着爱我一点呢？”他站在她面前，看上去完全没了头绪。 
她否定地摇了摇头。 
“让我一切从头开始吧。从今天起你就做我的妻子。”嘉莉站了起来，像是要走开，而他还握着她的手。这时他悄悄地用胳膊搂住了她，她挣扎着，但是没有挣脱。他把她搂得很紧。立刻他的体内燃起了一股无法抗拒的欲火。他的感情也变得十分强烈。 
“放开我，”嘉莉说，她被他紧紧地搂着。 
“你爱我，好吗？”他说。“你从现在起就成为我的人，好吗？”嘉莉从来没有对他有过恶感。就在一分钟之前，她还在悠然自得地听他说话，未忘旧情。他真漂亮，真大胆！ 
可是现在，这种感情变成了反抗情绪，一种软弱无力的反抗。一时间，这种反抗情绪在她心里占了上风。可是过不了一会儿，因为被他搂得很紧，她就开始变软了。在她的内心深处响起了另外一个声音。这个人，这个正把她紧紧地搂在怀里的人，是个强壮的男人。他热情，他爱她，而她又是孤单一人。若是她不投奔他--接受他的爱情--她又能去别的什么地方呢？面对他那潮水般涌来的强烈感情，她的抵抗有些瓦解了。 
她发现他抬起了她的头，目光直盯着她的眼睛。她永远都搞不懂，他怎么会有这么大的吸引力。于是此刻，他的诸多罪过都被忘却了。 
他把她搂得更紧并吻了她，她觉得再反抗已经毫无意义。 
“你愿意和我结婚吗？”她问，却忘了问怎么结法。 
“今天就结婚，”他说，高兴极了。 
这时旅馆的茶房把门敲得砰砰响，他遗憾地放开了她。 
“你现在就准备，好吗？”他说，“马上。”“好的，”她回答。 
“我３刻钟后就回来。” 
他让茶房进来时，嘉莉红着脸兴奋地走到一边。 
下楼之后，他在门厅里停下来找理发间。此刻，他情绪高昂。他刚刚赢得了嘉莉，这似乎补偿了过去的几天里他所遭受的折磨。看来人生是值得为之奋斗的。这一次抛下所有牵肠挂肚的日常琐事，向东逃亡，看来好像还有幸福在等待着。风暴过后会出现彩虹，彩虹的尽头可能是一坛金子。 
他看见一个房间的门旁边装着一个红白条纹相间的小圆柱。正准备走到那里去时，听见一个声音亲热地和他打招呼。 
他的心立刻往下一沉。 
“喂，你好，乔治，老朋友！”这声音说。“你到这里来干什么？”赫斯渥已经和他面对面了，认出是他的朋友肯尼，一个股票经纪人。 
“来办件私人小事，”他回答，脑子里就像电话局的接线盘一样忙个不停。这个人显然还不知道--他没看到报纸。 
“咳，真没想到会在这么远的地方见到你，”肯尼先生亲切地说。“住在这里吗？”“是的，”赫斯渥不安地说，脑子里想着登记簿上自己的笔迹。 
“要在这里待长吗？” 
“不，只待一天左右。” 
“真的吗？早点吃过没有？” 
“吃过了，”赫斯渥说，信口撒了谎。“我正要去修面。”“你过来喝一杯好吗？”“以后再喝吧，”这位过去的经理说道。“我过一会儿来看你，你是住在这里吗？”“是的，”肯尼先生说。然后又把话题转回来，补充说：“芝加哥那边的情况怎么样？”“和往常差不多，”赫斯渥说，亲切地笑了笑。 
“太太和你一起来了吗？” 
“没有。” 
“嘿，今天我非得再和你聊聊不可。我刚到这里来吃早点。 
你有空就过来。” 
“我会来的，”赫斯渥说着走开了。整个谈话对他来说是一场痛苦的考验。似乎每讲一个字就增加了一分复杂。这个人勾起了他无数的回忆。这个人代表着他所抛弃的一切。芝加哥，他的太太--这一切全在这个人的寒暄与询问之中。而现在这个人就住在这同一家旅馆里，盼着和他交谈，毫无疑问等着和他一起好好地玩一下。芝加哥的报纸随时都会到这里。当地的报纸今天就会有报道。想到这个人可能很快就会知道他的真面目，一个偷保险柜的贼，他忘记了赢得嘉莉的胜利。他走进理发间时，差不多都要哼出声来了。他决定逃走，找一家平静些的旅馆。 
因此，当他出来时看见门厅里空无一人，心里很高兴，赶忙奔向楼梯。他要带上嘉莉，从妇女出入口出去。他们要去一个不大显眼的地方吃早点。 
可是，在门厅的那一头，另一个人正在打量着他。那是个普通的爱尔兰人，身材矮小，衣着寒酸，却长着个特别的脑袋，看上去像是某个大选区政客的脑袋的缩本。这个人刚才明明一直在和帐房谈话。可是现在他却在敏锐地打量着这位过去的经理。 
赫斯渥感觉到远处有人在观察他，看出了那人的身份。他本能地觉得那人是个侦探--他被监视了。他匆忙穿过门厅，假装没有察觉，可是心里却是千头万绪。现在会发生什么事呢？这些人会干什么呢？他开始费尽心思地去想关于引渡法的问题。他并不完全懂得这些法律。也许他会被捕。哎呀，要是嘉莉发觉就糟了！蒙特利尔他是待不下去了。他开始渴望离开这个地方。 
当他回到房间时，嘉莉已经洗过澡，正在等他。她看起来容光焕发，比以往更加可爱，但是很矜持。在他走后，她又有点恢复了对他的冷淡态度。她的心里并没有爱情在燃烧。他感觉到了这一点，他的烦恼似乎也随之增加了。他没能把她搂在怀里，他连试都没试。她的神情不许他这样做，他自己在楼下的经历和沉思是他形成这一看法的部份原因。 
“你准备好了。是吗？”他和蔼地说。 
“是的，”她回答。 
“我们出去吃早点。这下面的地方我不太喜欢。”“好的，”嘉莉说。 
他们走了出来，那个普通的爱尔兰人正站在拐角处，盯着他看。赫斯渥差一点忍不住要露出他知道这家伙的存在的表情来。这家伙的傲慢目光令人恼怒。但他们还是走了过去。他对嘉莉谈了一些这个城市的情况。不久又看见一家餐馆，这一次他们走了进去。 
“这个城市真古怪，”嘉莉说，她对这个城市感到惊奇，仅仅因为它不像芝加哥。 
“这里不及芝加哥热闹，”赫斯渥说，“你喜欢这里吗？”“不喜欢，”嘉莉答道，她的喜好厌恶早已受到那个伟大的美国西部城市的局限了。 
“哎，也不如芝加哥有意思，”赫斯渥说。 
“这里有些什么呢？”嘉莉问道，不明白他为什么挑选这个城市来旅游。 
“没有什么特别的，”赫斯渥回答。“这是个旅游胜地。这一带有一些美丽的风景。”嘉莉听着，但心里感到不安。她很为自己的处境担忧，哪里有心情欣赏什么风景。 
“我们不在这里久待，”赫斯渥说，他现在看到她不满意，还真感到高兴。“一吃完早点，你就去挑好衣服。我们马上去纽约。你会喜欢那里的。除了芝加哥以外，它可是比其它任何地方都要更像一个城市。”实际上，他是在打算溜之大吉。他要看看这些侦探会干些什么--他在芝加哥的东家们会采取什么行动--然后他就溜走--去纽约，那是个容易藏身的地方。他很熟悉那个城市，知道那个城市充满神秘，可以任由你神出鬼没。 
可是，他越想越觉得自己的处境不妙。他发现来到这里，还是没有真正地解决问题。酒店很可能会雇用侦探来监视他--平克顿的手下或者穆尼和博兰侦探所的侦探。一旦他企图逃离加拿大，他们可能就会逮捕他。这样他也许就不得不在这里住上几个月，而且是处于如此狼狈的境况。 
回到旅馆，赫斯渥急着想看早晨的报纸，可又害怕看。他想知道有关他的罪行的消息已经传了多远。于是，他告诉嘉莉他过一会儿再上来，就去找报纸看了。四周都没看见熟悉的或可疑的面孔，可他还是不想在门厅里看报，就找到楼上的大休息室，进去坐在窗边，把报纸浏览了一遍。关于他的罪行的报道极少，但还是有，一共就那么寥寥几行，夹在那些乱七八糟的关于各地谋杀、车祸、结婚以及其它消息的电讯报道之中。 
他有些悲哀，真希望自己能抹掉这一切。在这个遥远的安全住所里，每过一分钟都会使他更加感到自己已铸成大错。应该会有更加容易的出路，当初他要是知道就好了。 
他回房间之前，把报纸留在了那里，以为这样报纸就不会落到嘉莉的手中。 
“喂，你感觉怎么样啦？”他问她。她正在看着窗外。 
“哦，很好，”她回答。 
他走了过去，刚要开口和她说话，传来了敲门声。 
“可能是我买的东西到了，”嘉莉说。 
赫斯渥开了门，门外站着他十分怀疑的那个人。 
“你是赫斯渥先生，对吗？”那人说，做出一副非常精明、肯定的模样。 
“是的，”赫斯渥镇定地说。他太了解这种人了，这种人是酒店所接待的最低阶层的人，因此又有些恢复了他往日对这种人的满不在乎的态度。他跨到门外，把门关上了。 
“这么说，你知道我为什么到这里来，是吗？”这人用信任的口气说。 
“我能猜到，”赫斯渥小声地说。 
“那么，你还想留着那笔钱吗？” 
“那是我自己的事，”赫斯渥冷淡地说。 
“你不能那么做，这你是知道的，”侦探说，冷眼打量着他。 
“听着，朋友，”赫斯渥盛气凌人地说，“你一点也不了解这件案子，我也无法向你解释。我想做什么就做什么，不需要别人指手划脚。还请你原谅。”“哦，好哇，等你落到警察手里，”这人说，“你这么说话就不管用了。只要我们愿意，我们就可以给你找很多麻烦。你在这家旅馆登记没有用真实姓名，你没有带太太一起来，报馆的人还不知道你在这里。你最好还是通情达理一点。”“你想知道些什么？”赫斯渥问。 
“我想知道你是否打算把那笔钱寄回去。”赫斯渥停顿了一下，打量着地板。 
“我向你解释这事是没有用的，”他最后说。“你盘问我也没有用。我不是个傻瓜，这你心里明白。我知道你能做什么，不能做什么。只要你愿意，你可以制造很多麻烦。这点我很清楚，但是这并不能帮你拿到那笔钱。现在我已经决定好怎么做了。我已经给费茨杰拉德和莫埃写了信，所以在此我没什么可说的了。你等着听他们的回音吧。”他一边说话，一边从门口走开，沿着走廊走去，以免让嘉莉听见。现在他们已经快走到走廊的尽头了，尽头是一间大休息室。 
“你不肯放弃那笔钱吧？”这人说。他的这句话使得赫斯渥大为恼火。热血直冲脑门，千头万绪涌上心头。他不是贼。他并不想要那笔钱。只要他能向费茨杰拉德和莫埃解释清楚，也许就会没事了。 
“听着，”他说，“我现在谈这些根本就没有用。我很尊重你的权力，但是我得和了解内情的人打交道。”“好吧，但你不能带着钱离开加拿大，”这人说。 
“我没想要离开，”赫斯渥说，“等我准备好离开时，就不会有什么阻拦我的事了。”他转身回去，侦探牢牢地盯着他。这简直是件无法忍受的事。可他还是继续朝前走，走进了自己的房间。 
“那人是谁？”嘉莉问道。 
“芝加哥来的一个朋友。” 
整个谈话使得赫斯渥大为震惊。刚刚经历了上个星斯的种种焦虑，又碰上这么一番谈话。震惊之余，他心里不由得产生了一种深深的忧虑和对道德的反感。最令他伤心的是他竟会被人当作贼来追捕。他开始看清了社会不公正的本质，这种不公正表现在只看到问题的一面--往往只看到一幕漫长的悲剧中的某一时刻。所有的报纸都只提到了一件事，这就是他偷了钱。至于怎么偷的和为什么要偷，却无人过问。造成这一后果的所有的复杂原因，也无人知晓。他在没被理解之前就给定了罪名。 
同一天里，当他和嘉莉一起坐在房间里时，他决定寄回那笔钱。他要给费茨杰拉德和莫埃写信，把一切解释清楚。然后用快汇把钱寄回去。他们可能会原谅他。他们也许会请他回去。他要把他说的已写信给他们的谎话变为事实。然后他就会离开这个古怪的城市。 
为了能言之有理地说明这件复杂的事情，他足足想了有一个钟头。他本想告诉他们有关他太太的事，但是难以启齿。 
最后，他大事花小，只是简单地说明，他招待朋友时喝晕了头，发现保险柜是开着的，竟然把钱拿了出来，一不小心将保险柜锁上了。这件事令他后悔莫及。他给他们添了那么多麻烦，真是对不起他们。他要尽力挽回这件事，把钱寄回去--把其中的大部分寄回去。剩下的部份他会尽快还清。是否有可能让他恢复原职？这一点他只是暗示了一下。 
从这封信的构思本身，就可看出这人是怎样的心烦意乱。 
他当时忘记了，即使让他恢复了原职，那也将是一件多么痛苦的事情。他忘记了他使自己和过去已经像是一刀两断，即使他能设法多少让自己和过去破镜重圆，也难免总要露出分离和重合的裂痕来。他总是会忘记些什么--他的太太，嘉莉，他需要钱用，眼前的处境，或其它什么--因此考虑问题不清楚。不过，他还是寄走了这封信，想等收到回信再汇钱去。 
在此期间，他和嘉莉则安于现状，尽情享受其中的乐趣。 
中午太阳出来了，潮水般的金色阳光从他们敞开的窗户直泻进来。麻雀在吱吱喳喳地叫着，空气中飘荡着欢歌笑语。 
赫斯渥的目光一刻也离不开嘉莉。在他的一切烦恼中，她好像是一缕阳光。啊，只要她能全心全意地爱他--只要她能带着他在芝加哥那个小公园里见到她时那般快乐无比的心情，张开双臂拥抱他，他将有多么幸福呀！这就是对他的补偿；这就能向他表明他并没有丧失一切。他也就不在乎了。 
“嘉莉，”他说，此刻他站了起来，走到她的身边，“你愿意从现在起就和我一起生活吗？”她疑惑地看着他，但是当她感受到他的面部表情那咄咄逼人的力量时，她心软了，产生了同情。这就是爱情，强烈之极--因烦恼和忧虑而加深了的爱情。她忍不住笑了。 
“从现在起，就让我成为你的一切吧，”他说。“别再让我担心了。我会忠实于你。我们要去纽约找一套漂亮的公寓。我将重新经商，我们会幸福的。你愿意成为我的人吗？”嘉莉很严肃地听着。她心里并没有多大的激情，但是随着事情的推移，加上这人的亲近，使她像是动了真情。她很替他难过--这是从那份前不久还是十分钦佩的感情中产生的一种惋惜之情。她对他从未有过真正的爱情。倘若她能分析一下自己的感情，就会明白这一点。但是她眼前为他的激情而动的感情却消除了他俩之间的隔阂。 
“你愿意和我一起生活了，是吗？”他问。 
“是的，”她说，点了点头。 
他把她揽进怀里，吻着她的嘴唇和面颊。 
“不过，你必须和我结婚，”她说。 
“我今天就去领结婚证书，”他回答。 
“怎么领法？”她问。 
“用个新的姓氏，”他答道。“我要换个新的姓氏，过新的生活。从现在起，我就姓默多克了。”“哦，别用那个姓氏，”嘉莉说。 
“为什么？”他说。 
“我不喜欢。” 
“那么，我叫什么好呢？”他问道。 
“哦，随便什么都行，只要不叫默多克。”他想了一会儿，双臂还搂着她，然后说：“叫惠勒行吗？”“这个不错，”嘉莉说。 
“那么，好，就用惠勒，”他说，“我今天下午就去领结婚证书。”他们结婚了，由一位浸礼会牧师主婚，这是他们所能找到的第一个合适的神职人员。 
终于，芝加哥的酒店回信了。信是莫埃先生口授的。他对赫斯渥做出这种事很感惊讶，对事情弄到这种地步深表遗憾。 
倘若他能归还钱款，他们并不想费力去起诉他，因为他们对他实在并无恶意。至于让他回去，或是他们给他恢复原职一事，他们还拿不准那样做会产生什么样的影响。他们要考虑一下，以后再通知他。可能会很快，云云。 
总之，这封信告诉他，没有希望了。他们只想拿回钱款，麻烦则越少越好。赫斯渥从信中看到了自己的厄运。他决定把９５００块钱交给他们说要派来的那个代理人，留下１３００块钱自己用。他发了一份电报表示同意，向当天就来旅馆找他的那个代理人作了一番解释。拿了收据，然后就叫嘉莉收拾箱子。 
他在开始采取这一最新行动时感到有点沮丧，但最终又振作了起来。他害怕即使在这个时候，他还可能被抓住，被押送回去，所以他试图隐蔽自己的行动，但这几乎不可能做到。他叫人把嘉莉的箱子送到火车站，由铁路用快运托运到纽约，看上去并没有人在监视他。但他还是在夜里离开了。他焦虑万分，生怕在越过国境线的第一站，或者是在纽约火车站，会有一个执法官在等着他。 
嘉莉不知道他的偷窃行为和他的种种恐惧，当火车第二天早晨抵达纽约时，感到很高兴。火车正沿着赫德森河行驶，一座座圆顶的青山如同哨兵般守护着宽阔的河谷，这美丽的景色深深地吸引了她。她曾经听说过赫德森河，伟大的都市纽约，现在她看着窗外，心里对这个大都市惊叹不已。 
当火车在斯布丁杜佛尔向东转弯，沿着哈莱姆河东岸行驶时，赫斯渥紧张地提醒她，他们已经到了纽约城边。按照她在芝加哥的经验，她原以为会看见一长列的车厢，一大片纵横交错的铁轨，但却发现这里不同。看见哈莱姆河里的一些船只和东河里更多的船只，她那颗年轻的心发痒了。这是大海的第一个征兆。接着是一条平坦的大街，两边耸立着砖造的五层楼房，然后火车钻进了隧道。 
在黑暗和烟尘中过了几分钟后，又重见了天日。这时列车员叫道：“中央大站到了。”赫斯渥站起身来，收拾其他的小旅行包。他的神经高度紧张。他带着嘉莉在车门口等了一下，然后下了车。没有人朝他走来，但当他向临街的出口处走过去时，还是偷偷地四处张望。他太激动了，全然忘记了嘉莉，她落在后面，奇怪他竟会只顾自己。当他穿过车站大厦时，紧张到了极点，但随后便松弛下来，他立即上了人行道，除了马车夫，没人向他打招呼。他大大地松了一口气，想起了嘉莉，便转过身去。 
“我还以为你要丢下我一个人跑了呢，”她说。 
“我在想我们该乘什么车去吉尔赛旅馆，”他回答。 
嘉莉正一门心思注意着街上热闹的景象，几乎没听见他在说什么。 
“纽约有多大？”她问。 
“喔，一百多万人口，”赫斯渥说。 
他看了一下四周，叫了一辆马车，但他叫车的神态变了。 
多少年来，这是他第一次想到他得算计这些细小的开支。 
这是令人不快的事。 
他打定主意不在旅馆里久住，而要尽快租一套公寓。他把这个主意告诉嘉莉，她表示同意。 
“如果你高兴的话，我们今天就去找，”她说。 
突然他想起了他在蒙特利尔的经历。在那些大旅馆里。他肯定会遇到芝加哥的熟人。他站了起来，对马车夫说话。 
“去贝尔福特旅馆，”他说，知道他的熟人不大会去这家旅馆。然后他坐了下来。 
“住宅区在哪里？"嘉莉问道，她以为街道两旁的那些五层楼不是住家的地方。 
“到处都是，”赫斯渥说，他对这个城市相当熟悉。“纽约没有草坪。这些都是住宅。”“哦，这样的话，我不喜欢这里，”嘉莉说，她已经开始有些自己的主见了。
Chapter 30 THE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS: THE PILGRIM ADREAM
Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York. In Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires were not numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the inhabitants was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic, social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from view. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade. In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. The sea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear wholly from view -- remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing. 
There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which, though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the world. The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the small. This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the magnificent residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops, restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the wines; drink of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious content, of the glances which gleam like light from defiant spears; feel the quality of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the human heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of greatness. So long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its desperate results in the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent. One day of it, like one drop of the other, will so affect and discolour the views, the aims, the desire of the mind, that it will thereafter remain forever dyed. A day of it to the untried mind is like opium to the untried body. A craving is set up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and death. Aye! dreams unfulfilled -- gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which beckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve their power and restore us blind to nature's heart. 
A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the illusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. Such an atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen, but in so far as they were excited, the lack of hope made them proportionately bitter. He could not fail to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every hand. He had been to New York before and knew the resources of its folly. In part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all that he most respected on this earth -- wealth, place, and fame. The majority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day as manager hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most inviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and individuals here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was brushing elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or five hundred thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than comfortably in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample sums, so that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he was not so dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a sudden, then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took on peculiar significance. It was emphasised by contrast with his own distressing state. 
And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of arrest was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger dissolved, the next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry sum of thirteen hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing, food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated to induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five times that sum in the course of a year. He thought upon the subject rather actively the first few days he was in New York, and decided that he must act quickly. As a consequence, he consulted the business opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations on his own account. 
That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he went looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in Seventy-eighth Street near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story building, and their flat was on the third floor. Owing to the fact that the street was not yet built up solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the trees in Central Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse of which was to be had out of the west windows. For the privilege of six rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were compelled to pay thirty-five dollars a month -- an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a home at the time. Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the rooms here and in Chicago and mentioned it. 
"You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of these conveniences." 
Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright wood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat, which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water, dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her very much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great satisfaction in these things. 
Hurstwood made arrangement with one of the instalment houses whereby they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G. W. Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It sounded exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the janitor, but in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as her own. 
These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the advertised opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not stomach the commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a number of days looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did, however, gain considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with the police. The most profitable and flourishing places he found to be those which conducted anything but a legitimate business, such as that controlled by Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private drinking booths on the second floor were usually adjuncts of very profitable places. He saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts shone with large diamonds, and whose clothes were properly cut, that the liquor business here, as elsewhere, yielded the same golden profit. 
At last he found an individual who had a resort in Warren Street, which seemed an excellent venture. It was fairly well-appearing and susceptible of improvement. The owner claimed the business to be excellent, and it certainly looked so. 
"We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood. "Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No bums. We don't allow 'em in the place." 
Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the trade for a while. 
"It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked. 
"You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor trade," said the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have. The other is down in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone. If I had some one who knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind sharing with him in this one and letting him manage it." 
"I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt a little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy. 
"Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor. 
He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and good-will, and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial ability on the part of the one who should come in. There was no property involved, because the owner of the saloon merely rented from an estate. 
The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It was not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted, to hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month now. By judicious management and improvement, it might be made to pay more. Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made over his thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day. 
His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however, introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very disagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him surly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in business. Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like the class of patronage which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it would take a long time to make friends. These people hurried in and out without seeking the pleasures of friendship. It was no gathering or lounging place. Whole days and weeks passed, without one such hearty greeting as he had been wont to enjoy every day in Chicago. 
For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities -- those well-dressed, elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and bring news from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such in a month. Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally read in the evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he knew -- whom he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a bar like Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House, uptown, but he knew that he would never see them down here. 
Again, the business did not pay as well as he thought. It increased a little, but he found he would have to watch his household expenses, which was humiliating. 
In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night, as he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner with her between six and seven, and to remain home until nine o'clock in the morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time, and he began to feel the drag of his duties. 
The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very natural way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress." 
"What kind?" said Hurstwood. 
"Oh, something for street wear." 
"All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing was said about it the next day, but the following morning he asked: 
"Have you done anything about your dress?" 
"Not yet," said Carrie. 
He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said: 
"Would you mind putting it off a few days?" 
"No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. She had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before. "Why?" 
"Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine is taking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly, but just at present I am running close." 
"Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me before?" 
"It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood. 
For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way Hurstwood spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal which he was always about to put through. It was only the thought of a second, but it was a beginning. It was something new in her thinking of Hurstwood. 
Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full revelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot long dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another. The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether he voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as nicely as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada. Carrie noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest many amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago -- not the liberal, opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious to escape detection. 
In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she was not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own counsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things. This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is reached. 
As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting where he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state with his former, hour after hour, and day after day. 
Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever since one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the city. It was in Broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he knew. There was no time for simulating non-recognition. The exchange of glances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent. So the friend, a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce, the necessity of stopping. 
"How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of feeling and a lack of plausible interest. 
"Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it with you?" 
"All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located here now?" 
"Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street." 
"Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come down and see you." 
"Do," said Hurstwood. 
"So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on. 
"He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't think of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and hoped sincerely he would meet no one else. 
These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope was that things would change for the better in a money way. He had Carrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his position. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have to do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensions sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would be well. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of human nature -- the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With him and with her varying mental states were common. At any moment the extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table. This often happens in the best regulated families. Little things brought out on such occasions need great love to obliterate them afterward. Where that is not, both parties count two and two and make a problem after a while.
不管赫斯渥这种人在芝加哥是个何等人物，但到了纽约这地方，他显然只是沧海一栗罢了。在还只有大约五十万人口的芝加哥，百万富翁并不多。富人还没有富到能使得有中等收入的人默默无闻的地步。居民们对当地戏剧界、艺术界、社交界和宗教界的名流也还没有着迷到发狂的程度，以至于不把一般地位优越的人放在眼里。在芝加哥，成名的道路有两条，从政和经商。可在纽约，成名的道路却有几十条，任你选择，而每一条路上都有成百上千的人在勤奋追求，所以有很多的知名人士。大海里已经挤满了鲸鱼，一条普通的小鱼不得不完全销声匿迹，永不露面。换句话说，赫斯渥是微不足道的。 这样的处境还会产生一种更加微妙的后果，它虽然往往不被人注意，但却能酿成世间的悲剧。大人物造就的气氛会对小人物产生恶劣的影响。这种气氛很容易也很快就能被感觉到。当你置身于豪华的住宅、精美的马车和金碧辉煌的店铺、饭馆和各种娱乐场所之中；当你嗅到了花香、绸香和酒香；当你领略了生活奢侈的人发出的心满意足的笑声和似寒矛般闪闪发亮的目空一切的眼光；当你感到像利剑一样刺人的笑容以及那炫耀显赫地位的趾高气扬的步伐时，你就会明白什么是有权有势的人的气派。你也用不着争辩，说这并不是伟人的境界。因为只要世界注重它，人心视它为必须达到的一种理想的境界，那么，对这种人来说，这就将永远是伟人的境界。而且，这种境界造就的气氛也将给人的心灵带来无法挽回的后果。这就像是一种化学试剂。在这里过上一天，就像点上了一滴化学试剂，将会影响和改变人的观点、目的和欲望的颜色，使之就此染上这一色彩。这样的一天对于没有经验的心灵就像鸦片对于没有烟瘾的肉体一般。一种欲望由此而生，倘若要得到满足，将永无止境，最终导致梦想和死亡。唉，尚未实现的梦想啊，咬啮着人心，迷惑着人心，那些痴心梦想在召唤和引导着，召唤和引导着，直到死亡和毁灭来化解它们的力量，把我们浑浑噩噩地送回大自然的怀抱。 
像赫斯渥这种年龄和性情的人，是不会轻易受年轻人的种种幻想和炽烈的欲望的影响的，但也缺少年轻人心里如泉水般喷涌而出的希望的力量。这种气氛不会在他心里激起１８岁少年的那种渴望。但是一旦被激起，越是没有希望，就会越加令人痛苦。他不能不注意到来自各方面的富裕和奢侈的种种迹象。他以前来过纽约，了解这里的骄奢淫逸。在某种程度上，对他来说，纽约是个令人敬畏的地方，因为这里集中了他在这个世界上最尊重的东西--财富、地位和名声。在他当经理的那些日子里，和他一起饮过酒的大多数名流，就出身于这个以自我为中心、人口稠密的地方。那些最诱人的有关寻欢作乐和奢侈放荡的故事，讲的就是这里的一些地方和人物。他知道自己确实整天都在不知不觉中和有钱人擦肩而过。在如此富裕的地方，１０万或５０万块钱并不能让人享有过豪华生活的权力。时髦和浮华需要更多的钞票，因此穷人无法生存。现在，当他面对这个城市时，他十分深刻地认识到这一切。这时的他，朋友来往已经断绝，他的那点财产，甚至连名字，都被剥夺了，他不得不从头开始为地位和幸福而奋斗。他还不算老，但他并不迟钝得意识不到自己很快就会变老。于是，眼前这华丽的衣着、地位以及权力，突然间具有了特殊的意义，与他自己的艰难处境相对比，其意义更为重大。 
他的处境的确艰难。他很快就发现，消除对被捕的恐惧，并不是他生存的必要条件。这种危险已经消失，但下一个需要却成了令人头疼的事。那区区１３００多块钱，要用来对付今后多年的房租、衣食以及娱乐。这样的前景，是不会让一个习惯于一年之内就要花掉５倍于这个数目的钱的人感到心情平静的。他在初到纽约的几天中，就相当积极地考虑了这个问题，决定得赶快行动。因此，他在报纸的广告中寻找着做生意的机会，并开始亲自调查研究。 
不过这是在他安居下来之后的事。嘉莉和他按照计划去找一套公寓，在靠近阿姆斯特丹大道的七十八街上找到了一套。这是一幢五层楼的建筑，他们的房间是在三楼。因为这条街还没有造满房子，所以向东看得见中央公园的绿树梢，向西看得见赫德森河宽阔的水面，从西面的窗户可以看见一些河上的景象。租用一排六个房间和一个浴室，他们每月得付３５块钱--这在当时只是一般住户的房租，但还是高得吓人。嘉莉注意到这里的房间比芝加哥的小并指出了这一点。 
“找不到比这更好的了，亲爱的，”赫斯渥说，“除非去找那些老式住宅，不过那样的话，你就没有这些方便的设施了。”嘉莉选中这套新居，是因为它建筑新颖，木建部分色彩鲜亮。这是最新式的建筑之一，装有暖气，这是很大的优点。固定的灶具，冷热水供应，升降送货机，传话筒以及叫门房的铃。 
这些她都十分喜欢。她很具有家庭主妇的天性，因而对这些设施非常满意。 
赫斯渥和一家分斯付款的家具店商定，由他们提供全套家具，先付５０块钱定金，以后每月再付１０块钱。然后，他定做了一块小铜牌，刻上“乔·威·惠勒”的姓名，装在过道里他的信箱上。开始嘉莉听到门房叫她惠勒太太时，觉得听起来很怪，但过些时候她听惯了，也就把它当作自己的姓名了。 
等这些家庭琐事安排妥当之后，赫斯渥就去拜访一些广告上登的能提供做生意的机会的地方，想在市区某家生意兴隆的酒店里买一部分股权。有了在亚当斯街那家华丽的酒店工作的经历，他无法忍受这些登广告的庸俗酒馆。他花了好几天时间去拜访这些酒馆，发现它们都不称心，不过，在交谈中，他倒是学到了不少知识，因为他发现了坦慕尼堂的势力以及和警察拉好关系的重要性。他发现最赚钱、最兴隆的是那些做各种非法生意的场所，而不是费茨杰拉德和莫埃开的那种合法经营的酒店。那些十分赚钱的地方，楼上往往附设优雅的密室和秘密饮酒间。那些大腹便便的店主的衬衫前襟上闪耀着大块的钻石，穿的衣服裁剪合身。他从他们身上看出，这里的卖酒生意和其它地方一样，赢利很高。 
最后，他找到了一个人，这个人在沃伦街开有一家酒店，似乎是桩大好买卖。酒店看上去不错，而且还可以加以改进。 
店主声称生意极好，当然，看上去也是如此。 
“我们这里接待的人都很有教养，”他告诉赫斯渥说，“商人、推销员，还有自由职业者，属于衣冠楚楚的阶层。没有无业游民。我们是不许他们来这里的。"赫斯渥听着现金收入记录机的铃声，观察了一会儿营业状况。 
“两个人合营也有钱可赚，是吗？”他问。 
“倘若你对卖酒生意很在行的话，你自己可以看嘛，”店主说。“这只是我开的两家酒店之一。另一家在那边的纳索街上。 
我一个人照料不了两家。若是能找到一个很懂这行生意的人，我乐意和他合营这一家，让他当经理。”“我有足够的经验，”赫斯渥淡淡地说道，但他没敢提及费莫酒店。 
“那么，你看着办吧，惠勒先生。”店主说。 
他只愿意出让１A３的股权、设备和信誉，条件是愿意合股的人要出１０００块钱，而且还要有经营能力。这中间不涉及房产问题，因为这是酒店主人从一个房地产商那里租来用的。 
这笔交易倒是货真价实。但对赫斯渥来说还有个问题，那就是这种地方的１A３股权，能否每月赢利１５０块钱。他估计他必须要有这个数目，才能维持日常开支并且不显得拮据。可是，为了找到他喜欢的地方，他已经失败了很多次，现在不是犹豫的时候了。看起来１A３股权目前似乎能每月赢利１００块钱。只要经营得当，并加以改进，可能还会多赚一些。因此，他同意合股，并交出他那１０００块钱，准备第二天就职。 
他起初觉得很是得意，向嘉莉吐露说，他认为自己作出了最好的安排。然而，烦恼的事随着时间的推移出现了。他发现这位合股人很难相处。他常常喝醉酒，酒后脾气很坏。这是生意场上赫斯渥最看不惯的事。此外，生意也变味了。这里的主顾完全不像他在芝加哥时所乐于结交的那一类人。他发现在这里交朋友要花上很长的时间。这些人匆匆而来，又匆匆而去，并不寻求友情的乐趣。这里根本不是聚会或休息的场所。 
整整几天、几个星期过去了，他没有听到过一声他在芝加哥时习惯了的、每天都能听到的那种亲切的招呼声。 
另外，赫斯渥想念那些知名人士--那些衣冠楚楚，能使普通酒吧显得体面，并且带来远方的消息和圈子内的新闻的社会名流。他一个月里也没有见到过一个这样的人物。晚上，当还没下班时，他偶尔会从晚报上看到有关他认识的那些知名人士的消息--他曾经多次和这些人在一起喝过酒。他们会去像芝加哥的费莫酒店那样的酒吧，或去住宅区的霍夫曼酒家，但他知道，他绝对不会在这里看见他们。 
还有，这桩生意也不像他原先想的那样赚钱，赚的钱是稍微多了一点。但是他发现他必须注意节省家庭开支，这很让人难堪。 
最初，虽然他总是很晚才回家，但能回家并看到嘉莉是一种快乐。他设法在六七点钟之间赶回去和她一起吃晚饭，然后就呆在家里，直到第二天早晨９点。可是过了些时候，这种新鲜感逐渐消失了。他开始感到他的职责成了累赘。 
第一个月刚过，嘉莉就很自然地说：“我想这个星期去市里买一件衣服。”“买什么样的衣服？”赫斯渥问。 
“哦，上街穿的。” 
“行埃”他笑着回答，虽然他心里想说，按照他的经济状况，她还是别去买为好。 
第二天没再说起这事，但是第三天早晨他问道：“你的衣服买了吗？”“还没有，”嘉莉说。 
他停顿了一会儿，像是在思考着什么，然后说：“推迟几天再买好吗？”“不好，”嘉莉回答，她没有听懂他说这话是什么意思。她以前从未想过他会在钱上遇到麻烦。“为什么呀？”“哦，我告诉你吧，”赫斯渥说。“我这次投资刚刚花了一大笔钱。我想我能很快把它赚回来，可眼前手头还比较紧。”“唉呀！”嘉莉回答，“当然可以，亲爱的。你为什么不早点告诉我呢？”“那时不必要嘛，”赫斯渥说。 
尽管嘉莉同意了，但是赫斯渥说话的神态，有点使她想起杜洛埃和他总是说就要做成的那笔小生意。这种想法只是一闪而过，但它却开了一个头。它意味着她对赫斯渥有了新的看法。 
此后又不断地发生了其它一些事情，同样性质的小事情，这些事情累积起来，最终的效果是给人以充分的启示。嘉莉一点也不迟钝。两个人在一起住久了，不可能不逐渐了解对方的。一个人心里有了难处，不管他是否主动地吐露，都要表现出来，烦恼影响神态，使人忧郁，是无法掩饰的。赫斯渥的穿着打扮还和往常一样漂亮，但还是在加拿大时穿的那些衣服。嘉莉注意到他并没有购置大量的衣服，虽然他原有的衣服并不多。她还注意到他不大提起什么娱乐，从不谈论食物，似乎在为他的生意犯愁。这已不是芝加哥的那个自由自在的赫斯渥，不是她过去认识的那个豪放、阔绰的赫斯渥了。变化太明显了，逃不过她的眼睛。 
过了一些时候，她开始感到又发生了一种变化，他不再向她吐露心事了。显然他在遮遮掩掩，不愿公开自己的想法。她发现，一些小事都得她开口问他。这种状况对女人来说是不愉快的。有了伟大的爱情，它还能显得合理，有时还似乎是可行的，但绝对不是令人满意的。要是没有伟大的爱情，就会得出一个更加明确、更加不令人满意的结论。 
至于赫斯渥，他正在同新的处境所带来的种种困难进行艰苦的斗争。他非常精明，不可能不意识到自己已经铸成大错，也知道自己能混到现在这样已经很好了，但他还是忍不住要拿他现在的处境和从前相比，每时每刻、日复一日地相比。 
此外，他还有着一种不愉快的恐惧感，害怕遇到过去的朋友。自从他刚到这个城市不久，有过一次这样的遭遇之后，他就有了这种感觉。那是在百老汇大街上，他看见一个熟人迎面走来。已经来不及假装没看见了。他们已经四目相对，而且显然都认出了对方。于是这位朋友，芝加哥一家批发行的采购员，不得不停了下来。 
“你好吗？”他说，伸出手来，明显地露出复杂的表情，连一点装出来的关心都没有。 
“很好，”赫斯渥说，同样地尴尬。“你过得怎么样？”“很好，我来这里采购一些东西。你现在住在这里吗？”“是的，”赫斯渥说，“我在沃伦街开了一家店。”“真的吗？”这位朋友说。“我很高兴听到这个。我会来看你的。”“欢迎你来，”赫斯渥说。 
“再见，”另一位说，友好地笑了笑，继续赶路。 
“他连我的门牌号码都不问，”赫斯渥想。“他根本就不想来。”他擦了擦额头，都已经出汗了。他真不希望再遇见其他的熟人。 
这些事情影响不他原来像是有的好脾气。他只是希望在经济方面的情况能有所好转。他有了嘉莉。家具钱正在付清。 
他已经开始站住了脚。至于嘉莉，他能给她的娱乐不多，但眼前也只能这样了。他也许可以把自己的假象维持很长的时间而不暴露，直至获得成功，然后一切就都会好起来了。在此，他没有考虑到人性的种种弱点--夫妻生活的种种难处。嘉莉还年轻。双方往往都会有变化无常的心态。随时都有可能带着绝对不同的心情坐在同一张饭桌上。在最为协调的家庭里，也常常会发生这种事。在这类情况下产生的小摩擦，需要伟大的爱情事后来消除。要是没有伟大的爱情，双方都斤斤计较，过些时候就会产生大的问题。
Chapter 31 A PET OF GOOD FORTUNE: BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS
The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was paralleled in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things fortune provided with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first expression of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its clear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar indifference struck her forcibly. She had never seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her affection. The new furniture made an excellent showing, the sideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. The furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called parlour, or front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like to learn to play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household tactics and information. For the first time in her life she felt settled, and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived of it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while she concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered at ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the whistles of the hundreds of vessels in the harbour -- the long, low cries of the Sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The mere fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful. She looked much at what she could see of the Hudson from her west windows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand. It was much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for more than a year without becoming stale. 
For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his difficulties to her. He carried himself with the same self-important air, took his new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities and successes. Each evening he arrived promptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a most inviting spectacle. In a way, the smallness of the room added to its luxury. It looked full and replete. The white-covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red shade. Between Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out all right, and canned goods did the rest for a while. Carrie studied the art of making biscuit, and soon reached the stage where she could show a plate of light, palatable morsels for her labour. 
In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter came, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the attending of theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great efforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling one way or the other. He pretended that he was reinvesting his money in strengthening the business for greater ends in the future. He contented himself with a very moderate allowance of personal apparel, and rarely suggested anything for Carrie. Thus the first winter passed. 
In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did increase somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which he had anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached certain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances. 
Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and aggressive nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed satisfactory enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre together, occasionally in season to the beaches and different points about the city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood naturally abandoned his show of fine manners with her and modified his attitude to one of easy familiarity. There were no misunderstandings, no apparent differences of opinion. In fact, without money or visiting friends, he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie rather sympathised with his efforts and thought nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a corporate entity and her flat temporarily seemed sufficient. 
However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began to pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes. He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him, but allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The first time he did this he sent a message saying that he would be detained. Carrie ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again. The second time, also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third time he forgot entirely and explained afterwards. These events were months apart, each. 
"Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence. 
"Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accounts I had to straighten." 
"I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing to have such a nice dinner." 
The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the feeling about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the ordinary. 
"I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the evening, "I was so busy." 
"Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie. 
"I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too late to do any good." 
"And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie. 
Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He really thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was finding its natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the fact that he had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past year he had only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him by conditions which he made, and that she had not gained any friends or associates, he drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a feeling of satisfaction in having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction worked its natural result. That is, since he imagined he saw her satisfied, he felt called upon to give only that which contributed to such satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the decorations, the food, and the necessary clothing. Thoughts of entertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of life, grew less and less. He felt attracted to the outer world, but did not think she would care to go along. Once he went to the theatre alone. Another time he joined a couple of his new friends at an evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however, in a much less imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He avoided the gay places where he would be apt to meet those who had known him. 
Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving him greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact, she was not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when he should have duly considered it. When he did not come home it did not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for having the usual allurements of men -- people to talk to, places to stop, friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was that Hurstwood was somewhat different. 
Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down, was used by both residents on one floor; that is, a small door opened into it from each flat. 
If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient. Carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face. 
"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie to Hurstwood at the breakfast table. 
"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood. 
"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some one over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she." 
"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York opinion about neighbours. 
"Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine other families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people have been here over a month, and I haven't seen any one before this morning." 
"It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you're going to get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company." 
"I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably. 
The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised her and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the probability of acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint recognition on this occasion, there would have been no future association. 
Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard her play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the flats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the brilliance of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself, and such variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far -- the merest scraps and shadows -- indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was ready for any extension of the friendship which might follow. 
One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the kitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the general entrance on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie waited at her own door on the third floor to see who it might be coming up to call on her, Mrs. Vance appeared. 
"I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and forgot my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell." 
This was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for it, however. 
"Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thing sometimes." 
"Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a moment. 
Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable companion. 
On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both flats were good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended somewhat more to the luxurious. 
"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said Mrs. Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meet you. You play cards, don't you?" 
"A little," said Carrie. 
"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home bring him over." 
"He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie. 
"Well, when he does come we'll call him in." 
Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an individual a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his seemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to his good looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and laid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and talking to her about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano, and at last Hurstwood came. 
"I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated Carrie. 
"Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance, extending his hand upon introduction. 
"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said Hurstwood. 
He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw again what she for some time had sub-consciously missed in Hurstwood -- the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She also saw that she was not well dressed -- not nearly as well dressed -- as Mrs. Vance. These were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was cleared up for her. She felt that her life was becoming stale, and therein she felt cause for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy was restored. The desirous Carrie was whispered to concerning her possibilities. 
There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had little power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable of getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily borne along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the marked contrasts which Carrie had observed. He did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in her eyes. Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly. 
"Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before. 
"All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "What shall we see?" 
"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think he is the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play." 
"What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie. 
"Let's go at one and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street," said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's at the Madison Square." 
"I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay for seats?" 
"Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance. 
The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match. Carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman pained her by contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little things which Carrie had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant green leather purse set with her initials, a fancy handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and the like. Carrie felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare with this woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick Mrs. Vance for her raiment alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust thought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure, and had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of her colour of beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the two, both of quality and age, but this difference was not especially noticeable. It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with her state. 
The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable features of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and afterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but the men who love to gaze upon and admire them. It was a very imposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes. Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or theatres strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth streets. Equally the men paraded with the very latest they could afford. A tailor might have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and colours, a hatter on hats. It was literally true that if a lover of fine clothes secured a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on Broadway. So true and well understood was this fact, that several years later a popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the afternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-halls of the city. 
In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On the other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only knew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely to see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any tendency to fall short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion of the town. 
Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car at Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely company which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She noticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any rules of propriety. To stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie found herself stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into conscious eyes. Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding affected smiles and perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling of goodness and the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips, the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous eye, were common enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's crowd, on parade in a show place -- and such a show place! Jewellers' windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency. Florist shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners -- all followed in rapid succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen in immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of expensive salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show, and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life of her, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her beauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two. It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the delight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!
这个城市和他自己的处境影响着赫斯渥，也同样影响着嘉莉，她总是带着一颗极其善良的心接受命运的安排。纽约这地方，虽然她最初表示过不喜欢，但很快就使她十分感兴趣了。这里的空气清新，街道更加宽阔，还有人们之间那特有的互不关心，这一切都给她留下了深刻的印象。她从未见过像她住的这么小的公寓，可是很快就喜欢上了它。新家具显得非常豪华，赫斯渥亲手布置的餐具柜闪闪发亮。每个房间的家具都很相宜，在所谓的客厅或者前房间里还安放了一架钢琴，因为嘉莉说她想学钢琴。她还雇用了一个女仆，而且自己在家务的料理和知识方面也进步很快。她生平第一次感到有了归宿，自认为在社会上人们的心目中取得了一定的合法地位。她的想法既愉快又天真。有很长一段时间，她一心只顾着布置纽约的住房，对一幢楼里同住十户人家，大家却形同陌路，互不关心，感到十分奇怪。使她惊异的还有港湾内那几百条船的汽笛声--有雾的时候，驶过长岛海峡的汽轮和渡船发出的漫长而低沉的汽笛声。这些声音来自大海，就凭这一点，它们就很奇妙。她常常从西面的窗口眺望赫德森河以及河两岸迅速建设起来的大都市的景色。可琢磨的东西很多，足够她欣赏个一年半载也不会感到乏味。 另外，赫斯渥对她的痴情也使她大为着迷。他虽然心里很烦恼，却从不向她诉苦。他风度依旧，神气十足，从容不迫地对付新的处境，为嘉莉的癖好和成就感到高兴。每天晚上他都准时回家吃饭，觉得家里的小餐室可爱之极。在某种程度上，房间窄小反倒显得更加华丽。它看上去应有尽有。铺着白色台布的餐桌上摆着精美的盘子，点着四叉灯台，每盏灯上安着一只红色灯罩。嘉莉和女仆一起烧的牛排和猪排都很不错，有时也吃吃罐头食品。嘉莉学着做饼干，不久就能自己忙乎出一盘松软可口的小点心来。 
就这样度过了第二、第三和第四个月。冬天来了，随之便觉得待在家里最好，因此也不大谈起看戏的事。赫斯渥尽力支付一切费用，丝毫不露声色。他假装正在把钱用来再投资，扩大生意，以便将来有更多的收入。他乐于尽量节省自己的衣服费用，也难得提出为嘉莉添置些什么。第一个冬天就这样过去了。 
第二年，赫斯渥经营的生意在收入上真的有所增加。他能每月固定地拿到他预计的１５０块钱。不幸的是，这时嘉莉已经得出了一些结论，而他也结交了几个朋友。 
嘉莉天性被动、容忍，而不是主动、进取，因此她安于现状。她的处境似乎还很令她满意。有时候，他们会一起去看看戏，偶尔也会应时令去海边以及纽约各处玩玩，但他们没有结交朋友。赫斯渥对她的态度自然不再是彬彬有礼，而是一种随便的亲密态度。没有误会，没有明显的意见分岐。事实上，没有钱，也没有朋友来拜访，他过一种既不会引起嫉妒也不会招惹非议的生活。嘉莉很同情他的努力，也不去想自己缺少的在芝加哥时所享受的那种娱乐生活。纽约，作为一个整体，和她的公寓似乎暂时还令人心满意足。 
然而，如上所述，随着赫斯渥生意的兴隆，他开始结交朋友。他也开始为自己添置衣服。他自认为家庭生活对他十分珍贵，但又认为他偶尔不回家吃晚饭也是可以的。他第一次不回家吃饭时，让人带信说他有事耽搁了。嘉莉一个人吃了饭，希望不会再发生同样的事情。第二次，他也让人带了话，但是已临近开饭的时间。第三次，他干脆全忘了，事后才解释了一番。这类事情，每隔几个月就会有一次。 
“你去哪里了，乔治？”他第一次没回来吃饭以后，嘉莉问。 
“在店里走不开，”他亲切地说，"我得整理一些帐目。”“很遗憾，你不能回家，”她和气地说，“我准备了这么丰盛的晚饭。”第二次，他找了个同样的借口，但是第三次，嘉莉心里觉得这事有点反常了。 
“我没法回家，”那天晚上回来的时候，他说，“我太忙了。”“难道你不能给我捎个信吗？”嘉莉问。 
“我是想这样做的，”他说，“可是你知道，我忘了，等我想起来时，已经太晚了，捎信也没用了。”“可惜了我这么好的一顿晚饭！”嘉莉说。 
正是这个时候，通过对嘉莉的观察，他开始认为她的性情属于那种地地道道的家庭主妇型。这一年之后，他真地以为她主要的生活内容在料理家务上得到了自然的表现。尽管他在芝加哥看过她的演出，而在过去的一年中，他看到她由于受到他造成的条件的限制，只是与这套公寓和他打交道，没有结交任何朋友或伙伴，但他还是得出了这个奇怪的结论。随之而来的是对娶了这么一位知足的太太感到心满意足，而这种心满意足又产生其必然的后果。这就是，既然他认为她满足了，就觉得他的职责只是提供能使她这样满足的东西。他提供了家具、装修、食品以及必要的衣物。而要给她娱乐，要带她到外边阳光灿烂富丽堂皇的生活中去之类的想法却越来越少。外面的世界吸引着他，但是他没有想到她也愿意一起去闯荡。有一次，他一个人去看戏。另一次，他和两个新朋友晚上在一起打牌。他在经济上又开始羽毛丰满了，因而他又打扮得漂漂亮亮地出入公共场所。只是这一切远不及他在芝加哥时那么招遥他避而不去那些容易碰到他过去的熟人的娱乐场所。 
这时，通过各种感官印象，嘉莉开始感觉到了这一点。她不是那种会被他的行为弄得心烦意乱的人。她并不十分爱他，也就不会因嫉妒而不安。实际上，她一点儿也不嫉妒。对她这种心平气和的态度，赫斯渥感到很高兴，而他本来还应该对此适当地加以考虑的。当他不回家的时候，她也不觉得是件什么大不了的事情。她认为他应该享有男人们通常的乐趣--和人聊聊天，找个地方休息一下，或与朋友商量商量问题。虽然她很愿意他能这样自得其乐，但她不喜欢自己被冷落。不过，她的处境似乎还过得去。她真正察觉到的，是赫斯渥有些不同了。 
他们在七十八街住的第二年的某个时候，嘉莉家对面的那套公寓空了出来，搬进来一个非常漂亮的年轻女人和她的丈夫。嘉莉后来结识了这一对人。这完全是公寓的结构促成的。两套公寓之间有一处是由升降送货机连在一起的。这个实用的电梯把燃料、食品之类的东西从楼底送上来，又把垃圾和废物送下去。电梯由同一层楼的两户人家公用，也就是说，每家都有一扇小门通向它。 
倘若住在两套公寓里的人同时应门房的哨声而出，打开电梯小门时，他们就会面对面地站着。一天早晨，当嘉莉去拿报纸时，那个新搬来的人，一个大约２３岁的肤色浅黑的漂亮女人，也在那里拿报纸。她穿着睡袍，披着晨衣，头发很乱，但是看上去很可爱、很友善，嘉莉立刻对她有了好感。新搬来的人只是害羞地笑了一笑，但是这就够了。嘉莉觉得自己很想结识她，而对方的心里也产生了同样的想法，她欣赏嘉莉那张天真的脸。 
“隔壁搬进来的女人真是个大美人，”嘉莉在早餐桌上对赫斯渥说。 
“他们是什么人？”赫斯渥问。 
“我不知道，”嘉莉答道。“门铃上的姓氏是万斯。他们家里有人钢琴弹得很好。我猜一定是她。”“哦，在这个城市里，你永远搞不清邻居是什么样的人，对吧？”赫斯渥说，表达了纽约人对邻居的通常看法。 
“想想看，”嘉莉说，“我在这幢房子里和另外九户人家一起住了一年多，可是我一个人都不认识。这家人搬到这里已有一个多月了，可是在今天早晨之前，我谁也没见过。”“这样也好，”赫斯渥说，“你根本不知道你会认识些什么样的人。他们中的有些人可不是什么好东西。”“我也这么想，"嘉莉附和着说。 
谈话换了别的话题，嘉莉就没再想这件事了。直到一两天后，她出去上市场的时候，遇见万斯太太从外面进来。后者认出了她，点了点头。嘉莉也报以一笑。这样就有了相识的可能。 
要是这一次一点都没认出来，就不会有以后的交往了。 
以后的几个星期里，嘉莉再也没有见过万斯太太。但是透过两家前房间之间的薄薄的隔墙，她听到她弹琴，很喜欢她选的那些愉快的曲子及其精彩的演奏。她自己只能弹弹一般的曲子，在她听来，万斯太太演奏的丰富多采的乐曲，已经接近伟大的艺术了。至今她所耳闻目睹的一切--仅仅只是些零碎的印象--表明这家人颇有些高雅，而且生活富裕。因此对今后可能发展的友谊，嘉莉已经作好了准备。 
一天，嘉莉家的门铃响了，在厨房里的仆人按动电钮，打开了一楼总出入口的前门。嘉莉等在三楼自己家的门口，看是谁来拜访她。上来的是万斯太太。 
“请你原谅，”她说，“我刚才出去时忘了带大门的钥匙，所以就想到按你家的门铃。”这幢楼的别的住户，每逢出门忘了带大门钥匙的时候，大家都这么做。只是谁也不为此而道歉。 
“没关系，”嘉莉说，“我很高兴你按我家的门铃。我有时也这么做。”“今天天气真好，是吗？”万斯太太说，停留了一会儿。 
这样，又经过几次初步的接触，便正式开始了相互的交往。嘉莉发现年轻的万斯太太是个令人愉快的朋友。 
有几次，嘉莉到她家去串门，也在自己家里招待了她。两家的公寓看上去都不错，不过万斯家布置得更加豪华。 
“我想请你今天晚上过来，见见我的丈夫，”她们开始熟悉后不久，万斯太太说。“他想见见你。你会打牌，对吗？”“会一点儿，”嘉莉说。 
“那好，我们来打打牌。要是你丈夫回家的话，带他一起过来。”“他今晚不回来吃饭，”嘉莉说。 
“那么，等他回来时，我们来叫他。” 
嘉莉答应了，那天晚上见到了大腹便便的万斯。他比赫斯渥小几岁。他那看似美满的婚姻，多半是因为他有钱，而不是因为他有副好长相。他第一眼看到嘉莉，就对她产生了好感。 
他刻意表现得很和气，教她玩一种新牌，和她谈到纽约及其各种娱乐。万斯太太在钢琴上弹了几首曲子。最后赫斯渥来了。 
“我很高兴见到你，”当嘉莉介绍他时，他对万斯太太说，大大显示了曾经使嘉莉着迷的往日的风度。 
“你是不是以为你的太太逃走了？”万斯先生在介绍时伸出手来说。 
“我还以为她可能找到了一个更好的丈夫，”赫斯渥说。 
这时，他把注意力转向了万斯太太，刹那间，嘉莉又看见了有段时间她下意识地感到在赫斯渥的身上不复存在的东西--他所擅长的随机应变和阿谀奉承。她还发现自己穿得不够体面，比起万斯太太来差得太远。这些已不再是模糊的想法。她看清了自己的处境。她觉得生活越来越乏味，而且为此感到忧愁。昔日那种助人向前，激人向上的忧郁感又回来了。 
那个充满向往的嘉莉在悄悄地提醒她，该考虑自己的前途了。 
这种觉醒并没有立即产生什么结果，因为嘉莉缺少主动精神。但是尽管如此，她似乎总是很能适应变化的潮流，擅于投身其中，随波逐流。赫斯渥什么也没有觉察到。他没有感觉到嘉莉注意到的鲜明的对比。他甚至连她那忧郁的眼神都没觉察到。最糟糕的是，她现在开始觉得家里寂寞，要找非常喜欢她的万斯太太作伴。 
“我们今天下午去看场戏吧，”一天早晨，万斯太太走进嘉莉家说，身上还穿着起床时穿的一件柔软的粉色晨衣。赫斯渥和万斯大约一小时前就各上其路了。 
“好啊，”嘉莉说，注意到万斯太太的外表总是带着那种得欢受宠且爱好打扮的女人的神气。她看上去似乎很受宠爱而且有求必应。“我们去看什么戏呢？”“喔，我很想去看纳特·古德温的演出，”万斯太太说。“我看他的确是个最逗人的演员。报纸说那是一出很好的戏。”“那我们什么时候动身？”嘉莉问。 
“我们一点钟动身，从三十四街出去，沿百老汇大街往南走，”万斯太太说。“这样走去很有意思，他在麦迪逊广场演出。”“我很乐意去，”嘉莉说。“戏票要多少钱？”“不到１块钱，”万斯太太说。 
万斯太太回去了。到了１点钟又来了。穿着一身深蓝色便于步行的衣服，漂亮极了，还配有一顶时髦的帽子。嘉莉把自己打扮得也够迷人的。但相形之下，这个女人让嘉莉感到痛心。看来她有很多精致的小玩意儿，嘉莉却没有。她有各种小金饰物，一只印有她的姓名缩写的精美的绿皮包，一块图案十分花哨的时髦手帕和一些类似的其它东西。嘉莉觉得自己需要更多更好的衣服才能和这个女人媲美。谁看见她俩都会单凭服饰就选择万斯太太的。这种想法十分恼人，尽管不甚公正，因为嘉莉现在有着同样楚楚动人的身材，出落得越发标致，已经是个绝顶可爱的她那种类型的美人了。两人的衣着，在质量上和新旧上都有些差别，但这些差别并不十分明显。然而，这却增加了嘉莉对自己处境的不满。 
漫步百老汇大街，在当时也和现在一样，是这个城市引人注目的特色之一。在日戏开场前和散场后，这里不仅聚集着那些爱卖弄风姿的漂亮女人，还有那些爱看女人、爱欣赏女人的男人。这是一支由漂亮的脸蛋和华丽的衣着组成的队伍，十分壮观。女人们穿戴着自己最好的帽子、鞋子和手套，一路上手挽着手，漫步于那些从十四街到三十四街沿街都是的华丽的商店或戏院。同样，男人们也穿着自己所能买得起的最时新的服装招摇过市。在这里，裁缝可以得到裁剪服装的启发，鞋匠可以了解流行的款式和颜色，帽匠可以知道帽子的行情。如果说一个讲究穿着的人买了一套新装，第一次穿出来一定是在百老汇大街上，这可是一点不假。这个事实千真万确，众所周知。因此，几年之后，还发行了一首流行歌曲，详细地谈到了这一点以及有关上演日戏的下午那种炫耀的场面的其它情况。 
歌名叫《他有什么权利待在百老汇大街上？》，歌曲发行后，在纽约的音乐厅里非常风行。 
在这个城市待了这么久，嘉莉还从未听说过如此炫耀的场面。当有这种场面出现的时候，她也没去过百老汇大街。然而，对万斯太太来说，这已是家常便饭了。她不仅了解它的全部，而且经常置身其中，特意去看人和被人看，以自己的美貌去引起轰动，将自己与这个城市的时髦的美人相比照，以免在穿着讲究上有任何落伍的趋势。 
她们在三十四街下了有轨电车之后，嘉莉颇为自在地朝前走着。可是没过一会儿，她就盯着那些成群地从她们身边走过或是和她们同行的美人们看了起来。她突然发觉万斯太太在众目睽睽之下很有些局促了，那些英俊的男人和穿着高雅的太太们，用肆无忌惮的目光盯着她看，毫无礼貌可言。盯着人看似乎成了正当而自然的事。嘉莉发现也有人在盯着她看，向她送秋波。身穿精美的大衣，头戴大礼帽，手持银头拐杖的男人擦肩而过，而且常常盯着看她那双敏感的眼睛。衣着笔挺的太太们沙沙作响地走过，一路作着笑脸，散发着香味儿。嘉莉注意到她们中间没几个善良之辈，绝大多数都是邪恶之种。 
这中间多的是红唇、白面、香发以及迷茫懒散的大眼睛。她蓦地一惊，发现自己正置身于时髦的人群中，在这个炫耀的地方展示自己，而且是如此壮观的地方！珠宝店明亮的橱窗沿途可见。鲜花店、皮草行、男子服饰用品店、糖果店，一家挨着一家。 
遍街都是马车。神气十足的看门人，身着宽大的外套，配着闪闪发光的铜钮扣和铜腰带，侍立在高档商店的门前。穿着棕色长统靴、白色紧身裤和蓝色上衣的马车夫，巴结地等候着在店里买东西的女主人。整条大街都是一派富丽堂皇的景象，嘉莉觉得自己并不属于这里。无论如何，她也作不出万斯太太那种姿态和风度来，万斯太太因为自己漂亮，总是信心十足。她所能想到的只是，大家一定会看得很清楚，在她们两人之间，她的打扮较差。这刺痛了她的心。她打定主意，除非打扮得更漂亮些，否则她不再上这里来了。然而同时，她又渴望着能享受一下以同等的身价来这里出出风头的乐趣。啊，那样她就会很幸福了。
Chapter 32 THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR: A SEER TO TRANSLATE
Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the play. The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his popularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which sufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief to humour. For Carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great attraction. She had never forgotten her one histrionic achievement in Chicago. It dwelt in her mind and occupied her consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-chair and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her state. Never could she witness a play without having her own ability vividly brought to consciousness. Some scenes made her long to be a part of them -- to give expression to the feelings which she, in the place of the character represented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her daily life. 
It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's core by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing in her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen. Oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong, who were they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the astonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold? Where were these lovely creatures housed? Amid what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate tapestries did they move? Where were their rich apartments, loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables champed these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages? Where lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights, the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures could not be. Some hot-houses held them. It ached her to know that she was not one of them -- that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true. She wondered at her own solitude these two years past -- her indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had expected. 
The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which charmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love and jealousy amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing to those who have all their days longed for such material surroundings and have never had them gratified. They have the charm of showing suffering under ideal conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried servants? Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing. Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate them under such charming conditions upon the stage. So affected was her mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an extraordinarily beautiful thing. She was soon lost in the world it represented, and wished that she might never return. Between the acts she studied the galaxy of matinee attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of the possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen it all -- that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight. 
Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The scene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its height. Such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It clinched her convictions concerning her state. She had not lived, could not lay claim to having lived, until something of this had come into her own life. Women were spending money like water; she could see that in every elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the elegant dames were interested. And she had scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times a month. 
That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was not what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant working at dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running scenes of the play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress -- the sweetheart who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had won Carrie's heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest, her sufferings had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel. It was done as she was sure she could do it. There were places in which she could even do better. Hence she repeated the lines to herself. Oh, if she could only have such a part, how broad would be her life! She, too, could act appealingly. 
When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking and thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations broken in upon; so she said little or nothing. 
"What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing her quiet, almost moody state. 
"Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well to-night." 
"Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close. 
"Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good." 
"That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a show to-night." 
"I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions should have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I've been to the matinee this afternoon." 
"Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?" 
"A Gold Mine." 
"How was it?" 
"Pretty good," said Carrie. 
"And you don't want to go again to-night?" 
"I don't think I do," she said. 
Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the dinner table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach does wonders. She went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered her equanimity. The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered. As often as she might recover from these discontented thoughts now, they would occur again. Time and repetition -- ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and the solid stone -- how utterly it yields at last! 
Not long after this matinee experience -- perhaps a month -- Mrs. Vance invited Carrie to an evening at the theater with them. She heard Carrie say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner. 
"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're going down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come along with us." 
"I think I will," answered Carrie. 
She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for position in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of her association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had her attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which pertains to a woman's apparel. 
"Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen the new gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out of a large selection. 
"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance, "get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the rage this fall." 
"I will," said Carrie. 
"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They have some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would look stunning on you. I said so when I saw it." 
Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common between pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature so well that she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the latest things. 
"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circular style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would look so nice on you." 
Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up between her and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one thing and another, which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of opinion. He noticed the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs. Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence the change came. He was not inclined to offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that Carrie's wants were expanding. This did not appeal to him exactly, but he cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. Still, there was something in the details of the transactions which caused Carrie to feel that her requests were not a delight to him. He did not enthuse over the purchases. This led her to believe that neglect was creeping in, and so another small wedge was entered. 
Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the thought that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat and fitting. She looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs. Vance praised her, which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness into her large eyes. It was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance, at his wife's request, had called a coach. 
"Your husband isn't coming?" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie in his little parlour. 
"No, he said he wouldn't be home for dinner." 
"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He might turn up." 
"I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before. 
"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows, though, I guess." 
Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note, gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat. 
"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said Mrs. Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?" 
"I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie. 
The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart figure. She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking, and young, but nothing more. 
"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance, "and we're trying to show him around a little." 
"Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer. 
"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said young Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while Mrs. Vance completed the last touches of her toilet. 
"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence. 
"It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames, pleasantly. 
He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free of affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming the last traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at conversation, but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly courageous. Carrie felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk to him. 
"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside." 
"Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob, you'll have to look after Mrs. Wheeler." 
"I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "You won't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of ingratiating and help-me-out kind of way. 
"Not very, I hope," said Carrie. 
They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and climbed into the open coach. 
"All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance rolled away. 
"What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames. 
"Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'" 
"Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man." 
"I notice the papers praise it," said Ames. 
"I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very much." 
Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it his bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to find her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a respectful interest. There was nothing of the dashing lady's man about him. He had respect for the married state, and thought only of some pretty marriageable girls in Indianapolis. 
"Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie. 
"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years." 
"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow." 
"I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange to me as when I first came here." 
"You're not from the West, are you?" 
"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered. 
"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here so very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are here." 
"What is your line?" asked Carrie. 
"I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth. 
Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached. 
Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking in the streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous, pedestrians many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were crowded. At Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from several new hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion of sumptuous hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was noticeably crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress. At Sherry's an imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped them out. Young Ames held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. They entered the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room. 
In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In the whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that this was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of expense limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class. Carrie had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World." She had seen notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's. The Misses So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's. Young Mr. So-and-so would entertain a party of friends at a private luncheon on the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of conventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, which she could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her a distinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderful temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was really in it. She had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly doorman. She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care of canes, overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber, all decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was Mrs. Vance; young, beautiful, and well off -- at least, sufficiently so to come here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich. 
Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were seated 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 a fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the half-dozen; entrees, 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 matinee, 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.
这番漫步在嘉莉心中所引起的百般感受，使得她在接着看戏的时候的心情极易于接受戏中的伤感情调。她们去看的演员，以表演轻松喜剧而闻名，这种剧中加进了足够的伤感成分，形成和幽默的对照及调剂。正如我们十分了解的那样，舞台对于嘉莉有着巨大的吸引力。她从未忘记过她在芝加哥的那一次成功的演出。在那些漫长的下午，当她唯一的消遣是坐在摇椅上，看最新出版的小说时，那次演出便萦绕在她的心头，占满了她的脑海。每当她看戏时，她自己的才能就会栩栩如生地浮现在脑海里。有几场戏使得她渴望能在其中扮演一个角色，将她自己处在那个角色的地位所感受到的感情表现出来。她几乎总是要把那些生动的想象带回去，第二天独自加以琢磨。她生活在想象中，就如同生活在日常生活的现实中。 她在看戏之前被现实生活搅得心神不宁，这种情况还不常出现。可是今天，在看到那些华丽的服饰，欢乐的场面和那些美人之后，她的心里轻轻地唱起了一支渴望之歌。啊，这些从她身边走过的成百上千的女人们，她们是些什么人？这些富丽的高雅的服装、五光十色的钮扣和金银小饰物，它们是从哪里来的？这些美人儿住在什么地方？她们生活在什么样的优雅环境之中，有精雕细刻的家具，装璜华丽的墙壁，还有五彩缤纷的挂毯？她们的那些凡是金钱能买到的东西都应有尽有的豪华公寓在哪里？什么样的马厩喂养着这些漂亮机灵的马儿，停放着这些豪华的马车？那些衣着华丽的下人在哪里闲逛？啊，那些高楼大厦、华灯、香水、藏金收银的闺房还有摆满山珍海味的餐桌！纽约一定到处都有这样的闺房，否则哪来那么些美丽、傲慢、目空一切的佳人。有暖房培育着她们。让她感到痛心的是，她现在知道自己不是她们中的一员--天哪，她做了一个梦却未成真。她对自己两年来所过的寂寞生活感到惊讶--她居然会对没有实现原来的期望无动于衷。 
这出戏是那种根据有闲阶层的人在客厅里闲谈的资料编写的作品，戏中那些盛装的漂亮的小姐、太太和绅士们，在金碧辉煌的环境之中，遭受着爱情和嫉妒的折磨。对于那些终日渴望着这样的物质环境但却永远得不到满足的人，这种轻松戏剧始终具有魅力。它们的魅力在于表现了什么是在理想环境中的受苦。谁不愿意坐在镀金的椅子上伤心呢？谁不愿意在散发着香味的挂毯、铺有座垫的家具和身穿制服的仆人之间受苦呢？在这种环境中感到悲伤便成了一件诱人的事。嘉莉渴望能置身其中。她真想自己能在这样的世界里受苦，不管是什么样的苦都行，要是做不到这一点，至少能在舞台上的这种迷人的环境中模拟一番。她刚才的所见所闻极大地影响了她的心情，因此，这出戏现在看起来特别的美妙。她很快就沉浸在戏里所描绘的境界之中，真希望就此不再回到现实中来。 
在转场的时候，她打量着在前排座位上和包厢里看戏的那些光彩照人的观众，对纽约潜在的种种机会，有了一种新的认识。她肯定自己没有看到纽约的全部，这个城市简直就是一个快乐幸福的旋涡。 
从剧院里出来后，还是这条百老汇大街给她上了更为深刻的一课。她来时看到的场面现在更为壮观，达到了高潮。她可从未见过如此华丽挥霍的盛况。这更加坚定了她对自己的处境的看法。她等于没有生活过，根本谈不上享受过生活，除非她自己的生活中也能出现这种情景。她每走过一家高雅的店铺，都能看到女人们花钱如流水。鲜花、糖果和珠宝看来是那些贵妇人的主要兴趣所在。而她呢，她甚至没有足够的零用钱让自己每个月都能这样出来玩几次。 
那天晚上，那套漂亮的小公寓显得十分乏味。这个世界上的其他人可不是住在这种地方的。她冷眼看着仆人在做晚饭。 
她的脑海里则闪现着剧中的一场场戏。她尤其记得一个漂亮的女演员--饰演剧中那个被人追求并且得到的情人。这个女人的风姿征服了嘉莉的心。她的服装是完美艺术的体现，她的苦恼又是如此的真实。她所表现的痛苦，嘉莉都能感觉得到。她的表演很出色，嘉莉确信自己也能演得同样出色，有的地方她甚至还能演得更好。于是，她默默地念起了台词。啊，但愿她也能演一个这样的角色，那么她的生活将会拥有多么广阔的空间！而且，她也能演得富有魅力。 
嘉莉正在闷闷不乐，赫斯渥回来了。她坐在摇椅里，边摇边想。她不愿意有人打断她的那些诱人的想象，所以她很少说话，或是不说话。 
“你怎么啦，嘉莉？”过了一会儿，赫斯渥说，他注意到了她那沉默的、几近忧郁的神态。 
“没什么，”嘉莉说。“我今天晚上感觉不太舒服。”“该不是生病了吧？”他走得很近，问道。 
“哦，不是，”她说，几乎想发火了，“我只是觉得不大好受。”“那太糟了，“他说着走开了。刚才他稍稍俯了俯身，这时他把背心拉拉好，“我原想今晚我们可以去看场戏的。”“我不想去，”嘉莉说。她心里那些美丽的幻想就这样被打断和打消了，她很为恼火。“我今天下午去看过戏了。”“哦，你去看过戏了？”赫斯渥说，“是出什么戏？”“《一座金矿》。”“戏怎么样？”“很好，”嘉莉说。 
“你今晚不想再去看戏了吗？” 
“我不想去了，”她说。 
可是，当她从忧郁的心境中清醒过来，被叫到饭桌上吃饭时，她改变了主意。胃里进点食也会产生奇迹。她又去看了戏，而且这样一来又暂时恢复了她的平静。然而，那令人觉醒的重重的当头一棒已经击过。现在她能常常从这些不满情绪中恢复过来，这些不满情绪也会常常再现。时间加上重复--啊，这真是奇妙！水滴石穿，石头终究要彻底地认输！ 
这次看日戏过后不久，大约一个月后，万斯太太邀请嘉莉和他们夫妇一起去看场夜戏。她听嘉莉说起赫斯渥不回来吃晚饭。 
“你为什么不和我们一起去呢？别一个人吃晚饭。我们要去谢丽饭店吃饭，然后去莱西姆剧院看戏。和我们一起去吧。”“好吧，我去，"嘉莉回答。 
她３点钟就开始打扮，准备５点半动身去那家有名的饭店，当时它正在与德尔莫尼科饭店竞争社会地位。从嘉莉这次的打扮上，可以看得出她和讲究打扮的万斯太太交往的影响。 
后者经常不断地提醒她注意有关妇女服饰各个方面的新花样。 
“你打算买某某、某某种的帽子吗？”或者“你看见饰有椭圆珠扣的新式手套了吗？”这只是一些例子，类似这样的谈话还很多。 
“下次你买鞋时，亲爱的，”万斯太太说，“要买带扣的，有厚实的鞋底、专利鞋扣和漆皮鞋头。今年秋季这种鞋十分时髦。”“好的，”嘉莉说。 
“喂，亲爱的，你看到奥尔特曼公司的新款衬衫了吗？那里有几种非常可爱的款式。我在那里看到一种，你穿上一定漂亮极了。我看见时就说了这话。"嘉莉很感兴趣地听着这些话，因为比普通常那些漂亮女人之间的一般谈话，这些话更带有友情。万斯太太非常喜欢嘉莉那始终如一的善良本质，把最时新的东西告诉嘉莉，真是她的一大乐事。 
“你为什么不去买一条漂亮的哔叽裙子来穿呢？洛德--泰勒公司有卖的。”一天，她说，“那是圆筒式的，很快就要流行起来。你穿一条藏青色的肯定非常漂亮。”嘉莉认真地聆听着。在她和赫斯渥之间从来没有这类的谈话。不过，她开始提出这样或那样的要求，赫斯渥答应了这些要求，但是并不加以评论。他注意到了嘉莉的新爱好，听到很多有关万斯太太和她那快乐的生活方式的谈论，因而终于猜到了这种变化是从哪里来的。他不想这么快就提出哪怕是最小的异议，可是他感觉到嘉莉的需求在不断地扩大。这并不让他感到高兴，但是他爱她有他独特的方式，所以也就任启发展。可是，在具体的交涉中，有些事情使嘉莉觉得她的要求并不讨他的欢心。对她买的东西，他也不表示热心。这使得她认为自己渐渐受到冷落，因此他们之间又出现了一道小裂痕。 
然而，万斯太太的那些建议毕竟有了效果，表现之一就是这一次，嘉莉总算对自己的打扮有些满意了。她穿上了自己最好的衣服。不过她感到欣慰的是，即便她不得不穿上一件自己最好的衣服，但这衣服她穿在身上很相宜，很合身。她看上去是个打扮得体的２１岁的女人，万斯太太称赞了她，这使她那丰满的面颊更加红润，两只大眼睛也更加明亮。看来天要下雨，万斯先生遵照太太的吩咐，叫了一辆马车。 
“你丈夫不一起去吗？”万斯先生在他的小客厅里见到嘉莉时，提醒她说。 
“不，他说过不回来吃晚饭的。” 
“最好给他留张条子，告诉他我们去哪里了。他也许会来。”“好的，”嘉莉说，来此之前她没有想到这一点。 
“告诉他，８点钟之前我们在谢丽饭店。我想他知道那个地方。”嘉莉穿过过道，裙子的下摆沙沙作响，连手套都没脱，胡乱草了一张条子。当她回来时，万斯家里来了个新客人。 
“惠勒太太，我来给你介绍我的表弟艾姆斯先生，”万斯太太说，“他和我们一起去，是吧，鲍勃？”“见到你很高兴，”艾姆斯说，礼貌地对嘉莉鞠了鞠躬。 
嘉莉一眼看到的是一个十分高大健壮的大块头。她还注意到他的脸刮得很光，容貌端正，年纪很轻，但仅此而已。 
“艾姆斯先生刚到纽约，要在纽约待几天，”万斯插话说，“我们想带他看一看这里的风光。”“哦，是吗？”嘉莉说，又看了一眼客人。 
“是的，我刚从印第安纳波利斯来到这里，准备待一星期左右，”年轻的艾姆斯说，他坐在一张椅子的边缘上，等着万斯太太梳洗打扮完毕。 
“我想你已经发现纽约很值得一看，对吗？”嘉莉说，她想找点话说，以避免可能出现的死气沉沉的场面。 
“这么大个城市，一星期恐怕逛不完吧，”艾姆斯愉快地答道。 
他是个非常和气的人，而且一点也不做作。在嘉莉看来，他现在还只是在力图完全摆脱青年人害羞的痕迹。他看上去不是个善于交谈的人，但衣着讲究和大胆无畏是他的可取之处。嘉莉觉得和他谈话不会是件难事。 
“好啦，我看现在我们都准备好了。马车等在外面。”“走吧，伙伴们，”万斯太太笑着进来，说道，“鲍勃，你得照顾一下惠勒太太。”“我会尽力而为，”鲍勃含着笑说，挨近嘉莉一些。“你不需要多照顾的，是吧？”他以一种讨好和求助的口气说，显得很是主动。 
“希望不会太多，”嘉莉说。 
他们走下楼来，上了敞篷马车，万斯太太一路提着建议。 
“行了，”万斯说，砰的一声关上车门，车子就上路了。 
“我们去看什么戏？”艾姆斯问。 
“索桑演的《查姆列勋爵》，”万斯说。 
“哦，他演得好极了！”万斯太太说，“他简直是滑稽透顶。”“我注意到报纸的评价很高，”艾姆斯说。 
“我绝对相信，”万斯插话说，“我们都会看得很开心的。”艾姆斯因为坐在嘉莉身边。便觉得自己责无旁贷地要照顾她一些。他饶有兴趣地发现，她这位太太竟然这么年轻，又这么漂亮，不过，这种兴趣完全出于尊重。他毫无那种专事追逐女人的风流男子的派头。他尊重婚姻，心里想的只是印第安纳波利斯的那几位已到了婚龄的漂亮姑娘。 
“你是土生土长的纽约人吗？”艾姆斯问嘉莉。 
“哦，不是的，我来这里才两年。” 
“哦，是这样，不过你也有足够的时间好好领略纽约的风光了。”“我好像还没有领略多少，”嘉莉回答。“对我来说，它现在和我刚来这里的时候差不多一样陌生。”“你是从西部来的，对不对？”“不错。我是威斯康星州人，”她答道。 
“是啊，看来这个城市的多数人来这里都不太久。我听说这里有很多和我是同行的印第安纳州人。”“你干的是哪一行？”嘉莉问道。 
“我为一家电气公司工作，”年轻人说。 
嘉莉继续这样随便地谈着，万斯夫妇偶尔也插上几句。有几次，大家都谈起话来，还有几分诙谐，就这样到了饭店。 
嘉莉注意到沿途那喜庆热闹和寻欢作乐的景象。到处都是马车和行人，五十九街的有轨电车十分拥挤。在五十九街和第五大道的交叉处，挨着普拉扎广场的几家新旅馆一片灯火辉煌，向人们暗示着旅馆里的那种豪华生活。在第五大道，这个富人的安乐窝里，挤满了马车和身穿晚礼服的绅士。他们到了谢丽饭店门口，一个仪表堂堂的看门人替他们打开车门，扶他们下了车。年轻的艾姆斯托着嘉莉的胳膊，扶她上了台阶。 
他们走进已经宾客满堂的门厅，脱下外衣后，进了豪华的餐厅。 
在她这一生的经历中，嘉莉还从未见过这样的场面。她在纽约待了这么久，可是赫斯渥在新的处境里的经济状况，不允许他带她来这种地方。这周围有一种几乎难以形容的气氛，使得初来的人相信这里才是该来的地方。这种地方，由于费用昂贵，只有那些有钱的或者喜欢作乐的阶层的人，才会成为这里的主顾。嘉莉经常在《世界晨报》和《世界晚报》上看到有关这里的消息。她见过关于在谢丽饭店举行舞会、聚会、大型舞会和晚宴的通告。某某小姐兹定于星期三晚上假座谢丽饭店举行晚会。年轻的某某先生兹定于１６日假座谢丽饭店设午宴款待朋友。诸如此类有关社交活动的常规的三言两语的通告，她每天都忍不住要扫上一眼，因此她十分清楚这座美食家的圣殿的豪华和奢侈。现在，她自己也终于真的来到了这里。她真的走上了由那个身强力壮的看门人守护的堂皇的台阶。她真的看见了由另一个身强力壮的人守护的门厅，还享受了那些照看手杖和大衣之类物品的身穿制服的仆人的伺候。这就是那个华丽无比的餐厅，那个装璜精美、四壁生辉、专供有钱人进餐的地方。啊，万斯太太真幸运，年轻、漂亮、还有钱--至少是有足够的钱乘马车到这里来。有钱真是美妙呀！ 
万斯领头穿过一排排亮闪闪的餐桌，每张桌上用餐的有两至六人不等。这里的一切都显得大方而庄重，初来乍到的人尤其能感到这一点。白炽灯及其在擦得雪亮的玻璃杯上的反光和金光闪闪的墙壁相辉映，形成了一片光的世界。期间的差异，只有静心观察一阵子，才能加以区别和辨认。绅士们洁白的衬衫衣襟、太太们鲜艳的装束打扮、钻石、珠宝、精美的羽饰--这一切都十分引人注目。 
嘉莉同万斯太太一样神气地走进去，在领班为她安排的座位上坐下。她敏锐地注意到一切细小的动作--那些美国人为之付费的侍者和领班的点头哈腰献殷勤的小动作。领班拉出每一把椅子时所表现的神态，请他们入座时做的挥手姿式，这些本身就要值几块钱的。 
一坐下，就开始展示有钱的美国人特有的那种铺张浪费且有损健康的吃法。这种吃法令全世界真正有教养、有尊严的人感到奇怪和吃惊。大菜单上列的一行行菜肴足够供养一支军队，旁边标明的价格使得合理开支成为一件可笑且不可能的事情--一份汤要５毛或１块，有一打品种可供选择；有四十种风味的牡蛎，六只要价６毛；主菜、鱼和肉类菜肴的价钱可以供一个人在一般旅馆里住上一宿。在这份印刷十分精美的菜单上，１块５和２块似乎是最普通的价格。 
嘉莉注意到了这一点，在看菜单时，童子鸡的价格使她回想起另一份菜单以及那个十分悬殊的场合，那是她第一次和杜洛埃坐在芝加哥一家不错的餐馆里。这只是个瞬间的回忆--如同一首老歌中一个悲伤的音符--随后就消失了。但是在这一刹那间看见的是另一个嘉莉--贫困、饥饿、走投无路，而整个芝加哥是一个冷酷、排外的世界，因为找不到工作，她只能在外面流浪。 
墙上装饰着彩色图案，淡绿蓝色的方块块，周围镶着绚丽的金框，四角是些精致的造型，有水果、花朵以及天使般自由翱翔的胖胖的小爱神。天花板上的藻井更是金光闪闪，顺着藻井往中央看，那里悬着一串明灯，白炽灯和闪光的棱柱以及镶金灰泥卷须交织在一起。地板是红色的，上了蜡，打得很光。到处都是镜子--高高的、亮亮的斜边镜子--无数次地反复映出人影、面孔和灯台。 
餐桌本身没有什么特别，可是餐巾上的“谢丽”字样，银器上的“蒂芬尼”名字，瓷器上的“哈维蓝”姓氏，当装有红色灯罩的小灯台照耀着这一切，当墙上的五光十色反射在客人们的衣服和脸上时，这些餐桌看上去就十分引人注目了。每个侍者的举手投足，无论是鞠躬或是后退，还是安排座位或是收拾杯盘，都增加了这里的尊贵和高雅的气氛。他对每一位顾客都悉心专门地伺候，半弯着腰立在旁边，侧耳倾听，两手叉腰，口里念着：“汤--甲鱼汤，好的。一份，好的。牡蛎吗，有的--要半打，好的。芦笋。橄榄--好的。” 
每位客人都能享受同样的服务，只是这次万斯主动地为大家点菜，征求着大家的意见和建议。嘉莉睁大眼睛打量着这里的人们。纽约的奢侈生活原来如此。有钱人原来就是这样打发他们的时光。她那可怜的小脑袋里所能想到的，就是这里的每一个场面都代表着整个上流社会。每一个贵妇人都必定是下午在百老汇大街的人群中，看日戏时在剧院内，晚上在马车上和餐厅里。肯定到哪里都是风风光光，有马车等待着，有下人伺候着，可是这一切她都没有份。在过去那漫长的两年中，她甚至压根没来过这样的地方。 
万斯在这种地方如鱼得水，就像赫斯渥从前一样。他大方地点了汤、牡蛎、烤肉和配菜，还要了几啤酒，放在桌边的柳条篮里。 
艾姆斯正出神地望着餐厅里的人群，这样嘉莉看到的是他的侧面，很有趣。他的额头长得很高，鼻子大而结实，下巴也还可爱。他的嘴长得不错，宽阔匀称，深棕色的头发稍稍朝一边分开。在嘉莉看来，他还有点儿孩子气，尽管他已经是个十足的成年人了。 
“你知道吗，”沉思过后，他回头对嘉莉说。“有时候，我认为人们这样挥金如土是件可耻的事。”嘉莉看了他一会儿，对他的严肃表情有一丝吃惊。他像是在想一些她从未考虑过的事情。 
“是吗？”她很感兴趣地回答。 
“真的，”他说，“他们花的钱远远超过了这些东西的价值。 
他们是在大摆阔气。” 
“我不明白，既然人们有钱，为什么不应该花它，”万斯太太说。 
“这样做也没什么坏处，”万斯说，他还在研究菜单，虽然已经点过菜了。 
艾姆斯又转眼望去，嘉莉又看着他的额头。她觉得他似乎在想些奇怪的事情，他在打量人群时，目光是温和的。 
“看看那边那个女人穿的衣服，”他又回头对嘉莉说，朝一个方向点了点头。 
“哪边？”嘉莉说，顺着他的目光看去。 
“那边角上--还远一点，你看见那枚胸针了吗？”“很大，是吧？”嘉莉说。 
“这是我见过的最大的一串宝石，”艾姆斯说。 
“是很大，不是吗？”嘉莉说。她觉得自己像是很想附合着这个年轻人说话，而且与此同时，也许在此之前，她依稀感到他比她受过更多的教育，头脑也比她好使。他看上去似乎是这样，而嘉莉的可取之处正在于她能够理解有些人是会比别人聪明。她一生中见过不少这样的人物，他们使她想起她自己模模糊糊地想象出的学者。现在她身边这个强壮的年轻人，外表清秀，神态自然，仿佛懂得很多她不大懂但却赞同的事情。她想，一个男人能这样是很不错的。 
谈话转到当时的一本畅销书，艾伯特·罗斯的《塑造一个淑女》。万斯太太读过这本书。万斯在有些报上见过对它的讨论。 
“一个人写本书就能一举成名，”万斯说。“我注意到很多人都在谈论这个叫罗斯的家伙。”他说这话时看着嘉莉。 
“我没听说过他，”嘉莉老实地说。 
“哦，我听说过，”万斯太太说，“他写过不少东西。最近的这本书写得很不错。”“他并没有什么了不起的，”艾姆斯说。 
嘉莉转过眼去看着他，像是看一个先哲。 
“他写的东西差不多和《朵拉·索恩》一样糟，”他下结论说。 
嘉莉觉得这像是在谴责她。她读过《朵拉·索恩》，或者说以前读过很多篇连载。她自己觉得这本书只能说还可以，但是她猜想别人会以为这本书很不错的。 
而现在，这个眼睛明亮、头脑聪明、在她看来还像个学生似的青年人却在嘲笑它。 
在他看来，这本书很糟，不值得一读。她低下了头，第一次为自己缺乏理解力感到苦恼。 
可是艾姆斯说话的口气没有丝毫的嘲讽或傲慢的味道。 
他身上很少这种味道。嘉莉觉得这只是个从更高的角度提出来的善意见解，一种正确的见解，她想知道按他的观点，还有什么是正确的。他似乎注意到了她在听他说话，而且很赞赏他的观点，于是从这以后他说话多半是对着她说的。 
侍者鞠躬后退，摸摸盘子看看是否够热，送上汤匙和叉子，殷勤地做着这些小事，为的是能使顾客对这里的豪华环境产生印象。在这期间，艾姆斯也微微侧着身子，向她讲述着印第安纳波利斯的事情，显得很有见识。他确实长了一个充满智慧的脑袋，他的智慧主要体现在电学知识方面。不过他对其它各种学问和各类人物的反应也很敏捷、热烈。红色的灯光照在他的头上，头发变成了金黄色，眼睛也闪闪发亮。当他俯身向她时，她注意到了这一切，觉得自己非常年轻。这个男人远远在她之上。他看上去比赫斯渥明智，比杜洛埃稳舰聪明。他看上去天真、纯洁，她觉得他十分可爱。她还注意到他虽对她有些兴趣。但和她之间相距甚远。她不在他的生活圈内，有关他的生活的任何事情和她都没有关系，可是现在，当他谈起这些事情时，她很感兴趣。 
“我可不想做有钱人，”吃饭时他告诉她说，那些食物激发了他的同情心，“不想有太多的钱来这样挥霍。”“哦，你不想吗？”嘉莉说，她第一次听到这种新观点，给她留下了鲜明的印象。 
“不想，”他说，“那会有什么好处呢？人要幸福并不需要这种东西。”嘉莉对此有些怀疑，但是从他口里出来的话，对她是有份量的。 
“他孤身一人可能也会幸福的，”她心里想。“他是这么强壮。”万斯夫妇不停地插话，艾姆斯只能断断续续地谈些这类难忘的事情。不过，这些已经足够了。因为用不着说话，这个青年人带来的气氛本身就已经给嘉莉留下了深刻的印象。他的身上或者他所到之处有某种东西让她着迷。他使她想起了那些她在舞台上看到的场面，伴随着某种她所不懂的东西，总会出现种种忧愁和牺牲。他那特有的一种从容不迫、无动于衷的气度，减轻了一些这种生活与她的生活对照所产生的痛苦。 
他们走出饭店时，他挽住她的手臂，扶她进了马车，然后他们又上路了，就这样去看戏。 
看戏的时候，嘉莉发现自己在很专心地听他说话。他提到的戏中的细节，都是她最喜欢的、最令她感动的地方。 
“你不认为做个演员很不错吗？”有一次她问道。 
“是的，我认为很不错，”他说，“要做个好演员。我认为戏剧很了不起。”就这么一个小小的赞许，弄得嘉莉心头怦怦直跳。啊，但愿她能做个演员--一个好演员！这是个明智的人--他懂--而且他还赞成。倘若她是个出色的演员的话，像他这样的男人会赞许她的。她觉得他能这样说真是个好人，虽然这事和她毫不相干。她不知道为什么自己会有这样的感觉。 
戏终场时，她突然明白他不准备和他们一起回去。 
“哦，你不回去吗？”嘉莉问，显得有些失态。 
“哎，不了，”他说，“我就住在这附近的三十三街上。”嘉莉不再说什么了，但不知怎么地，这事使她很受震动。 
她一直在惋惜这个愉快的夜晚即将消逝，但她原以为还有半个小时呢。啊，这些个半小时，这些个分分秒秒，期间充满着多少痛苦和悲伤！ 
她故作冷淡地道了别。这有什么了不起的？可是，马车似乎变得冷冷清清了。 
她回到自己的公寓时，心里还在想着这件事。她不知道自己是否能再见到这个人。可这又有什么什么关系--这又有什么关系呢？ 
赫斯渥已经回来了，这时已上了床。旁边凌乱地放着他的衣服。嘉莉走到房门口，看见他，又退了回来。她一时还不想进去。她要想一想。房里的情景令她感到不快。 
她回到餐室，坐在摇椅里摇了起来。她沉思时两只小手捏得紧紧的。透过那渴望和矛盾的欲望的迷雾，她开始看清了。 
啊，多少希望和惋惜，多少悲伤和痛苦！她摇晃着，开始看清了。
Chapter 33 WITHOUT THE WALLED CITY: THE SLOPE OF THE YEARS
The immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such things are usually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. The existent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at odd moments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heart understands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away and the ache subsides. 
Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months thereafter or more. She did not see Ames any more. He called once upon the Vances, but she only heard about it through the young wife. Then he went West, and there was a gradual subsidence of whatever personal attraction had existed. The mental effect of the thing had not gone, however, and never would entirely. She had an ideal to contrast men by -- particularly men close to her. 
During all this time -- a period rapidly approaching three years -- Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no apparent slope downward, and 'distinctly none upward, so far as the casual observer might have seen. But psychologically there was a change, which was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly indeed. This was in the mere matter of the halt his career had received when he departed from Chicago. A man's fortune or material progress is very much the same as his bodily growth. Either he is growing stronger, healthier, wiser, as the youth approaching manhood, or he is growing weaker, older, less incisive mentally, as the man approaching old age. There are no other states. Frequently there is a period between the cessation of youthful accretion and the setting in, in the case of the middle-aged man, of the tendency toward decay when the two processes are almost perfectly balanced and there is little doing in either direction. Given time enough, however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side. Slowly at first, then with a modest momentum, and at last the graveward process is in the full swing. So it is frequently with man's fortune. If its process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing stage is never reached, there will be no toppling. Rich men are, frequently, in these days, saved from this dissolution of their fortune by their ability to hire younger brains. These younger brains look upon the interests of the fortune as their own, and so steady and direct its progress. If each individual were left absolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given time enough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass as his strength and will. He and his would be utterly dissolved and scattered unto the four winds of the heavens. 
But now see wherein the parallel changes. A fortune, like a man, is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other strength than that inherent in the founder. Beside the young minds drawn to it by salaries, it becomes allied with young forces, which make for its existence even when the strength and wisdom of the founder are fading. It may be conserved by the growth of a community or of a state. It may be involved in providing something for which there is a growing demand. This removes it at once beyond the special care of the founder. It needs not so much foresight now as direction. The man wanes, the need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen into whose hands it may, continues. Hence, some men never recognise the turning in the tide of their abilities. It is only in chance cases, where a fortune or a state of success is wrested from them, that the lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes apparent. Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to see that he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to the fact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change for the worse did not show. 
Not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse the change that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body, but he felt the depression of it. Constant comparison between his old state and his new showed a balance for the worse, which produced a constant state of gloom or, at least, depression. Now, it has been shown experimentally that a constantly subdued frame of mind produces certain poisons in the blood, called katastates, just as virtuous feelings of pleasure and delight produce helpful chemicals called anastates. The poisons generated by remorse inveigh against the system, and eventually produce marked physical deterioration. To these Hurstwood was subject. 
In the course of time it told upon his temper. His eye no longer possessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised it in Adams Street. His step was not as sharp and firm. He was given to thinking, thinking, thinking. The new friends he made were not celebrities. They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and cruder, grade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this company that he had in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort. He was left to brood. 
Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and make at home these people who visited the Warren Street place passed from him. More and more slowly the significance of the realm he had left began to be clear. It did not seem so wonderful to be in it when he was in it. It had seemed very easy for any one to get up there and have ample raiment and money to spend, but now that he was out of it, how far off it became. He began to see as one sees a city with a wall about it. Men were posted at the gates. You could not get in. Those inside did not care to come out to see who you were. They were so merry inside there that all those outside were forgotten, and he was on the outside. 
Each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within this walled city. In the notices of passengers for Europe he read the names of eminent frequenters of his old resort. In the theatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of the latest successes of men he had known. He knew that they were at their old gayeties. Pullmans were hauling them to and fro about the land, papers were greeting them with interesting mentions, the elegant lobbies of hotels and the glow of polished dining-rooms were keeping them close within the walled city. Men whom he had known, men whom he had tipped glasses with -- rich men, and he was forgotten! Who was Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street resort? Bah! 
If one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type of mind -- that such feelings require a higher mental development -- I would urge for their consideration the fact that it is the higher mental development that does away with such thoughts. It is the higher mental development which induces philosophy and that fortitude which refuses to dwell upon such things -- refuses to be made to suffer by their consideration. The common type of mind is exceedingly keen on all matters which relate to its physical welfare -- exceedingly keen. It is the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a hundred dollars. It is the Epictetus who smiles when the last vestige of physical welfare is removed. 
The time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to produce results in the Warren Street place. The tide of patronage dropped a little below what it had been at its best since he had been there. This irritated and worried him. 
There came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business was not doing as well this month as it had the month before. This was in lieu of certain suggestions she had made concerning little things she wanted to buy. She had not failed to notice that he did not seem to consult her about buying clothes for himself. For the first time, it struck her as a ruse, or that he said it so that she would not think of asking for things. Her reply was mild enough, but her thoughts were rebellious. He was not looking after her at all. She was depending for her enjoyment upon the Vances. 
And now the latter announced that they were going away. It was approaching spring, and they were going North. 
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, "we think we might as well give up the flat and store our things. We'll be gone for the summer, and it would be a useless expense. I think we'll settle a little farther down town when we come back." 
Carrie heard this with genuine sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs. Vance's companionship so much. There was no one else in the house whom she knew. Again she would be all alone. 
Hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the departure of the Vances came together. So Carrie had loneliness and this mood of her husband to enjoy at the same time. It was a grievous thing. She became restless and dissatisfied, not exactly, as she thought, with Hurstwood, but with life. What was it? A very dull round indeed. What did she have? Nothing but this narrow, little flat. The Vances could travel, they could do the things worth doing, and here she was. For what was she made, anyhow? More thought followed, and then tears -- tears seemed justified, and the only relief in the world. 
For another period this state continued, the twain leading a rather monotonous life, and then there was a slight change for the worse. One evening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify Carrie's desire for clothes and the general strain upon his ability to provide, said: 
"I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy." 
"What's the matter?" said Carrie. 
"Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything to improve the place, and it won't ever pay without it." 
"Can't you make him?" said Carrie. 
"No; I've tried. The only thing I can see, if I want to improve, is to get hold of a place of my own." 
"Why don't you?" said Carrie. 
"Well, all I have is tied up in there just now. If I had a chance to save a while I think I could open a place that would give us plenty of money." 
"Can't we save?" said Carrie. 
"We might try it," he suggested. "I've been thinking that if we'd take a smaller flat down town and live economically for a year, I would have enough, with what I have invested, to open a good place. Then we could arrange to live as you want to." 
"It would suit me all right," said Carrie, who, nevertheless, felt badly to think it had come to this. Talk of a smaller flat sounded like poverty. 
"There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue, below Fourteenth Street. We might get one down there." 
"I'll look at them if you say so," said Carrie. 
"I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year," said Hurstwood. "Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going on now." 
"I'll look around," said Carrie, observing that the proposed change seemed to be a serious thing with him. 
The upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected; not without great gloom on the part of Carrie. It really affected her more seriously than anything that had yet happened. She began to look upon Hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband. She felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was cast with his, whatever it might be; but she began to see that he was gloomy and taciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. He looked a little bit old to her about the eyes and mouth now, and there were other things which placed him in his true rank, so far as her estimation was concerned. She began to feel that she had made a mistake. Incidentally, she also began to recall the fact that he had practically forced her to flee with him. 
The new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block west of Sixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms. The new neighbourhood did not appeal to Carrie as much. There were no trees here, no west view of the river. The street was solidly built up. There were twelve families here, respectable enough, but nothing like the Vances. Richer people required more space. 
Being left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl. She made it charming enough, but could not make it delight her. Hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they should have to modify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing. He must put the best face on it, and let it go at that. 
He tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm, but only congratulation over the chance he would have at the end of the year by taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and by providing a liberal table. This was for the time only. He was getting in the frame of mind where he wanted principally to be alone and to be allowed to think. The disease of brooding was beginning to claim him as a victim. Only the newspapers and his own thoughts were worth while. The delight of love had again slipped away. It was a case of live, now, making the best you can out of a very commonplace station in life. 
The road downward has but few landings and level places. The very state of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to widen between him and his partner. At last that individual began to wish that Hurstwood was out of it. It so happened, however, that a real estate deal on the part of the owner of the land arranged things even more effectually than ill-will could have schemed. 
"Did you see that?" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood, pointing to the real estate column in a copy of the "Herald," which he held. 
"No, what is it?" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news. 
"The man who owns this ground has sold it." 
"You don't say so?" said Hurstwood. 
He looked, and there was the notice. Mr. August Viele had yesterday registered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at the corner of Warren and Hudson streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of $57,000. 
"Our lease expires when?" asked Hurstwood, thinking. "Next February, isn't it?" 
"That's right," said Shaughnessy. 
"It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it," remarked Hurstwood, looking back to the paper. 
"We'll hear, I guess, soon enough," said Shaughnessy. 
Sure enough, it did develop. Mr. Slawson owned the property adjoining, and was going to put up a modern office building. The present one was to be torn down. It would take probably a year and a half to complete the other one. 
All these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponder over what would become of the saloon. One day he spoke about it to his partner. 
"Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else in the neighbourhood?" 
"What would be the use?" said Shaughnessy. "We couldn't get another corner around here." 
"It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?" 
"I wouldn't try it," said the other. 
The approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to Hurstwood. Dissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars, and he could not save another thousand in the time. He understood that Shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and would probably lease the new corner, when completed, alone. He began to worry about the necessity of a new connection and to see impending serious financial straits unless something turned up. This left him in no mood to enjoy his flat or Carrie, and consequently the depression invaded that quarter. 
Meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but opportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the same impressive personality which he had when he first came to New York. Bad thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not impress others favourably. Neither had he thirteen hundred dollars in hand to talk with. About a month later, finding that he had not made any progress, Shaughnessy reported definitely that Slawson would not extend the lease. 
"I guess this thing's got to come to an end," he said, affecting an air of concern. 
"Well, if it has, it has," answered Hurstwood, grimly. He would not give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. He should not have the satisfaction. 
A day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie. 
"You know," he said, "I think I'm going to get the worst of my deal down there." 
"How is that?" asked Carrie in astonishment. 
"Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new owner won't re-lease it to us. The business may come to an end." 
"Can't you start somewhere else?" 
"There doesn't seem to be any place. Shaughnessy doesn't want to." 
"Do you lose what you put in?" 
"Yes," said Hurstwood, whose face was a study. 
"Oh, isn't that too bad?" said Carrie. 
"It's a trick," said Hurstwood. "That's all. They'll start another place there all right." 
Carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what it meant. It was serious, very serious. 
"Do you think you can get something else?" she ventured, timidly. 
Hurstwood thought a while. It was all up with the bluff about money and investment. She could see now that he was "broke." 
"I don't know," he said solemnly; "I can try."
这件事情没有产生任何直接的结果。这类事要产生什么结果往往需要漫长的时间。早晨给人带来新的心情。目前的处境总会自我开脱的。只是在偶尔的时候，我们会起见事情的不幸。对照之下，人心能体会到这种不幸。没有了对照，痛苦也就减轻了。 在这以后的六个多月里，嘉莉照旧这样生活着。她没再见过艾姆斯。他来拜访过万斯夫妇一次，但她只是从那位年轻的太太那里听说了这事。随后，他便去了西部，即使这个人曾经吸引过她，现在这种吸引力也逐渐消失了。然而这件事的精神影响并没有消失，而且永远不会完全消失。她有了一个典范，可以用来对照男人，特别是她身边的男人。 
转眼就快到三年了。在这整个时期内，赫斯渥倒也一帆风顺。没有什么明显的走下坡路，也没有什么显著的上升，一般的旁观者都能看出这一点。但他在心理上有了变化，这种变化很显著，足以清楚地表明将来的情况。这种变化仅仅是因为离开了芝加哥，导致了他的事业中断而造成的。一个人的财产或物质方面的发展和他的身体的成长很相像。他要么如同青年接近成年，越变越强壮、健康、聪明；要么如同成年接近老年，越变越虚弱、衰老、思想迟钝。没有任何别的状况。就中年人而言，在青春活力停止增长和衰老的趋势到来之间，往往会有一段时期，两种进展几乎完全平衡，很少向任何一方倾斜。可是，过了足够长的时间以后，这种平衡开始朝坟墓一面下陷。 
开始很慢，然后有些加速，最后就全速走向坟墓。人的财产也往往如此。倘若财产的增长过程从未中断过，倘若那种平衡的状态从未达到过，那么就不会垮掉。现今的这些有钱人往往因为他们能雇佣年轻的聪明人而避免了这样耗尽他们的财产。 
这些年轻的聪明人把雇主财产的利益看作是自己的利益。因此，财产就有了稳定、直接的发展。倘若每个人都要绝对地自己照管自己的财产，而且在过了足够长的时间后又变得极起衰老，那么他的财产就会像他的精力和意志一样消逝掉。他和他的财产就会完全化为乌有，不知去向。 
但是，现在来看看这种类比在什么方面有所不同。一份财产，如同一个人，是一个有机体，除了创业人固有的才智和精力之外，它还要吸引别人的才智和精力。除了那些靠薪水吸引来的年轻人以外，它还要联合年轻人的力量。即使当创业人的精力和智慧逐渐衰退的时候，这些年轻人的力量仍能维持它的生存。它可能会由于一个社会或国家的发展而得以保存。它可能会致力于提供某种需求量日益增加的东西。这样一来，它立即就可以摆脱创业人的特殊照料。它这时就不需要远见而只需要指导了。人在衰退，需求在继续或者在增长，那么这份财产，无论可能会落入谁的手中，都会维持下去。因此，有些人从未意识到自己能力的衰退。只是在一些偶尔的情况下，当他们的财产或成功的处境被剥夺时，才会明显地看出他们已经缺少过去的那种经营能力。当赫斯渥在新的环境中安顿下来的时候，他应该能够看出自己已不再年轻。要是他看不出这一点，那完全是因为他的状况正极为平衡，还没有露出衰退的痕迹。 
他本身并不善于推理或反省，也就不能分析他的精神乃至身体上正在发生的变化，但是他已经感到了这种变化所带来的压抑。不断地将他过去的处境和现在的处境相对比，表明平衡正向坏的一面倾斜，于是产生了一种终日忧郁或者至少是消沉的心态。如今，有实验表明，终日抑郁的心情会在血液中产生某些叫做破坏素的毒素，正如愉快和欢乐的心情会产生叫做生长素的有益化学物质一般。由悔恨产生的毒素侵袭着身体组织，最终造成明显的体质恶化。这种情况正在赫斯渥身上发生。 
一段时间以后，他的性情受到了影响。他的目光不再像当年在亚当斯街时那样轻快、敏锐。他的脚步不再像从前那样敏捷、坚实。他总是沉思、沉思、再沉思。他的那些新朋友都不是知名人士。他们属于比较低级，偏重肉欲而且较为粗俗的那等人。和这群人打交道，他不可能得到他在和常来芝加哥酒店的那些优雅人士交往中得到的乐趣。他只有任由自己郁郁沉思。 
渐渐地，他不再愿意招呼、讨好和款待这些来沃伦街酒店的顾客了，虽然这种变化很慢，极其缓慢。渐渐地，他所放弃的那块天地的重要性也开始慢慢变得清楚起来。当他置身于起中时，也没觉得它有多么美妙。似乎人人都很容易去那里，人人都有很多的衣服穿，有足够的钱花。可是，如今当他被排斥在外，它竟变得如此遥远。他开始发现它就像一座围有城墙的禁城。各个城门口都有人把守。你无法进去。城里的人不屑出来看看你是谁。他们在里面快乐得很，根本就忘记了外面的所有人，而他就在外面。 
每天他都能从晚报上看到这座禁城内的活动。在有关旅欧游客的通告中，他看到他过去那家酒店的知名主顾们的名字。在戏剧栏内，不时出现有关他过去认识的人们的最新成功之作的报道。他知道他们快乐依旧。头等卧车拉着他们在国内到处跑，报纸刊登有趣的新闻向他们表示欢迎，旅馆里雅致的门厅和明亮的餐厅里的一片灯火辉煌将他们紧紧地围在禁城之中。啊，那些他认识的人，那些和他碰过杯的人，那些有钱的人，而他却已被遗忘！惠勒先生是个什么人物？沃伦街酒店是个什么地方？呸！ 
倘若有人认为，这样的想法不会出现在如此普通的头脑里--这样的感觉需要更高的思想境界--那么我要提请他们注意，正是更高的思想境界才会排除这样的想法。正是更高的思想境界才会产生哲理和那种坚韧的精神，有了这种精神，人们就不愿去细想这类事情，不愿因考虑这类事情而自寻烦恼。普通的头脑对于有关物质幸福的一切事物都会非常敏感--敏感至极。只有无知的守财奴才会为损失了１００块钱而心痛万分。只有埃普克提图类型的主张忍耐与节制的人，才会在最后的一丝物质幸福的痕迹被抹掉的时候，能一笑置之。 
到了第三年，这种想法开始对沃伦街酒店产生影响了。客流量比他进店以来最好的时候略有减少。这使他既恼怒又担忧。 
有一天晚上，他向嘉莉吐露说，这个月的生意不如上个月做的好。他说这话来答复她提出的想买些小东西的要求。她已经注意到，他在为自己购买衣服时，好像并不和她商量。她第一次觉得这是个诡计，或者他这么说就是叫她不再想着开口要东西。她的回答虽然很温和，但她的心里十分反感。他一点也不关心她。她把自己的乐趣寄托在万斯夫妇的身上。 
可是，这时万斯夫妇说他们要离开这里。春天快到了，他们要去北方。 
“哦，是呀，”万斯太太对嘉莉说，“我们想还是最好把房子退掉，把东西寄存起来。我们整个夏天都不在这里，租这套房子是个无益的浪费。我想等回来的时候，我们住到靠市区近一点的地方去。”嘉莉听到这个消息，心里十分难过。她非常喜欢和万斯太太作伴。在这幢房子里，她不认识别的什么人。她又要孤单一人了。 
赫斯渥对赢利减少的忧虑和万斯夫妇的离开，是同时发生的。因此，嘉莉要同时忍受自己的寂寞和丈夫的这种心境。 
这事真让人伤心。她变得烦燥、不满，这种不满不完全像她想的那样是对赫斯渥的不满，而是对生活的不满。这是什么样的生活呀？整个一个日复一日的枯燥循环，实在是无味透顶。她拥有什么呢？除了这套窄小的公寓之外，她一无所有。万斯夫妇可以旅行，他们可以做些值得做的事情，而她却呆在这里。 
她生来究竟是为了什么？由此越想越多，随后就流泪了。流泪似乎情有可原，而且是这世上唯一的安慰。 
这种状况又持续了一段时间，这对人儿过着颇为单调的生活，后来情况又稍有恶化。一天晚上，在考虑用什么办法来减少嘉莉对衣服的需求并减轻压在他的支付能力上的总的重负以后，赫斯渥说：“我想我再也无法和肖内西一起做了。”“出什么事了？”嘉莉说。 
“咳，他是一个迟钝、贪婪的爱尔兰佬。他不同意任何改进酒店的办法，而不改进，酒店根本就赚不了钱。”“你不能说服他吗？”嘉莉说。 
“不行，我试过。我看要想改进只有一个办法，就是我自己开一家酒店。”“你为什么不这样做呢？”嘉莉问。 
“唉，目前我所有的钱都卡在那里了。倘若我有可能节约一段时间，我想我就能开一家酒店，为我们赚很多的钱。” 
“我们有可能节约吗？”嘉莉说。 
“我们不妨试试，”他建议道。“我一直在想，要是我们在市区租一套小一些的公寓，节俭地过上一年，加上我已经投资的部分，我就有足够的钱开一家好酒店了。到那个时候，我们就能按你的愿望生活了。”“那将很合我的心意，”嘉莉说，尽管当她想到事情竟然发展到这一步时，心里感到很难过。谈到租小些的公寓，听起来像是要受穷了。 
“在第六大道附近，十四街往南，有很多漂亮的小公寓。我们可以在那里租上一套。”“如果你说行的话，我就去看看，"嘉莉说。 
“我想一年之内就能和这个家伙散伙，”赫斯渥说，“像现在这个做法，这桩生意无利可图。”“我要去看看，”嘉莉说，她看出他关于换房子的建议看来是当真的。 
这次谈话的结果是最终换了房子。嘉莉也不免因此而闷闷不乐。这件事对她的影响比以往发生的任何事都更为严重。 
她开始把赫斯渥完全看作是一个男人。而不是一个情人或丈夫。作为一个妻子，她觉得自己和他息息相关，不管命运如何，总是和他共命运的。可是，她开始发现他郁郁寡欢、沉默不语，不是一个年轻力壮、心情愉快的人了。在她看来，现在他的眼角和嘴边都有些显老了。照她的估计，还有别的事情让他露出了真面目。她开始感到自己犯了一个错误。顺便提一句，她还开始想起，当初实际上是他强迫她和他一起私奔的。 
新公寓在十三街上，第六大道往西边去一点，只有四间房间。新住所的周围环境也不如以前的那么让嘉莉喜欢。这里没有树木，西面也看不见河。这条街上造满了房子。这里住着十二户人家，都是很体面的人，但是远不及万斯夫妇。更加有钱的人需要更多的居住空间。 
嘉莉没雇女仆，因为只有她自己一个人待在这个小地方。 
她把房子布置得相当可爱，但是无法把它弄得令自己欢心。赫斯渥想到他们不得不改变自己的境况，心里也不高兴，但是他争辩说他也是没有办法。他只有尽量做出高兴的样子，随它去了。 
他试图向嘉莉表明，不必为经济问题感到恐慌，而应感到庆幸，因为一年后，他就有可能多带她去看戏，餐桌上的饭菜也会丰富多了。这只是一时的权宜之计。他的心情变得只想一人独处，这样可以想想心事。他已经开始成为郁郁沉思这一毛病的牺牲品。唯一值得做的就是看看报纸和独自思考。爱情的欢乐再次被错过。现在的问题只是生活下去，在十分平凡的生活中，尽量享受生活。 
下坡路上很少有落脚点和气地。他那和处境并发的精神状态，加大了他和他的合伙人之间的裂痕。最后，那个人开始希望摆脱赫斯渥了。然而，也真凑巧，这块地皮的主人做了一笔地产交易，把事情解决得比相互仇视所能谋划的更为有效。 
“你看见这个了吗？”一天早上，肖内西指着他手里拿的一张《先驱报》的房地产交易栏，对赫斯渥说。 
“没有，什么事呀？”赫斯渥说着，低头去看那些新闻。 
“这块地皮的主人把它卖掉了。” 
“你不是开玩笑吧？”赫斯渥说。 
他看了一下，果然有一则通告：奥古斯特·维尔先生已于昨日将沃伦街和赫德森街拐角处那块２５×７５英尺的土地，作价５．７万块钱，正式过户给杰·费·斯劳森。 
“我们的租赁权什么时候到期？”赫斯渥问，一边思忖着。 
“明年２月，是不是？” 
“是的，”肖内西答道。 
“这上面没说地皮的新主人打算把它派什么用场吧，”赫斯渥说，又看了看报纸。 
“我想，我们很快就会知道的，”肖内西说。 
的确如此，事情有了发展。斯劳森先生是与酒店毗邻的那片地产的主人，他准备在这里盖一幢现代化的办公楼。现有的房子要拆掉，大约要一年半的时间才能盖好新楼。 
这一切逐步地发展着，赫斯渥也开始考虑啤酒店的前景来。一天，他向他的合伙人谈起这事“你认为在这附近别的地方另开一家酒店值得吗？”“那有什么用呢？”肖内西说。“在这附近我们也找不到别的拐角。”“你觉得在别的地方开酒店赚不到钱吗？”。 
“我不想尝试，”另一位说。 
这时，即将发生的变化对于赫斯渥显得十分严峻了。散伙意味着失去他那１０００块钱，而且此间他不可能再攒出１０００块钱来。他明白肖内西只是厌倦了合伙，等到拐角上的新楼盖好后，他很可能会独自在那里租一家店。他开始为必须再找寻新的关系而发愁，并且开始意识到，除非出现什么转机，否则严重的经济困难已经迫在眉睫。这使得他无心欣赏他的家或嘉莉，因此，沮丧也侵入了这个家庭。 
在此期间，他尽量抽出时间去四处奔波，但是机会很少。 
而且，他已不再具有初来纽约时的那种感人的气质。不愉快的想法给他的眼睛蒙上了一层阴影，不会给人留下好的印象。交谈时，手头也没有１３００块钱作为谈话的本钱。大约一个月后，他发现自己毫无进展，而此时肖内西则明确的告诉他，斯劳森不愿延长租期。 
“我看这事是非完蛋不可了。”他说，一副假装关心的模样。 
“哦，如果非完蛋不可，就让它完蛋吧，”赫斯渥冷冷地答道。他不愿意让对方看出自己的想法，无论是什么样的想法。 
不能让他得意。 
一两天后，他觉得他必须和嘉莉谈谈了。 
“你可知道，”他说，“我看我的那家酒店生意要出现最糟糕的情况了。”“怎么会这样呢？”嘉莉吃惊地问道。 
“唉，地皮的主人把它卖了，新的主人又不愿再租给我们。 
生意可能就要完蛋了。” 
“你不能在别处再开一家吗？” 
“看来没地方可开。肖内西也不愿意。”“你会损失全部投资吗？”“是的，”赫斯渥说，满脸愁容。 
“哎呀，那不是太糟了吗？”嘉莉说。 
“这是一场骗局，”赫斯渥说，“就是这么回事。他们肯定会在那里另开一家的。”嘉莉望着他，从他整个的神态上看出了这件事的意义所在。这是件严重的事，非常严重。 
“你觉得能想些别的办法吗？”她怯生生地鼓起勇气问道。 
赫斯渥想了一会儿。现在他再也不能说什么有钱、有投资的骗人鬼话了。她看得出现在他是“破产”了。 
“我不知道，”他严肃地说。“我可以试试。”
Chapter 34 THE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES: A SAMPLE OF CHAFF
Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood, once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days for her to fully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her husband's business meant commonplace struggle and privation. Her mind went back to her early venture in Chicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heart revolted. That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible. She wished she knew a way out. Her recent experiences with the Vances had wholly unfitted her to view her own state with complacence. The glamour of the high life of the city had, in the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized her completely. She had been taught how to dress and where to go without having ample means to do either. Now, these things -- ever-present realities as they were -- filled her eyes and mind. The more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this other. And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove this other world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus might extend, appealingly, his hands. 
So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He had gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything; that there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage was good, and the literature she read poor. He was a strong man and clean -- how much stronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only half formulated to herself, but the difference was painful. It was something to which she voluntarily closed her eyes. 
During the last three months of the Warren Street connection, Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business advertisements. It was a more or less depressing business, wholly because of the thought that he must soon get something or he would begin to live on the few hundred dollars he was saving, and then he would have nothing to invest -- he would have to hire out as a clerk. 
Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity, was either too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winter was coming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so. In his worry, other people's worries became apparent. No item about a firm failing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly of starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning papers. Once the "World" came out with a flaring announcement about "80,000 people out of employment in New York this winter," which struck as a knife at his heart. 
"Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is." 
This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world had seemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to see similar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did not hold his attention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hovering along the horizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscure his life with chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forget and brace up. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally: 
"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks more. Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for six months." 
Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally reverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for the first three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he could get along without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now, however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his children were getting along. He could see them living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property. 
"By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely thought to himself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything." 
As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had he done -- what in the world -- that should bar him out this way and heap such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he was comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him. 
"She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn't do so much, if everybody could just know." 
There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was only a mental justification he was seeking from himself -- something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man. 
One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but did not enter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could not abide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up. He talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner. 
"Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit. 
"Three thousand," said the man. 
Hurstwood's jaw fell. 
"Cash?" he said. 
"Cash." 
He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really buy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think it over, and came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his condition in a vague way. 
"I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn't talk right." 
The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a disagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this place. 
"How about this ad. of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather objected to the looks of the place. 
"Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now." 
"Oh, is that so?" 
"Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over." 
"Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around. 
The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry. 
"The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to advertise for?" 
Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in. 
"It's you, is it?" she said, and went back. 
"Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he had bought. 
Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a disagreeable figure. 
Carrie set the table and brought in the meal. 
"Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something. 
He did not answer, reading on. 
She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched. 
"Won't you eat now?" she asked. 
He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except for the "Pass me's." 
"It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a time. 
"Yes," he said. 
He only picked at his food. 
"Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take up the subject which they had discussed often enough. 
"Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of sharpness. 
This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself. 
"You needn't talk like that," she said. 
"Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was hurt. 
"Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "Eat your dinner." 
She passed, not answering. 
He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his coat. 
"I'm going down town, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out of sorts to-night." 
She did not answer. 
"Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to-morrow." 
He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her dishes. 
"Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out. 
This was the first strong result of the situation between them, but with the nearing of the last day of business the gloom became almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. It got so that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him. He made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible. 
At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who had got his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and raging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature was pleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn't so terrible, after all. 
"Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth." 
Carrie smiled in answer to his humour. 
Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have lost a load. 
"I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and then I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking about. I think I can get something, now this thing's off my hands." 
He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there. They had made all arrangements to share according to their interests. When, however, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed. As much as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. He wished that things were different. 
Shaughnessy was coolly business-like. 
"Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the change and divide." 
They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided. 
"Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort to be genial. 
"So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice. 
Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded. 
Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride up, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood. 
"Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively. 
"I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat. 
As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now. They ate and talked a little. 
"Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie. 
"No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up." 
"It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie, prompted by anxiety and hope. 
"I guess I will," he said reflectively. 
For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the morning and sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could still make some advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to some brewery, which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and get them to help him. Then he remembered that he would have to pay out several hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have nothing left for his monthly expenses. It was costing him nearly eighty dollars a month to live. 
"No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll get something else and save up." 
This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment he began to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place? Where should he get such a position? The papers contained no requests for managers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were either secured by long years of service or were bought with a half or third interest. Into a place important enough to need such a manager he had not money enough to buy. 
Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and his appearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding. People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age, stout and well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable owner of something, a man from whom the common run of mortals could well expect gratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and comfortably built, walking was not easy. He had not been used to exercise for many years. His legs tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at the close of the day, even when he took street cars in almost every direction. The mere getting up and down, if long continued, produced this result. 
The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he well understood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his search. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he was ashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he hesitated, wondering what to do. 
He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had had no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no acquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. He did know some hotel owners in several cities, including New York, but they knew of his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them. He thought of other lines suggested by large buildings or businesses which he knew of -- wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns, and the like -- but he had had no experience. 
How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then, distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for something to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could not do that. 
He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being cold, stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that any decent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby. This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most important hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painful thing to him. To think he should come to this! He had heard loungers about hotels called chair-warmers. He had called them that himself in his day. But here he was, despite the possibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding himself from cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby. 
"I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of my starting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'll think of some places and then look them up." 
It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes open, but he put this out of his mind. Bartender -- he, the ex-manager! 
It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he went home. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was a feeble imitation. The rocking-chair in the dining-room was comfortable. He sank into it gladly, with several papers he had bought, and began to read. 
As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner, Carrie said: 
"The man was here for the rent to-day." 
"Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood. 
The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was February 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in his pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks at the one possible saving cure. Then he counted off twenty-eight dollars. 
"Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again. 
He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it -- the relief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these floods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part. Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for divorce. Here was another item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off Prince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright column told of the doings in the theatrical world -- the plays produced, the actors appearing, the managers making announcements. Fannie Davenport was just opening at the Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing "King Lear." He read of the early departure for the season of a party composed of the Vanderbilts and their friends for Florida. An interesting shooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky. So he read, read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator and waiting for dinner to be served.
嘉莉一旦对事实有了正确的认识，就像赫斯渥一样，一直考虑着目前的处境。她花了几天的工夫才充分认识到，她丈夫的生意即将完结，这意味着他们要为生活而挣扎，要遭受贫困。她回想起她早年冒险闯荡芝加哥的日子，想起汉生夫妇和他们的那套房子，她心里很是反感。这太可怕了！凡是和贫困有关的事都是可怕的。她多么希望自己能找到一条出路埃最近和万斯夫妇一起的一些经历，使得她完全不能以自满的心情来看待自己的处境了。万斯夫妇带给她的几次经历，使她彻底迷上了这个城市的上流社会的生活。有人教会了她怎样打扮，到何处去玩，而这两者她都没有足够的财力做到。如今，她满眼和满脑子都是这些事情--就像是些永存的现实。她的处境越是紧迫，这另一种光景就越是显得迷人。现在贫困正威胁着要将她整个俘获，并把这另一个世界使劲朝上推去，使它就像任何穷人都会向之伸手乞讨的上天一般。 同样也留下了艾姆斯带进她生活的理想。他的人走了，但他的话还在：财富不是一切；世界上还有很多她不知道的事；当演员不错；她读的文学作品不怎么样。他是个强者，而且纯洁--究竟比赫斯渥和杜洛埃强多少、好多少，她也只是一知半解，但是期间的差别令她痛苦。这是她有意不去正视的事。 
在沃伦街酒店干的最后三个月里，赫斯渥抽出部分时间，按着那些商业广告，四下寻找机会。这事多少有些令人伤感，原因完全在于他想到他必须马上找到事情做，否则他就得开始靠他攒的那几百块钱过活，那样他就会没钱投资，他就不得不受雇于他人，做个职员了。 
他在广告中发现的每一家看来能提供机会的酒店对他都不合适，要么太贵，要么太糟。另外，冬天即将来临，报纸在告诉人们困难时期到了，人们普遍感到时世艰难，或者至少他是这么认为的。他自己在犯愁，因此别人的忧愁也变得显而易见了。他在浏览早报时，什么商店倒闭，家庭挨饿，路人据猜因为饥饿而倒毙街头，没有一则这类的消息能逃过他的眼睛。一次，《世界报》刊出了一条耸人听闻的消息说：“今冬纽约有八万人失业。”这则新闻就像一把刀子，刺痛了他的心。 
“八万人，”他想。“这事多么可怕呀！” 
这种想法对于赫斯渥是全新的。从前，人们似乎都过得挺好。在芝加哥时，他曾常常在《每日新闻》上看到类似的事情，但是没有引起过他的注意。如今，这些事情就像是晴朗的天边铺着的阴云，威胁着要将他的生活笼罩和遮蔽在阴冷灰暗之中。他想甩开它们，忘记它们，振作起来。有时候，他心里自言自语：“犯愁有什么用呢？我还没完蛋嘛。我还有六个星期的时间。即便出现最糟的情况，我还有足够的钱过上六个月。"说来奇怪，当他为自己的前途犯愁的时候，他偶尔会转念想起他的太太和家庭来。头三年中，他尽量避而不想这些。他恨她，没她他也能过活，让她去吧。他能过得挺好。可是现在，当他过得不太好时，他却开始想起她，不知她在做些什么，他的孩子们过得怎样。他能想象得出，他们照旧过得很好，住着那幢舒适的房子，用着他的财产。 
“老天爷，他们全都给占去了，真是太不像话了！”有几次他这样模糊地自忖着。“我可没干什么坏事。”现在，当他回首往事，分析导致他偷那笔钱的情形时，他开始适度地替自己辩护。他干了什么，究竟干了什么，要把他这样排挤出去，要把这么多的困难堆在他的头上？对他来说，仿佛就在昨天，他还过得舒适、宽裕。可是现在，他却被剥夺了这一切。 
“她不应该享受从我这里拿去的这一切，这一点可以肯定。我没干什么大不了的坏事，要是人人都明白这个就好了。”他没有想过应该公开这些事实。这只不过是他从自身寻找的一种精神辩护--它使他能够像个正直的人一样忍受自己的处境。 
在关闭沃伦街酒店前五个星期的一天下午，他离开酒店去拜访他在《先驱报》上看见登有广告的三四个地方。一个在金街，他去看了，但没进去。这地方看上去太寒酸了，他觉得无法忍受。另一个在波威里街上，他知道这条街上有很多豪华的酒店。这家酒店靠近格蓝德街，果然装修得非常漂亮。他转弯抹角地和店东兜着圈子谈论投资问题，整整谈了有３刻钟。店东强调说，他身体不好，因此想找个合伙人。 
“那么，这个，买一半股权要多少钱呢？”赫斯渥问道，他想最多他只能出７００块钱。 
“３０００块。”那人说。 
赫斯渥的脸拉长了。 
“现金吗？”他说。 
“现金。” 
他想装出在考虑的样子，像是真能买似的，但他的眼里却流露出忧愁。他说要考虑一下，结束了谈话，然后走掉了。和他谈话的店东依稀觉察到他的境遇不佳。 
“我看他是不想买，”他自语道。“他说话不对劲。”这是个灰蒙蒙冷飕飕的下午。天刮起了令人不快的寒风。 
他去拜访远在东区，靠近六十九街的一家酒店。当他到达那里时，已经５点钟，天色渐渐暗下来了。店东是个大腹便便的德国人。 
“谈谈你们登的这则广告好吗？”赫斯渥问，这家酒店的外观很令他反感。 
“噢，这事已经过去了，”那个德国人说。“我现在不卖了。”“哦，这是真的吗？”“是的，现在没有这回事了。这事已经过去了。”“很好，”赫斯渥说着，转过身去。 
那德国人不再睬他了，这使他很生气。 
“这个笨蛋疯了！”他对自己说。“那他干嘛要登那个广告？”他彻底灰心了，便朝十三街走去。家里只有厨房里亮着一盏灯。嘉莉正在里面干活。他擦了一根火柴，点亮了煤气灯，也没有招呼她，就在餐室里坐下了。她走到门口，朝里看了看。 
“是你回来了吗？”她说着，又走了回去。 
“是的，”他说，埋头盯着买来的晚报，都没抬眼看一下。 
嘉莉知道他的情况不妙了。他不高兴时，就不那么漂亮了。眼角边的皱纹也加深了。天生的黑皮肤，忧郁使他看上去有点凶恶。这时的他十分令人讨厌。 
嘉莉摆好饭桌，端上饭菜。 
“饭好了，”她说，从他身边走过去拿东西。 
他没有答话，继续看报。 
她进来后，坐在自己的位子上，很伤心。 
“你现在不吃饭吗？”她问道。 
他折起报纸，坐近了一些，但除了说“请递给我某某”之外，一直沉默不语。 
“今天很阴冷，是吧？”过了一会儿，嘉莉开口说道。 
“是的，”他说。 
他只是毫无胃口地吃着饭。 
“你们还是肯定非关店不可吗？”嘉莉说，大胆地提到他们经常讨论的话题。 
“当然肯定罗，”他说，他那生硬的口气只是稍稍有一点缓和。 
这句回答惹恼了嘉莉。她自己已经为此生了一天的闷气。 
“你用不着那样说话，”她说。 
“哦！”他叫了起来，从桌边朝后推了推座位，像是要再说些什么，但是就此算了。然后，他拿起了报纸。嘉莉离开了座位，她好不容易控制住了自己。他知道她伤心了。 
“别走开，”当她动身回厨房时，他说。“吃你的饭吧。”她走了过去，没有答话。 
他看了一会儿报纸，然后站起身来，穿上外套。 
“我要到市区去，嘉莉，”他说着，走了出来。“今晚我心情不好。”她没有答话。 
“别生气，”他说，“明天一切都会好的。” 
他看着她，但是她不睬他，只顾洗她的盘子。 
“再见！”最后他说，走了出去。 
这是眼前的处境在他们之间第一次产生的强烈的后果。 
然而，随着酒店关闭的日子的临近，忧郁几乎成了永久的东西。赫斯渥无法掩饰他对这事的感想。嘉莉不禁担心自己会向何处飘泊。这样一来，他们之间的谈话比平时更少，这倒并不是因为赫斯渥对嘉莉有什么不满，而是嘉莉要躲着他。这一点他注意到了。这倒引起了他对她的不满，因为她对他冷淡。 
他把可能进行友好的交谈几乎当成了一项艰巨的任务，但是随后却发现，嘉莉的态度使得这项任务更加艰巨，更加不可能，这真令他不满。 
终于，最后的一天到了。赫斯渥原以为这一天必定会有晴天霹雳和狂风骤雨，并已经作好了这种思想准备。可是，当这一天真的来临时，他发现也只是个平常的普通日子，很感欣慰。阳光灿烂，气温宜人。当他坐到早餐桌旁时，他发现这事终究并不怎么可怕。 
“唉，”他对嘉莉说，“今天是我的末日。”对他的幽默，嘉莉报以一笑。 
赫斯渥还是很愉快地浏览着报纸。他像是丢掉了一个包袱。 
“我要去市区待一会儿，”早饭后他说，“然后我就去找找看，明天我一整天都要去找。现在酒店不用我管了，我想我能找到事干的。"他笑着出了门，去了酒店。肖内西在店里。他们办妥了一切手续，按照股份分配财产。可是，当他在那里耽搁了几个钟头，又出去待了三个钟头后再回到那里，他那兴奋劲没有了。 
尽管他曾经很不满意这家酒店，但现在眼见它将不复存在，他还是感到难过。他真希望情况不是这样。 
肖内西则十分冷静，毫不动情。 
“喂，”他５点钟时说道，“我们最好把零钱数一数，分了吧。”他们这样做了。固定设备已经卖了，钱也分了。 
“再见了，”赫斯渥在最后一刻说，最后一次想表现得友好一些。 
“再见，”肖内西说，几乎不屑注意这个。 
沃伦街的生意就这样永远做完了。 
嘉莉在家里做了一顿丰盛的晚餐，可是，当赫斯渥坐车回来时，他看上去神情严肃，满腹心事。 
“怎么样啦？”嘉莉询问道。 
“我把事情办完了。”他答道，脱下外套。 
她看着他，很想知道他现在的经济状况怎么样了。他们吃着饭，交谈了几句。 
“你的钱够在别的酒店入股吗？”嘉莉问。 
“不够，”他说。“我得找些别的事情做，攒起钱来。”“要是你能谋到一个职位就好了，”焦虑和希望促使嘉莉这样说道。 
“我想我会的，”他若有所思地说。 
这以后的一些日子里，每天早晨，他按时穿上大衣，动身出门。这样出门时，他总是自我安慰地想着，他手头有７００块钱，还是能够谈成什么有利的买卖的。他想到去找一些酿酒厂，据他所知，酿酒厂往往辖有出租的酒店，可以去找他们帮帮忙。然后，他想起他总得付出几百块钱买那些固定设备，这样一来，他就会没钱支付每月的费用了。现在他每个月差不多要花８０块钱的生活费。 
“不行，”他在头脑清醒的时候说。“我不能这样做。我要找些别的事情做，攒起钱来。”一旦他开始考虑他究竟想做什么样的事情时，这个找些别的事情的计划就复杂化了。做经理吗？他能从哪里谋到这样的职位呢？报纸上没有招聘经理的启事。这种职位要不是靠多年的服务晋升而得，就是要出一半或者１A３的股份去买，对此，他是最清楚不过了。他可没有足够的钱去一个大到需要这样一个经理的酒店买个经理来做。 
不过，他还是着手去找。他还是衣冠楚楚，外貌依旧很出众，但是这却带来了造成错觉的麻烦。一看见他，人们就会以为，像他这般年龄的人，身体结实且衣着得体，一定非常富有。 
他看上去像是生活舒适的某个产业主，一般的人可以指望从他这样的人手里得到些赏钱。现在他已经四十有三，长得又福态，步行并不是件易事。他已经多年不习惯这样的运动了。虽然他几乎每去一处都乘坐有轨电车，但一天下来，他还是感到腿发软、肩发痛、脚发疼。单单上车下车，时间长了，也会产生这种后果的。 
他十分清楚，人们看他外表上比实际上有钱。他非常痛苦地明白这一点，从而妨碍了他寻找机会。这倒不是说他希望自己外表看上去差一些，而是说他羞于提出与自己的外表不相称的要求。因此，他迟疑不决，不知怎么去做才好。 
他想过去旅馆做事，但立刻想起自己在这方面毫无经验，而且，更重要的是，在这一行里，他没有熟人或朋友可投。在包括纽约在内的几个城市里，他的确认识一些旅馆主人，但是他们都知道他和费莫酒店的关系。他不能求职于他们。由那些他知道的大厦或大商店，他想到其它的一些行业，如批发杂货、五金器材、保险公司等等，但是这些他都没有经验。 
考虑该怎样去谋职是件苦恼的事。他是否得亲自去询问，等在办公室门外，然后以这般高贵有钱的模样，宣布自己是来求职的？他费劲而痛苦地想着这个问题。不，他不能这么做。 
他真的去四处奔走，一路思索着。然后，因为天气寒冷，走进了一家旅馆。他对旅馆很了解，知道任何体面的人都可以在门厅的椅子上坐一坐。这是在百老汇中央旅馆里，这家旅馆当时是纽约最重要的旅馆之一。来这里坐坐，对他来说是很不好受的。简直无法想象，他竟然会弄到这步田地！他听说过在旅馆里闲荡的人被叫作蹭座者。在他得意的时候，他自己也这样叫过他们。可是现在，尽管有可能会碰到某个熟人，他还是来到这里，待在这家旅馆的门厅里，一来避避寒，二来可免受街头奔波之苦。 
“我这样做是不行的，”他对自己说，“不事先想好要去什么地方，天天早上就这样盲目动身出门是不管用的。我要想好一些地方，然后再去寻找。”他想起酒吧侍者的位置有时会有空缺，但是他又打消了这个念头。他这个过去的经理，去做个酒吧侍者？！ 
在旅馆的门厅里，越坐越觉得乏味透顶，于是他４点钟就回家了。他进门时，努力摆出个办正事的样子，但是装得不像。 
餐室里的摇椅很是舒适。他拿着几份买来的报纸，高兴地在摇椅里坐下，开始看报。 
当嘉莉穿过餐室去做晚饭时，她说： 
“今天收房租的人来过了。” 
“哦，是吗？”赫斯渥说。 
他记起今天是２月２号，收房租的人总是这个时候来，于是稍稍皱起了眉头。他伸手到衣袋里摸钱包，第一次尝到了只出不进的滋味。他看着那一大卷绿钞票，活像一个病人看着一种能治好病的药。然后，他数出来２８块钱。 
“给你，”当嘉莉再次走过时，他对她说。 
他又埋头看起报来。啊，还可以享受一下别的事情--不用跑路、不用烦神。这些潮水般的电讯消息多像能令人忘却一切的忘川之水啊！他有些忘记自己的烦恼了。有一个年轻漂亮的女人，要是你相信报纸上的描述的话，控告她那在布鲁克林的富有、肥胖的糖果商丈夫，要求离婚。另一则消息详细地报道了斯塔腾岛的普林斯湾外一只船在冰雪中失事的经过。 
有一个长而醒目的栏目，记载着戏剧界的活动--上演的剧目，登台的演员，戏院经理的布告。范尼·达文波特正在第五大道演出。戴利在上演《李尔王》。他看到消息说，范德比尔特一家和他们的朋友一行，早早就去了佛罗里达州度假。在肯塔基州山区发生了有趣的枪战。他就这样看呀，看呀，看呀，在温暖的房间里，坐在取暖炉边上的摇椅里摇晃着，等着开晚饭。
Chapter 35 THE PASSING OF EFFORT: THE VISAGE OF CARE
The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a long list of advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to the male-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day was before him -- a long day in which to discover something -- and this was how he must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which mostly concerned bakers, bushel-men, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like, finding two things only which arrested his eye. One was a cashier wanted in a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a whiskey house. He had never thought of the latter. At once he decided to look that up. 
The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers. 
He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance. 
"Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he was encountering one of his out-of-town customers. 
"Good-morning," said Hurstwood. "You advertised, I believe, for a salesman?" 
"Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come to him. "Yes. Yes, I did." 
"I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity. "I've had some experience in that line myself." 
"Oh, have you?" said the man. "What experience have you had?" 
"Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I owned a third-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets." 
"I see," said the man. 
Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion. 
"We did want a salesman," said the man. "I don't know as it's anything you'd care to take hold of, though." 
"I see," said Hurstwood. "Well, I'm in no position to choose, at present. If it were open, I should be glad to get it." 
The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to choose." He wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something better. Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active, and glad to work actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please him at all. He had more of an air than his employers. 
"Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your application. We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send us your references." 
"I will," said Hurstwood. 
He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at the furniture company's address, and saw that it was in West Twenty-third Street. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was not large enough, however. It looked moderate, the men in it idle and small salaried. He walked by, glancing in, and then decided not to go in there. 
"They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said. 
At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in Madison Square. There he pondered over places which he might look up. He was tired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way, through Madison Square Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon a busy scene. He decided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a while. It was warm in there and bright. He had seen no one he knew at the Broadway Central. In all likelihood he would encounter no one here. Finding a seat on one of the red plush divans close to the great windows which look out on Broadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His state did not seem so bad in here. Sitting still and looking out, he could take some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his purse. He could forget, in a measure, the weariness of the street and his tiresome searches. Still, it was only escape from a severe to a less severe state. He was still gloomy and disheartened. There, minutes seemed to go very slowly. An hour was a long, long time in passing. It was filled for him with observations and mental comments concerning the actual guests of the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperous pedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and spirits as they passed along Broadway, outside. It was nearly the first time since he had arrived in the city that his leisure afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate this spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at the activity of others. How gay were the youths he saw, how pretty the women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They were so intent upon getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast by magnificent girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such -- how well he knew! How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do so! 
The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he thought he would go back to the flat. 
This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carrie would think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. He hoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Over there he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair and read. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He could read his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was reading, quite alone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it was. 
"You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her. 
After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make some little report of his day. 
"I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "I may go out on the road." 
"Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie. 
"It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered. 
Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers -- the "Evening World" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked his papers up, as he came by, without stopping. 
He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then it was as the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items he so well loved to read. 
The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he could not think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he studied -- till ten o'clock -- appealed to him. He felt that he ought to go out, and yet he sickened at the thought. Where to, where to? 
"You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said Carrie, quietly. 
They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week in her hands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little sigh as she said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread of the thing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming in. 
"Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on." 
To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her request disturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing thing. 
"Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought. "Oh, why should I be made to worry?" 
Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up some place. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first Street. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twenty blocks' walk. 
"I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought. 
Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his tonsorial treatment. 
Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and this continued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining him, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into lobby idleness. 
At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not go out at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was a regular flurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was still coming down with a high wind, and the papers announced a blizzard. From out the front windows one could see a deep, soft bedding. 
"I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie at breakfast. "It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say." 
"The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who ordered by the bushel. 
"I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood. This was the first time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the wish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of compensation for the privilege. 
All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a general blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the details of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the poor in large type. 
Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try to think about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and tying up all things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly comfortable and toasted his feet. 
Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of the storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too philosophically. 
Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to Carrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturb him. 
The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. Hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he volunteered to do a few other little things. One was to go to the butcher, another to the grocery. He really thought nothing of these little services in connection with their true significance. He felt as if he were not wholly useless -- indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth while about the house. 
On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm was over. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would be. 
It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way. Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He went across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on Broadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down in Pearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he changed his mind. 
"What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "I couldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I guess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and waited again, wondering what he could do. 
While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his memory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised Cargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there. The remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear. 
Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty he felt. 
"Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided this meeting. 
"Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?" 
"Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about. "Stopping here?" 
"No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment." 
"I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you." 
"Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away. 
"Doing well, I suppose?" 
"Excellent." 
"Glad to hear it." 
They looked at one another, rather embarrassed. 
"Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave you. So long." 
Hurstwood nodded his head. 
"Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew that would happen." 
He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered 1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The day was so bad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else. Landed here, he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too much. The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became intolerable. He felt as if he were catching cold. 
Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no day to be out; he would go home. 
Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three. 
"It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off his coat and changed his shoes. 
That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him. He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about the eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to her. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something about the man held her aloof. 
Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested he go to bed. 
"You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll open your bed for you now." 
"All right," he said. 
As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state. 
"What a life! What a life!" was her one thought. 
Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more. 
This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the fact. 
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality. 
"Nothing," said Carrie, weakly. 
"You've been crying," he said. 
"I haven't either," she answered. 
It was not for love of him, that he knew. 
"You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will come out all right." 
In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed in. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers, and these he read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out, but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting about hotel corridors. 
Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going anywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything. 
Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did things. She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and her little deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not, however, before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing. Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. Every Tuesday Carrie asked for her money. 
"Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one Tuesday morning. 
"I do the best I can," said Carrie. 
Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said: 
"Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?" 
"I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie. 
"They say you can get things lots cheaper there." 
Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things which she did not like at all. 
"How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day. 
"Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak is twenty-two cents." 
"That's steep, isn't it?" he answered. 
So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days, it seemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices and remembered them. 
His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small way, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was stopped by him. 
"Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked. 
"Over to the baker's," she answered. 
"I'd just as leave go for you," he said. 
She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the corner for the papers. 
"Is there anything you want?" he would say. 
By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the weekly payment of twelve dollars. 
"You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time. 
"How much?" he asked. 
She understood well enough what it meant. 
"Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man." 
The same day he said: 
"I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-five cents a bushel. I'll trade with him." 
Carrie heard this with indifference. 
"All right," she said. 
Then it came to be: 
"George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some meat of some kind for dinner." 
He would find out what she needed and order. 
Accompanying this plan came skimpiness. 
"I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon with his papers. "We never seem to eat very much." 
These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They blackened her days and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed! All day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed to have no attraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it might be four or five hours, between eleven and four. She could do nothing but view him with gnawing contempt. 
It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see his way out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only five hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he could stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting around the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This came first with the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very beginning: 
"It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around." 
Eventually these became the permanent thing. 
Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip of ten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then to nothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that the shave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he put off shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once a week became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see. 
Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the 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 to-night. 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." 
第二天早晨，他浏览了一遍报纸，啃完了一长串广告，做了一些笔记。然后他去看招收男工的广告拦，但是心情很不愉快。又一天摆在他的面前--漫长的一天去寻找事做--而他就得这样开始。他扫了一眼那长长的广告栏，大多数是关于招收面包师、改衣工、厨师、排字工、车夫等等，只有两则引起他的注意，一则是一家家具批发行招聘一名出纳员，另一则是一家威士忌公司招聘一名推销员。他从未想过要做推销员。 他立即决定去那里看看。
那家公司叫阿尔斯伯里公司，经销威士忌。
他那副仪表堂堂的样子，几乎一到就被请去见经理。
“早安，先生，”经理说，起初以为面对的是一位外地的客户。
“早安，”赫斯渥说。“我知道你们登了报要招聘推销员，是吗？”“哦，”那人说道，明显地流露出恍然大悟的神情。“是的，是的，我是登了报。”“我想来应聘，”赫斯渥不失尊严地说，"我对这一行有一定的经验。”“哦，你有经验吗？”那人说，“你有些什么样的经验呢？”“喔，我过去当过几家酒店的经理。最近我在沃伦街和赫德森街拐角的酒店里有１A３的股权。”“我明白了，”那人说。 
赫斯渥停住了，等着他发表意见。 
“我们是曾想要个推销员，”那人说，“不过，我不知道这种事你是不是愿意做。”“我明白，”赫斯渥说，“可是，我眼下不能挑挑拣拣。倘若位置还空着，我很乐意接受。”那人很不高兴听到他说的“不能挑挑拣拣”的话。他想要一个不想挑拣或者不想找更好的事做的人。他不想要老头子。 
他想要一个年轻、积极、乐于拿钱不多而能主动工作的人。他一点也不喜欢赫斯渥。赫斯渥比他的店东们还要神气些。 
“好吧，”他回答说。“我们很高兴考虑你的申请。我们要过几天才能做出决定。你送一份履历表给我们吧。”“好的，”赫斯渥说。 
他点头告别后，走了出来。在拐角处，他看看那家家具行的地址，弄清楚是在西二十三街。他照着这个地址去了那里。 
可是这家店并不太大，看上去是家中等店铺，里面的人都闲着而且薪水很少。他走过时朝里面扫了一眼，随后就决定不进去了。 
“大概他们要一个周薪１０块钱的姑娘，”他说。 
１点钟时，他想吃饭了，便走进麦迪逊广场的一家餐馆。 
在那里，他考虑着可以去找事做的地方。他累了。又刮起了寒风。在对面，穿过麦迪逊广场公园，耸立着那些大旅馆，俯瞰着热闹的街景。他决定过到那边去，在一家旅馆的门厅里坐一会儿。那里面又暖和又亮堂。他在百老汇中央旅馆没有遇见熟人。十有八九，在这里也不会遇见熟人的。他在大窗户旁边的一只红丝绒长沙发上坐了下来，窗外看得见百老汇大街的喧闹景象，他坐在那里想着心事。在这里，他觉得自己的处境似乎还不算太糟。静静地坐在那里看着窗外，他可以从他的钱包里那几百块钱中找到一点安慰。他可以忘掉一些街上奔波的疲乏和四处找寻的劳累。可是，这只不过是从一个严峻的处境逃到一个不太严峻的处境罢了。他仍旧愁眉不展，灰心丧气。 
在这里，一分钟一分钟似乎过得特别慢。一个钟头过去需要很长很长的时间。在这一个钟头里，他忙着观察和评价那些进进出出的这家旅馆的真正旅客，以及旅馆外面百老汇大街上来往的那些更加有钱的行人，这些人都是财运当头，这从他们的衣着和神情上就看得出来。自他到纽约以来，这差不多是他第一次有这么多的空闲来欣赏这样的场面。现在他自己被迫闲了下来，都不知道别人在忙乎些什么了。他看到的这些青年多么快乐，这些女人多么漂亮埃他们的衣着全都是那么华丽。 
他们都那么急着要赶到什么地方去。他看见美丽动人的姑娘抛出卖弄风情的眼色。啊，和这些人交往得要多少金钱--他太清楚了！他已经很久没有机会这样生活了！ 
外面的时钟指到４点。时候稍稍早了一点，但是他想要回公寓了。 
一想到回公寓，他又连带想到，要是他回家早了，嘉莉会认为他在家闲坐的时间太多了。他希望自己不用早回去，可是这一天实在是太难熬了。回到家里他就自在了。他可以坐在摇椅里看报纸。这种忙碌、分心、使人引起联想的场面就被挡在了外面。他可以看看报纸。这样一想，他就回家了。嘉莉在看书，很是孤单。房子周围被遮住了，里面很暗。 
“你会看坏眼睛的，”他看见她时说。 
脱下外套后，他觉得自己应该谈一点这一天的情况。 
“我和一家酒类批发公司谈过了，”他说，“我可能出去搞推销。”“那不是很好嘛！”嘉莉说。 
“还不算太坏，”他回答。 
最近他总是向拐角上的那个人买两份报纸--《世界晚报》和《太阳晚报》。所以，他现在走过那里时，直接拿起报纸就走，不必停留了。 
他把椅子挪近取暖炉，点燃了煤气。于是，一切又像头天晚上一样。他的烦恼消失在那些他特别爱看的新闻里。 
第二天甚至比前一天更糟，因为这时他想不出该去哪里。 
他研究报纸研究到上午１０点钟，还是没有看中一件他愿意做的事情。他觉得自己该出去了，可是一想到这个就感到恶心。 
到哪里去，到哪里去呢？ 
“你别忘了给我这星期要用的钱，”嘉莉平静地说。 
他们约定，每星其他交到她手上１２块钱，用作日常开支。 
她说这话时，他轻轻地叹了一口气，拿出了钱包。他再次感到了这事的可怕。他就这样把钱往外拿，往外拿，没有分文往里进的。 
“老天爷！”他心里想着，“可不能这样下去埃”对嘉莉他却什么也没说。她能够感觉到她的要求令他不安了。要他给钱很快就会成为一件难受的事情了。 
“可是，这和我有什么关系呢？”她想，“唉，为什么要让我为此烦恼呢？”赫斯渥出了门，朝百老汇大街走去。他想找一个什么可去的地方。没有多久，他就来到了座落在三十一街的宏大旅馆。 
他知道这家旅馆有个舒适的门厅。走过了二十条横马路，他感到冷了。 
“我去他们的理发间修个面吧，”他想。 
享受了理发师的服务后，他就觉得自己有权利在那里坐下了。 
他又觉得时间难捱了，便早早回了家。连续几天都是这样，每天他都为要出去找事做而痛苦不堪，每天他都要为厌恶、沮丧、害羞所迫，去门厅里闲坐。 
最后是三天的风雪天，他干脆没有出门。雪是从一天傍晚开始下的。雪不停地下着，雪片又大又软又白。第二天早晨还是风雪交加，报上说将有一场暴风雪。从前窗向外看得见一层厚厚的、软软的雪。 
“我想我今天就不出去了，”早饭时，他对嘉莉说。“天气将会很糟，报纸上这么说的。”“我叫的煤也还没有人给送来，”嘉莉说，她的煤是论蒲式耳叫的。 
“我过去问问看，”赫斯渥说。主动提出要做点家务事，这在他还是第一次，然而不知怎么地，他想坐在家里的愿望促使他这样说，作为享受坐在家里的权利的某种补偿。 
雪整天整夜地下着。城里到处都开始发生交通堵塞。报纸大量报道暴风雪的详情，用大号铅字渲染穷人的疾苦。 
赫斯渥在屋角的取暖炉边坐着看报。他不再考虑需要找工作的事。这场可怕的暴风雪，使一切都陷于瘫痪，他也无需去找工作了。他把自己弄得舒舒服服的，烤着他的两只脚。 
看到他这样悠闲自得，嘉莉不免有些疑惑。她表示怀疑，不管风雪多么狂暴，他也不应该显得这般舒服。他对自己的处境看得也太达观了。 
然而，赫斯渥还是继续看呀，看呀。他不大留意嘉莉。她忙着做家务，很少说话打搅他。 
第二天还在下雪，第三天严寒刺骨。赫斯渥听了报纸的警告，坐在家里不动。现在他自愿去做一些其它的小事。一次是去肉铺，另一次是去杂货店。他做这些小事时，其实根本没有去想这些事本身有什么真正的意义。他只是觉得自己还不是毫无用处。的确，在这样恶劣的天气，待在家里还是很有用的。 
可是，第四天，天放晴了，他从报上知道暴风雪过去了。而他这时还在闲散度日，想着街上该有多么泥泞。 
直到中午时分，他才终于放下报纸，动身出门。由于气温稍有回升，街上泥泞难行。他乘有轨电车穿过十四街，在百老汇大街转车朝南。他带着有关珍珠街一家酒店的一则小广告。 
可是，到了百老汇中央旅馆，他却改变了主意。 
“这有什么用呢？”他想，看着车外的泥浆和积雪。“我不能投资入股。十有八九是不会有什么结果的。我还是下车吧。”于是他就下了车。他又在旅馆的门厅里坐了下来，等着时间消逝，不知自己能做些什么。 
能呆在室内，他感到挺满足。正当他闲坐在那里遐想时，一个衣冠楚楚的人从门厅里走过，停了下来，像是拿不准是否记得清楚，盯着看了看，然后走上前来。赫斯渥认出他是卡吉尔，芝加哥一家也叫做卡吉尔的大马厩的主人。他最后一次见到他是在阿佛莱会堂，那天晚上嘉莉在那里演出。他还立刻想起了这个人那次带太太过来和他握手的情形。 
赫斯渥大为窘迫。他的眼神表明他感到很难堪。 
“喔，是赫斯渥呀！”卡吉尔说，现在他记起来了，懊悔开始没有很快认出他来，好避开这次会面。 
“是呀，”赫斯渥说。“你好吗？” 
“很好，”卡吉尔说，为不知道该说些什么而犯愁。“住在这里吗？”“不，”赫斯渥说，“只是来这里赴个约。”“我只知道你离开了芝加哥。我一直想知道，你后来情况怎么样了。”“哦，我现在住在纽约，”赫斯渥答道，急着要走开。 
“我想，你干得不错吧。” 
“好极了。” 
“很高兴听到这个。” 
他们相互看了看，很是尴尬。 
“噢，我和楼上一个朋友有个约会。我要走了。再见。”赫斯渥点了点头。 
“真该死，”他嘀咕着，朝门口走去。“我知道这事会发生的。”他沿街走过几条横马路。看看表才指到１点半。他努力想着去个什么地方或者做些什么事情。天其实在太糟了，他只想躲到室内去。终于他开始感到两脚又湿又冷，便上了一辆有轨电车，他被带到了五十九街，这里也和其它地方一样。他在这里下了车，转身沿着第七大道往回走，但是路上泥泞不堪。 
在大街上到处闲逛又无处可去的痛苦，使他受不住了。他觉得自己像是要伤风了。 
他在一个拐角处停下来，等候朝南行驶的有轨电车。这绝对不是出门的天气，他要回家了。 
嘉莉见他３点差１刻就回来了，很吃惊。 
“这种天出门太糟糕，”他只说了这么一句。然后，他脱下外套，换了鞋子。 
那天晚上，他觉得是在伤风了，便吃了些奎宁。直到第二天早晨，他还有些发热，整个一天就坐在家里，由嘉莉伺候着。 
他生病时一副可怜样，穿着颜色暗淡的浴衣，头发也不梳理，就不怎么漂亮了。他的眼圈边露出憔悴，人也显得苍老。嘉莉看到这些，心里感到不快。她想表示温存和同情，但是这个男人身上有某种东西使得她不愿和他亲近。 
傍晚边上，在微弱的灯光下，他显得非常难看，她便建议他去睡觉。 
“你最好一个人单独睡，”她说，“这样你会感到舒服一些。 
我现在就去给你起床。” 
“好吧，”他说。 
她在做着这些事情时，心里十分难受。 
“这是什么样的生活！这是什么样的生活！”她脑子里只有这一个念头。 
有一次，是在白天，当他正坐在取暖炉边弓着背看报时，她穿过房间，见他这样，就邹起了眉头。在不太暖和的前房间里，她坐在窗边哭了起来。这难道就是她命中注定的生活吗？ 
就这样被关鸽子笼一般的小房子里，和一个没有工作、无所事事而且对她漠不关心的人生活在一起？现在她只是他的一个女仆，仅此而已。 
她这一哭，把眼睛哭红了。起床时，她点亮了煤气灯，铺好床后，叫他进来，这时他注意到了这一点。 
“你怎么啦？”他问道，盯着她的脸看。他的声音嘶哑，加上他那副蓬头垢面的样子，听起来很可怕。 
“没什么，”嘉莉有气无力地说。 
“你哭过了，”他说。 
“我没哭，”她回答。 
不是因为爱他而哭的，这一点他明白。 
“你没必要哭的，”他说着，上了床。“情况会变好的。”一两天后，他起床了，但天气还是恶劣，他只好待在家里。 
那个卖报的意大利人现在把报纸送上门来，这些报纸他看得十分起劲。在这之后，他鼓足勇气出去了几次，但是又遇见了一个从前的朋友。他开始觉得闲坐在旅馆的门厅里时心神不安了。 
他每天都早早回家，最后索性也不假装要去什么地方了。 
冬天不是找事情做的时候。 
待在家里，他自然注意到了嘉莉是怎样做家务的。她太不善于料理家务和精打细算了，她在这方面的不足第一次引起他的注意。不过，这是在她定期要钱用变得难以忍受之后的事。他这样闲坐在家，一星期又一星期好像过得非常快。每到星期二嘉莉就向他要钱。 
“你认为我们过得够节省了吗？”一个星期二的早晨，他问道。 
“我是尽力了，”嘉莉说。 
当时他没再说什么，但是第二天，他说：“你去过那边的甘斯沃尔菜场吗？”“我不知道有这么个菜场，”嘉莉说。 
“听说那里的东西要便宜得多。” 
对这个建议，嘉莉的反应十分冷淡。这种事她根本就不感兴趣。 
“你买肉多少钱一磅？”一天，他问道。 
“哦，价格不一样，”嘉莉说“牛腰肉２毛５分１镑。”“那太贵了，不是吗？”他回答。 
就这样，他又问了其它的东西，日子久了，最终这似乎变成了他的一种癖好。他知道了价格并且记住了。 
他做家务事的能力也有所提高。当然是从小事做起的。一天早晨，嘉莉正要去拿帽子，被他叫住了。 
“你要去哪里，嘉莉？”他问。 
“去那边的面包房，”她回答。 
“我替你去好吗？”他说。 
她默许了，他就去了。每天下午，他都要到街角去买报纸。 
“你有什么要买的吗？”他会这样说。 
渐渐地，她开始使唤其他来。可是，这样一来，她就拿不到每星期那１２块钱了。 
“你今天该给我钱了，”大约就在这个时候，一个星期二，她说。 
“给多少？”他问。 
她非常清楚这句话的意思。 
“这个，５块钱左右吧，”她回答。“我欠了煤钱。”同一天，他说：“我知道街角上的那个意大利人的煤卖２毛５分一蒲式耳。我去买他的煤。"嘉莉听到这话，无动于衷。 
“好吧，”她说。 
然后，情况就变成了： 
“乔治，今天得买煤了。”或者“你得去买些晚饭吃的肉了。”他会问明她需要什么，然后去采购。 
随着这种安排而来的是吝啬。 
“我只买了半磅牛排，”一天下午，他拿着报纸进来时说。 
“我们好像一向吃得不太多。” 
这些可悲的琐事，使嘉莉的心都要碎了。它们使她的生活变得黑暗，心灵感到悲痛。唉，这个人变化真大啊！日复一日，他就这么坐在家里，看他的报纸。这个世界看来丝毫引不其他的兴趣。天气晴好的时候，他偶尔地会出去一下，可能出去四五个钟头，在１１点到４点之间。除了痛苦地鄙视他之外，她对他毫无办法。 
由于没有办法找到出路，赫斯渥变得麻木不仁。每个月都要花掉一些他那本来就很少的积蓄。现在，他只剩下５００块钱了，他紧紧地攥住这点钱不放，好像这样就能无限期地推迟赤期的到来。坐在家里不出门，他决定穿上他的一些旧衣服。起先是在天气不好的时候。最初这样做的时候，他作了辩解。 
“今天天气真糟，我在家里就穿这些吧。”最终这些衣服就一直穿了下去。 
还有，他一向习惯于付１角５分钱修一次面，另付１角钱小费。他在刚开始感到拮据的时候，把小费减为５分，然后就分文不给了。后来，他去试试一家只收１角钱的理发店，发现修面修得还可以，就开始经常光顾那里。又过了些时候，他把修面改为隔天一次，然后是三天一次，这样下去，直到规定为每周一次。到了星期六，他那副样子可就够瞧的了。 
当然，随着他的自尊心的消失，嘉莉也失去了对他的尊重。她无法理解这个人是怎么想的。他还有些钱，他还有体面的衣服，打扮起来他还是很漂亮的。她没有忘记自己在芝加哥的艰苦挣扎，但是她也没有忘记自己从不停止奋斗，他却从不奋斗，他甚至连报上的广告都不再看了。 
终于，她忍不住了，毫不含糊地说出了她自己的想法。 
“你为什么在牛排上抹这么多的黄油？”一天晚上，他闲站在厨房里，问她。 
“当然是为了做得好吃一些啦，”她回答。 
“这一阵子黄油可是贵得吓人，”他暗示道。 
“倘若你有工作的话，你就不会在乎这个了，”她回答。 
他就此闭上了嘴，回去看报了，但是这句反驳的话刺痛了他的心。这是从她的口里说出来的第一句尖刻的话。 
当晚，嘉莉看完报以后就去前房间睡觉，这很反常。当赫斯渥决定去睡时，他像往常一样，没点灯就上了床。这时他才发现嘉莉不在。 
“真奇怪，”他说，“也许她要迟点睡。” 
他没再想这事，就睡了。早晨她也不在他的身边。说来奇怪，这件事竟没人谈起，就这么过去了。 
夜晚来临时，谈话的气氛稍稍浓了一些，嘉莉说：“今晚我想一个人睡。我头痛。”“好吧，”赫斯渥说。 
第三夜，她没找任何借口，就去前房间的床上睡了。 
这对赫斯渥是个冷酷的打击，但他从不提起这事。 
“好吧，”他对自己说，忍不住皱紧了眉头。“就让她一个人睡吧。”
Chapter 36 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 down town 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 just right for being outside and doing something. 
On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker rooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and about the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange 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 at the 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 him several times before he acted upon it. 
The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved. 
"Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching. 
Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection without progression or pairs. The pot was opened. 
"I pass," he said. 
On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few dollars to the good. 
The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much -- his hand was excellent. 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 in charge, taking out a bill. 
A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the 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 no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he 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, not without 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 other mild protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat 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: "Some one 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.' I should think he would be ashamed of himself." 
The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him. 
"Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?" 
"How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know 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 be back shortly." 
"No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm really very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me." 
"I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, 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 make sure. 
"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 sheer nervousness. "What did she have to say?" 
"Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay." 
"And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long reserve. 
"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 was coming. 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? You couldn'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 think I'd committed-" 
Carrie interrupted: 
"It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate 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 the rent, don't I? I furnish the-" 
"Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere 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 out of your head. You talk as though you didn't know." 
Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed it was all legal and binding enough. 
"What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What did 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 up for him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie; she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first, with the faintest alarm, of being left without money -- not of losing him, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, and she knew he had gone. 
After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat, toward Sixth Avenue. 
The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth Street to Union Square. 
"Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me to get out and look for work." 
He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which told him that she was right. 
"What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he thought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was thinking." 
He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighth Street. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put on 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 his forehead 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 was in tears. There would be no dinner that night. 
"What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame 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 and make himself comfortable there. 
He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the morrow -- he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing it. 
Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading. 
His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickening 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 on the corner where other individuals were lounging -- brokers, racing people, thespians -- his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many's the game he had had. This took him to poker. 
"I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought, referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened. I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what ailed me." 
Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing a little harder. 
"I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try my hand to-night." 
Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made 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 much as he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood -- only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom. 
This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account. At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it. 
In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation. 
"I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself. "I'll just stay with the 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 other man 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 he had 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 their places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held 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 walked slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. He put it up and began to undress. 
"I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said. 
In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived like a gentleman -- or what he conceived to be a gentleman -- which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again. 
"The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus indifferently 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.
圣诞节一过，万斯夫妇就回到了纽约，他们没有忘记嘉莉。但是他们，或者更确切地说，万斯太太却从未去拜访过她，原因很简单，嘉莉没有写信告知自己的地址。按她的性格，当她还住在七十八街时，倒是一直和万斯太太通信的。可是当她被迫搬进十三街以后，她害怕万斯太太会认为这意味着他们处境艰难，因而就想方设法不透露她的新住址。由于想不出什么合适的办法，她只好忍痛割爱，干脆就不给她的朋友写信了。万斯太太感到奇怪，怎么会这样音信全无，以为嘉莉一定是离开了这座城市，最后就当她失踪了，不再去想她。因此，当她到十四街去买东西，碰见嘉莉也在那里买东西时，着实吃了一惊。 “哎呀，惠勒太太，”万斯太太说，从头到脚扫了嘉莉一眼，“你去哪里了？为什么你不来看我？我一直在想，不知你的情况怎么样了。真的，我--”“看见你我太高兴了，”嘉莉说，既高兴又为难。什么时候不好，偏偏赶个时候碰到万斯太太，真是再糟不过了。“呃，我就住在这一带。我一直想来看你。你现在住在哪里？”“五十八街，”万斯太太说，“就在第七大道过去--二百一十八号。你为什么不来看我呢？”“我会来的，”嘉莉说道。“真的，我一直想来。我知道我应该来的。真是遗憾。可是，你知道-—”“你的门牌号码是什么？”万斯太太问。 
“十三街，”嘉莉很不情愿地说，“西一百一十二号。”“喔，”万斯太太说，”那就在这附近，是不是？”“是的，”嘉莉说，“你什么时候一定要过来看我埃”“好的，你是个好人，”万斯太太笑着说，这时她注意到嘉莉的外表有了一些变化。“这个地址也很说明问题，”她又对自己说，“他们一定是手头拮据了。”不过她还是非常喜欢嘉莉，总想照顾她。 
“跟我一起进来一下吧，”她大声说，转身走进一家商店。 
当嘉莉回到家时，赫斯渥还是像往常一样，在那里看报纸。他似乎对自己处境完全无动于衷，他至少有四天没刮胡子了。 
“唉，”嘉莉想，“要是她来这里看见他这个样子，会怎么想呢？”她摇了摇头，心里难受极了。看来她的处境已经变得无法忍受了。 
她被逼急了，吃晚饭的时候问道： 
“那家批发行有什么消息给你吗？” 
“没有，”他说。“他们不要没有经验的人。”嘉莉不再谈论这个话题，觉得谈不下去了。 
“今天下午，我遇见了万斯太太。”过了一会儿，她说。 
“喔，是吗？”他回答。 
“现在他们已经回到了纽约，”嘉莉继续说道，“她打扮得真是漂亮。”“哦，只要她丈夫肯为此花钱，她就打扮得起，”赫斯渥回答。“他有份轻松的工作。”赫斯渥在盯着报纸看。他看不见嘉莉投向他的无限疲惫和不满的眼神。 
“她说她想什么时候来这里看看我们。” 
“她过了很久才想起这个，是不是？”赫斯渥带着一种挖苦的口气说。 
他不喜欢这个女人，因为她太会花钱。 
“哦，这我就不知道了，”嘉莉说，这个人的态度激怒了她。 
“也许，我并不想要她来。” 
“她太会享受了，”赫斯渥说，意味深长。“除非很有钱，否则谁也伺候不了她。”“万斯先生看来并不觉得这有多难。”“他眼下可能还不难，”赫斯渥固执地答道，十分明白这话的意思。“可是他的日子还早着呢。谁也说不准会发生些什么事情。他也可能会像其他人一样地垮下来。"这个人的态度真有点无赖的味道。他像是用发亮的眼睛斜睨着那些幸运的人，巴望着他们失败。他自己的处境则好像是件无关的事，不在考虑之内。 
这是他从前的过于自信和独立精神残留在他身上的东西。他坐在家里，从报上看着别人的活动，有时就会产生这种自以为是、不肯服输的心情。一旦忘记了在街上到处奔波的疲劳感和四处寻找的落魄相时，他有时就会竖起耳朵，仿佛听见自己在说：“我还是有事可做的。我还没有完蛋呢。只要我愿意下劲去找，会找到很多事情做的。”就在这样的心情下，他偶尔会打扮整齐，去修一下面，然后戴上手套，兴冲冲地动身出门。没有任何明确的目标。这更像是晴雨表上的变化。他只是觉得这时想出门去做些什么事情。 
这种时候他的钱也要被花去一些。他知道市区的几家赌常他在市区的酒店里和市政厅附近有几个熟人。去看看他们，友好地拉几句家常话，这也是一种调剂。 
他曾经打得一手好扑克。有很多次和朋友玩牌，他净赢了１００多块钱，当时这笔钱只不过是为玩牌助助兴，没什么大不了的。现在，他又想玩牌了。 
“我也许会赢它个２００块钱。我还没有荒疏。”公道一些说，他是在有过好几次这样的想法之后才付诸行动的。 
他第一次去的那家赌场是在西街一家酒店的楼上，靠近一个渡口。他以前去过那里。同时有几桌牌在打。他观察了一会儿，就每次发牌前下的底注来看，牌局的输赢数目是很可观的。 
“给我发一副牌，”在新的一局开始时，他说，他拉过来一把椅子，研究着手上的牌。那些玩牌的人默默地打量着他，虽然很不明显，但却十分仔细。 
开始时，他的手气不好。他拿到了一副杂牌，既没有顺子，也没有对子。开局了。 
“我不跟，”他说。 
照他手上的这副牌，他宁愿输掉他所下的底注。打到后来，他的手气还不错，最终他赢了几块钱离开了。 
次日下午，他又来了，想找点乐趣并赢些钱。这一次，他拿到一副三条的牌，坚持打了下去，结果输得很惨。和他对桌的是一个好斗的爱尔兰青年。此人是当地坦慕尼派控制的选区的一个政治食客，他手里有一副更好的牌。这个家伙打牌时咬住对方不放，这使赫斯渥吃了一惊。他连连下注而且不动声色，如果他是要诱使对方摊牌，这种手段也是很高明的。赫斯渥开始拿不准了，但是还保持着至少是想要保持着镇定的神态，从前他就是凭这个来骗过那些工于心计的赌徒的。这些赌徒似乎是在琢磨对方的思想和心情，而不是在观察对方外表的迹象，不管这些迹象有多微妙。他克服不了内心的胆怯，想着这人是有着一副更好的牌，会坚持到底，倘若他愿意的话，会把最后的一块钱也放入赌注的。可是，他还是希望能多赢点钱--他手上的牌好极了。为什么不再加５块钱的注呢？ 
“我加你３块钱，”那个青年说。 
“我加５块，”赫斯渥说，推出他的筹码。 
“照样加倍，”那个青年说，推出一小摞红色筹码。 
“给我再来些筹码，”赫斯渥拿出一张钞票，对负责的管理员说。 
他那个年轻的对手的脸上露出了讥讽的冷笑。等筹码摆到面前，赫斯渥照加了赌注。 
“再加５块，”那个青年说。 
赫斯渥的额头开始冒汗了。这时他已经深深地陷了进去--对他来说，陷得非常深了。他那点宝贵的钱已经放上了整整６０块。他平常并不胆小，但是想到可能输掉这么多钱，他变得懦弱了。终于，他放弃了。他不再相信手里的这副好牌了。 
“摊牌吧，”他说。 
“三条对子，”那个青年说，摊出手上的牌。 
赫斯渥的牌落了下来。 
“我还以为我赢了你呢，”他有气无力地说。 
那个青年收进了他的筹码，赫斯渥便离开了，没忘记先在楼梯上停下来数了数剩下的现钞。 
“３４０块钱，”他说。 
这次输的钱，加上平常的开支，已经花去了很多。 
回到公寓后，他下定决心不再玩牌。 
嘉莉还记着万斯太太说的要来拜访的话，又温和地提了一次抗议，是有关赫斯渥的外表的。就在这一天，回到家后，他又换上了闲坐在家时穿的旧衣服。 
“你为什么总是穿着这些旧衣服呢？”嘉莉问道。 
“在家里穿那些好衣服有什么用呢？”他反问。 
“喔，我以为那样你会感觉好一些的。”然后她又加了一句。“可能会有人来看我们。”“谁？”他说。 
“噢，万斯太太，”嘉莉说。 
“她用不着来看我，”他绷着脸说道。 
他如此缺乏自尊和热情，弄得嘉莉几乎要恨他了。 
“嗬，”她想，“他就那么坐着，说什么‘她用不着来看我。'我看他是羞于见人。“当万斯太太真的来拜访时，事情可就更糟了。她是有一次出来买东西的时候来的。她一路穿过简陋的过道，在嘉莉家的房门上敲了敲。嘉莉出去了，为此她事后感到十分悲伤。赫斯渥开了门，还以为是嘉莉回来了。这一次，他可是真正地大吃了一惊。他心里听到的是那已经失去青春和自尊的声音。 
“哎呀，”他说，真的有些结结巴巴，“你好啊？”“你好，”万斯太太说，几乎不相信自己的眼睛。她马上就看出他十分慌乱。他不知道是否要请她进来。 
“你太太在家吗？”她问。 
“不在，”他说，“嘉莉出去了，不过请进来好吗？她很快就会回来的。”“不，不啦，”万斯太太说，意识到一切都变了。“我真的很忙。我只是想跑上来看一眼，不能耽搁的。请告诉你太太，叫她一定来看我。”“好的，”赫斯渥说着，朝后站了站，听见她说要走，心里不知有多轻松。他太羞愧了。事后他就无精打采地坐在椅子里，两手交叉，沉思着。 
嘉莉从另一个方向回来，好像看见万斯太太正在朝外走。 
她就瞪大两眼看着，但还是拿不准。 
“刚才有人来过吗？”她问赫斯渥。 
“是的，”他内疚地说，“万斯太太来过。”“她看见你了吗？”她问，流露出彻底的绝望。 
这话像鞭子一样抽痛了赫斯渥，他不高兴了。 
“如果她长了眼睛，她会看见的。是我开的门。”“啊，”嘉莉说，因为过分紧张而握紧了一只拳头。“她说了些什么？”“没说什么，”他回答。“她说她不能耽搁。”“而你就是这么一副模样？”嘉莉说，一反长期的克制。 
“这副模样怎么啦？”他说着，动怒了。“我不知道她要来，是不是？”“可你知道她可能会来的，”嘉莉说，“我告诉过你她说她要来的。我请你穿上别的衣服已经不下十几次了。哦，我看这事太可怕了。”“唉，别说了吧，”他答道，“这又有什么关系呢？反正你也不能再和她交往了。他们太有钱了。”“谁说我要和她交往来着？”嘉莉恶狠狠地说。 
“可是，你做得像是要和她来往，为我的这副模样大吵大闹。人家都要以为我犯了--”嘉莉打断了他的话。 
“的确如此，”她说，“即便我想要和她交往，我也不可能做到，可这是谁的错呢？你倒是闲得很，坐在这里谈论我能和谁交往。你为什么不出去找工作呢？”这真是晴天霹雳。 
“这和你有什么关系？”他说着，气势汹汹地站起身来。“我付了房租，不是吗？我提供了--”“是呀，你付了房租，”嘉莉说，“照你这么说来，好像这个世界上除了有一套公寓可以在里面闲坐之外，再没有其它任何东西了。三个月来，你除了闲坐在家里碍手碍脚之外，一事无成。我倒要问问你，你为什么要娶我？”“我没有娶你，”他咆哮着说。 
“那么，我问你，你在蒙特利尔干的什么事？”她说。 
“好啦，我没有娶你，”他回答。“你可以把这事忘了。听你的口气，好像你不知道似的。”嘉莉瞪大两眼，看了他一会儿。她一直以为他们的婚姻是完全合法和有约束力的。 
“那么，你为什么要骗我？”她气愤地问，“你为什么要强迫我和你私奔？”她几乎在啜泣了。 
“强迫？”他翘起嘴唇说。“我才没有强迫你呢！”“啊！”嘉莉说着，转过身去，压抑了这么久终于发作了。 
“啊，啊！”她跑进了前房间。 
这时的赫斯渥又气恼又激动。这在精神上和道德上对他都是一个极大的震动。他四下看看，擦擦额头的汗，然后去找来衣服穿上了。嘉莉那边一点声音也没有，当她听到他在穿衣服时就停止了啜泣。开始，她感到一丝惊恐，想到自己会身无分文地被抛弃--而不是想到会失去他，尽管他可能会一去不复返。她听到他打开衣柜盖，取出帽子。然后，餐室的门关上了，她知道他走了。 
寂静了一会儿之后，她站起身来，已经没有了眼泪，她朝窗外看去。赫斯渥正在沿街溜达，从公寓朝第六大道走去。 
赫斯渥沿着十三街朝前走，穿过十四街来到联合广常“找工作！”他自言自语，“找工作！她叫我出去找工作！”他想逃避自己内心的谴责，他内心清楚她是对的。 
“不管怎么说，万斯太太这次来访真是件该死的事，”他想，“就那么站着，上下打量着我，我知道她在想些什么。”他回想起在七十八街见过她的那几次。她总是打扮得十分漂亮，在她面前，他还曾努力摆出和她不相上下的神气。而现在，竟让她撞见自己这副模样，真是无法想象。他难过地皱起了眉头。 
“活见鬼！”一个钟头里，他这样说了十几次。 
他离开家时是４点１刻。嘉莉还在哭泣。今天不会有晚饭吃了。 
“真见鬼，”他说，心里在说着大话以掩饰自己的羞愧。“我还没那么糟。我还没完蛋呢。”他望望广场四周，看见了那几家大旅馆，决定去其中的一家吃晚饭。他要买好报纸，去那里享受一下。 
他走进莫顿饭店豪华的休息室，当时这是纽约最好的旅馆之一，找到一把铺着座垫的椅子，坐下来看报纸。这般奢侈不是他那越来越少的钱所能允许的，但这并不怎么使他感到不安。就像吗啡鬼一样，他对贪图安乐上了瘾。只要能解除他精神上的痛苦，满足他对舒适的渴求，什么事他都做得出。他必须这样做。他才不去想什么明天--他一想到明天就受不了，正如他不愿去想别的灾难一样。就像对待死亡的必将到来一样，他要彻底忘掉身无分文的日子马上就要到来，而且还几乎做到了这一点。 
那些在厚厚的地毯上来回走动的衣冠楚楚的客人们，把他带回到过去的日子。一位年轻太太，这家饭店的一个客人，正在一间凹室里弹钢琴，使他感到很愉快。他坐在那里看着报纸。 
他的这顿饭花了他１块５毛钱。到了８点钟，他吃完了饭。然后，看着客人们陆续离去，外面寻欢作乐的人渐渐增多，他不知自己该去哪里。不能回家，嘉莉可能还没睡。不，今晚他是不会回到那里去的。他要呆在外面，四处游荡，就像一个无牵无挂的--当然不是破产的--人很可能做的那样。他买了一支雪茄，走了出来，来到拐角处。有一些人在那里闲荡，掮客、赛马迷、演员，都是些和他同类的人。他站在那里，想起过去在芝加哥的那些夜晚。想起了自己是怎么度过那些夜晚的。他赌博的次数真多。这使他想到了扑克。 
“那天我打得不对，”他想，指他那次输了６０块钱。“我不应该软的。我本可以继续下注唬倒那个家伙。我的竞技状态不佳，我输就输在这一点上。”于是，他照着上次的打法，研究起那局牌的种种可能性，开始算计着如何在吓唬对方时再狠一点，那样的话，有好几次，他都可能会赢的。 
“我打扑克是老手了，可以玩些花样。今夜我要再去试试手气。”一大堆赌注的幻象浮现在他的眼前。假如他真的能赢它个２００块钱，他岂能不去玩玩？他认识的很多赌徒就是以此为生的，而且还过得很不错呢。 
“他们手头的钱总是和我现在的钱差不多的，”他想。 
于是，他朝附近的一家赌场走去，感觉和从前一样好。这段时间里他忘掉了自我，起初是由于受到争吵的震动，后来在旅馆里喝着鸡尾酒，抽着雪茄烟，吃了顿晚饭，使他更加忘乎所以。他差不多就像那个他总想恢复的昔日的赫斯渥一样了。 
但是这不是昔日的赫斯渥，只是一个内心矛盾不安，受到幻象诱惑的人而已。 
这家赌场和那一家差不多，只是它设在一家高级一些的酒店的密室里。赫斯渥先旁观了一会儿，然后看见了一局有趣的牌，就加入了。就像上次一样，开始一阵子打得很顺手，他赢了几次，兴奋起来，又输了几次，兴趣更大了，因此决心玩下去。最终，这个迷人的赌博把他牢牢地拴住了。他喜欢其中的风险，手上拿着一副小牌，也敢吓唬对方，想赢一笔可观的赌注。使他深感满意的是，他还真的赢了。 
在这个情绪高涨的时候，他开始以为自己时来运转了。谁也没有他打得好。这时又拿到了一副很普通的牌，他又想靠这副牌开叫大注。那里有些人像是看出了他的心思，他们观察得非常仔细。 
“我有个三条，”其中的一个赌徒在心里说。“我就要和那个家伙斗到底。”结果是开始加注了。 
“我加你１０块。” 
“好的。” 
“再加１０块。” 
“好的。” 
“再加１０块。” 
“很好。” 
这样一加下来，赫斯渥已经放上了７５块钱。这时，那个人变得严肃起来。他想也许这个人（赫斯渥）真有一副硬牌呢。 
“摊牌吧，”他说。 
赫斯渥亮出了牌。他完蛋了。他输了７５块钱，这个惨痛的事实弄得他要拼命了。 
“我们再来一局，”他冷冷地说。 
“行啊，”那人说。 
有些赌徒退出了，但是旁观的一些游手好闲的人又顶了上来，时间在消逝，到１２点了。赫斯渥坚持了下来，赢得不多，输得也不多。然后他感到疲倦了。在最后的一副牌上，又输了２０块钱。他很伤心。 
第二天凌晨１点１刻时，他走出了这家赌常冷嗖嗖、空荡荡的街道仿佛在讥笑他的处境。他向西慢慢地走着，没怎么去想和嘉莉的争吵。他上了楼梯，走进自己的房间，好像什么事情也没有发生过。他心里想的只是他那输掉的钱。在床边坐下来，他数了数钱。现在只有１９０块和一些零钱了。他把钱收好后，开始脱衣服。 
“我不知道我这究竟是怎么啦？”他说。 
早晨，嘉莉几乎一声不吭，他觉得似乎又必须出去了。他待她不好，但他又不愿意主动赔不是。现在他感到绝望了。于是，有一两天这样出去后，他过得像个绅士--或者说他以为自己像个绅士--又花了钱。由于这些越轨的行动，他很快感到身心交困，更不用说他的钱包了，那里面的钱也随之又少了３０块。然后，他又恢复了冷静、痛苦的感觉。 
“收房租的人今天要来，”三天早晨以后，嘉莉这样冷淡地迎着他说。 
“是吗？” 
“是的，今天是２号。”嘉莉回答。 
赫斯渥邹起了眉头。然后，他无可奈何地拿出了钱包。 
“付房租看来要花很多的钱，”他说。 
他差不多只剩下最后的１００块钱了。
Chapter 37 THE SPIRIT AWAKENS: NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE
It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling, had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching."I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live."
"It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much." 
"My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it's gone to." 
"All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie. 
"All but a hundred." 
He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time. 
"Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look for something? You could find something." 
"I have looked," he said. "You can't make people give you a place." 
She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you will do? A hundred dollars won't last long." 
"I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look." 
Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get work soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone. 
She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way. There must be people who would listen to and try you -- men who would give you an opportunity. 
They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later, when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it, too. 
"How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked, innocently. 
"I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents." 
Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up. 
"Regular people who get you a place?" 
"Yes, I think so," he answered. 
Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention. 
"You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he asked. 
"No," she answered, "I was just wondering." 
Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line. She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it involved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by them. Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would he be? 
"I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot more difficult than you think." 
Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her ability. 
"You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined. 
"You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "but Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump." 
Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her. 
"The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while to get up." 
"Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused. 
In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now, when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did not understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learned that a person might be emotionally -- instead of intellectually -- great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply remember. He had lived with this woman too long. 
"Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of it. It's not much of a profession for a woman." 
"It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't want me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?" 
There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the suggestion. 
"Oh, let up," he answered. 
The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It didn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She could get something and then work up. What would he say then? She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not. If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this picture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty become more and more vivid. 
Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist him a little until he could get something? 
He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind. 
"I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a hotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then." 
"Who is he?" asked Carrie. 
"He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago." 
"Oh," said Carrie. 
"I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that." 
"That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically. 
"If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be all right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again." 
Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so hopeless. 
"How much money have you left?" 
"Only fifty dollars." 
"Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty days until the rent will be due again." 
Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the floor. 
"Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly suggested. 
"Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the idea. 
"I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he saw her brighten up. "I can get something." 
She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were there -- these agencies must be somewhere about. 
She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way. Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at the box office. 
"Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'll find them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that." 
"Is that a paper?" said Carrie. 
"Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common fact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeing how pretty the inquirer was. 
Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the waste of time. 
Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place. 
"Where were you?" he asked. 
"I've been trying to find some dramatic agents." 
He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success. The paper she began to scan attracted his attention. 
"What have you got there?" he asked. 
"The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here." 
"Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I could have told you." 
"Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up. 
"You never asked me," he returned. 
She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something. 
"Let me look." 
To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an envelope. 
"Here're three," he said. 
Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then moved toward the door. 
"I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back. 
Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat. 
"I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go. 
Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private." 
As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about -- men, who said nothing and did nothing. 
While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently good-natured. At least she was smiling. 
"Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women. 
"I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where are you the first week in February?" 
"Pittsburg," said the woman. 
"I'll write you there." 
"All right," said the other, and the two passed out. 
Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye. 
"Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?" 
"Are you Mrs. Bermudez?" 
"Yes." 
"Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places for persons upon the stage?" 
"Yes." 
"Could you get me one?" 
"Have you ever had any experience?" 
"A very little," said Carrie. 
"Whom did you play with?" 
"Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten-" 
"Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't know of anything now." 
Carrie's countenance fell. 
"You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable Mrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though." 
Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office. 
"What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter, taking up the curtailed conversation. 
"Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to depart at her leisure. 
She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr. Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on it, I might do something." 
In the third place the individual asked: 
"What sort of work do you want to do?" 
"What do you mean?" said Carrie. 
"Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville stage or in the chorus?" 
"Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie. 
"Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that." 
"How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not thought of this before. 
"Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly. 
Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue the inquiry. 
"Could you get me a part if I paid?" 
"If we didn't you'd get your money back." 
"Oh," she said. 
The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and continued accordingly. 
"You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would trouble about you for less than that." 
Carrie saw a light. 
"Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it." 
She started to go, and then bethought herself. 
"How soon would I get a place?" she asked. 
"Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in a week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that we thought you could do." 
"I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she walked out. 
The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself: 
"It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage." 
Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything," she thought. She had some jewelry -- a diamond ring and pin and several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for those if she went to a pawnbroker. 
Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be so long seeking. 
"Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news. 
"I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her gloves. "They all want money to get you a place." 
"How much?" asked Hurstwood. 
"Fifty dollars." 
"They don't want anything, do they?" 
"Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd ever get you anything after you did pay them." 
"Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as if he were deciding, money in hand. 
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the managers." 
Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a little to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural in such extreme states. He would do better later on.
毋须解释怎么会过了一段时间，就眼见得只剩下最后的５０块钱了。由他来理财，那７００块钱只将他们维持到了６月份。快到只剩下最后的１００块钱的时候，他开始提及即将临头的灾难。“我真不懂，”一天，他以一小笔买肉的开支为借口说，“看来我们过日子的确要花很多的钱。”“依我看，”嘉莉说，“我们花得并不太多。”“我的钱就要花完了，”他说，“而且我几乎不知道钱都花到哪里去了。”“那７００块钱都要花完了吗？”嘉莉问道。 
“就只剩下１００块钱了。” 
他看上去情绪很坏，吓了她一跳。她这时感到自己也是漂泊不定。她一直都有这种感觉。 
“喂，乔治，”她叫道，“为什么你不出去找些事做呢？你可以找到事的。”“我找过了，”他说，“你总不能强迫人家给你个职位吧。”她无力地望着他说：“那么，你想怎么办呢？１００块钱可用不了多久。”“我不知道，”他说，“除了找找看，我也没有别的办法。”这句话让嘉莉感到惊恐了。她苦苦地想着这个问题。她过去常常认为舞台是通向她十分渴望的金色世界的门户。现在，就像在芝加哥一样，舞台又成为她危难之中的最后希望。 
如果他不能很快找到工作，就必须另想办法。也许她又得出去孤身奋斗了。 
她开始考虑该怎样着手去找事做。她在芝加哥的经验证明她以前的找法不对。肯定会有人愿意听你的请求，试用你的。有人会给你一个机会的。 
过了一两天，他们在早餐桌上谈话时，她提到了戏剧，说是她看到萨拉·伯恩哈特要来美国的消息。赫斯渥也看到了这条消息。 
“人家是怎样当上演员的，乔治？”她终于天真地问。 
“我不知道，”他说，“肯定是通过剧团代理人吧。”嘉莉在呷着咖啡，头也没抬。 
“是些专门代人找工作的人吗？” 
“是的，我想是这样的，”他回答道。 
突然，她问话的神情引起了他的注意。 
“莫非你还在想着当演员，是吗？”他问。 
“不，”她回答，“我只是搞不懂罢了。” 
他也不大清楚为什么，但他对这种想法有些不赞成。观察了三年以后，他不再相信嘉莉会在这一行里有多大的成功。她似乎太单纯、太温顺了。他对戏剧艺术的看法认为艺术包含着某种更为浮夸的东西。倘若她想当演员，就会落入某个卑鄙的经理的手中，变得和那帮人一样。他十分了解他所指的那帮人。嘉莉长得漂亮，她会混得不错，可是他该置身何处呢？ 
“要是我是你的话，我就不打这个注意。那比你想的要难得多。”嘉莉觉得这话多少含有贬低她的才能的意思。 
“可你说过我在芝加哥的演出确实不错，”她反驳说。 
“你是演得不错，”他回答，看出他已经激起了反感。“但是芝加哥远远不同于纽约。”对此，嘉莉根本不答理。这话太让她伤心了。 
“演戏这事嘛，”他接着说，“倘若你能成为名角，是不错的，但是对其他人来说就不怎样了。要想成名，得花很长的时间。”“哦，这我可不知道，”嘉莉说，有点激动了。 
刹那间，他觉得他已经预见到了这件事的结局。现在，他已临近山穷水尽，而她要通过某种不光彩的途径当上演员，把他抛弃。奇怪的是，他从不往好处去想她的智力。这是因为他不会从本质上理解感情的伟大。他从来就不知道一个人可能会在感情上很伟大，而不是在知识上。阿佛莱会堂已经成为十分遥远的过去，他既不会去回想，也记不清楚了。他和这个女人同居得太久了。 
“哦，我倒是知道的，”他回答，“要是我是你的话，我就不会去想它了。对于女人来说，这可不是个好职业。”“这总比挨饿强吧，”嘉莉说，“如果你不要我去演戏，为什么你自己不去找工作呢？”对此，没有现成的回答。他已经听惯了这个意见。 
“好啦，别说了吧，”他回答。 
这番谈话的结果是她暗暗下了决心，要去试试。这不关他的事。她可不愿意为了迎合他而被拖进贫困，或是更糟的处境。她能演戏。她能找到事做，然后逐步成名。到那时候，他还能说些什么呢？她想象着自己已经在百老汇的某些精彩演出中登台亮相，每天晚上走进自己的化妆室去化妆。然后，她会在１１点钟走出戏院，看见四周那些一排排等人的马车。她是否名角并不重要。只要她能干上这一行，拿着像样的薪水，穿着爱穿的衣服，有钱可花，想去哪里就去哪里，这一切该是多么令人快乐！她整天脑子里就想着这些情景。赫斯渥那令人沮丧的处境使得这些情景更加美丽迷人。 
说也奇怪，这个想法很快也占据了赫斯渥的头脑。他那逐渐消失的钱提醒他，需要找点生计了。为什么嘉莉不能帮他一点，直到他找到事做呢？ 
一天，他回到家里，脑子里有些这样的想法。 
“今天我遇见了约翰·贝·德雷克，”他说，“他打算今年秋天在这里开一家旅馆。他说到那时能给我一个职位。”“他是谁？”嘉莉问。 
“他是在芝加哥开太平洋大饭店的。” 
“喔，”嘉莉说。 
“我那个职位大约一年能拿１４００块钱的薪水。”“那太好了，是不是？”她同情地说。 
“只要我能熬过这个夏天，”他补充说，“我想一切就会好了。我又收到了几个朋友的来信。”嘉莉原原本本地相信了这个美丽的故事。她真诚地希望他能熬过这个夏天。他看上去太绝望了。 
“你还剩下多少钱？” 
“只有５０块了。” 
“哦，天哪！”她叫起来了，“我们该怎么办呢？离下一次付房租只有二十天了。”赫斯渥两手捧着头，茫然地看着地板。 
“也许你能在戏剧这一行里找些事做，”他和蔼地提议道。 
“也许我能找到，”嘉莉说，很高兴有人赞成她的想法。 
“只要是能找到的事情我都愿意去做，”看见她高兴起来，他说，“我能找到事情做的。”一天早晨，他走了以后，她把家里收拾干净，尽自己所有的衣服穿戴整齐，动身去百老汇大街。她对那条大街并不太熟悉。在她看来，那里奇妙地聚集着所有伟大和非凡的事业。戏院都在那里--这种代理处肯定就在那附近。 
她决定先顺道拜访一下麦迪逊广场戏院，问问怎样才能找到剧团代理人。这种做法似乎很明智。因此，当她到了那家戏院时，就向票房的人打听这事。 
“什么？”他说，探头看了看。“剧团代理人？我不知道。不过你可以从《剪报》上找到他们。他们都在那上面刊登广告。”“那是一种报纸吗？”嘉莉问。 
“是的，”那人说，很奇怪她竟会不知道这么一件普通的事情。“你可以在报摊上买到的。”看见来询问的人这么漂亮，他客气地又加了一句。 
嘉莉于是去买了《剪报》，站在报摊边，想扫一眼报纸，找到那些代理人。这事做起来并不那么容易。从这里到十三街要过好几条横马路，但她还是回去了，带着这份珍贵的报纸，直后悔浪费了时间。 
赫斯渥已经回到家里，坐在他的老位子上。 
“你去哪里了？”他问道。 
“我试着去找几个剧团代理人。” 
他感到有点胆怯，不敢问她是否成功了。她开始翻阅的那份报纸引起了他的注意。 
“你那儿看的是什么？”他问。 
“《剪报》。那人说我可以在这上面找到他们的地址。”“你大老远地跑到百老汇大街去，就是为了这个？我本来可以告诉你的。”“那你为什么不告诉我呢？“她问，头也没抬。 
“你从来没有问过我嘛，”回答。 
她在那些密密麻麻的栏目中，漫无目的地寻找着。这个人的冷漠搅得她心神不宁。他所做的一切，只是使得她面临的处境更加困难。她在心里开始自叹命苦。她的眼睑上已经挂上了眼泪，只是没有掉下来。赫斯渥也有所察觉。 
“让我来看看。” 
为了使自己恢复镇静，趁他查看报纸时，她去了前房间。 
很快她就回来了。他正拿着一支铅笔，在一个信封上写着什么。 
“这里有三个，”他说。 
嘉莉接过信封，看到一个是伯缪台兹太太，另一个是马库斯·詹克斯，第三个是珀西·韦尔。她只停了一会儿，然后就朝门口走去。 
“我最好立刻就去，”她说，头也没回。 
赫斯渥眼看着她离去，心里隐约泛起阵阵羞愧，这是男子汉气概迅速衰退的表现。他坐了一会儿，随后觉得无法忍受了。他站起身来，戴上了帽子。 
“我看我还得出去，”他自言自语着就出去了，没有目的地遛达着。不知怎么地，他只是觉得自己非出去不可。 
嘉莉第一个拜访的是伯缪台兹太太，她的地址最近。这是一座老式住宅改成的办公室。伯缪台兹的办公室由原来的一间后房间和一间直通过道的卧室组成，标有“闲人莫入。”嘉莉进去时，发现几个人闲坐在那里，都是男人，不说话，也不干事。 
当她正在等待有人注意她时，直通过道的卧室的门开了，从里面出来两个很像男人的女人，穿着十分紧身的衣服，配有白衣领和白袖口。她们的身后跟着一个胖夫人，大约４５岁，淡色头发，目光敏锐，看上去心地善良。至少，她正在微笑着。 
“喂，别忘记那件事，”那两个像男人的女人中的一个说。 
“不会的，”胖夫人说。“让我想想，”她又补充说，“２月份的第一个星期你们会在哪里？”“在匹兹堡，”那个女人说。 
“我会往那里给你们写信的。” 
“好吧，”对方说着，两个人就出去了。 
立刻，这位胖夫人的脸色变得极其严肃和精明。她转过身来，用锐利的目光打量着嘉莉。 
“喂，”她说，“年轻人，我能为你效劳吗？”“你是伯缪台兹太太吗？”“是的。”“这个，”嘉莉说，不知从何说起，“你能介绍人上台演戏吗？”“是的。”“你能帮我找个角色吗？”“你有经验吗？”“有一点点，”嘉莉说。 
“你在哪个剧团干过？” 
“哦，一个也没有，”嘉莉说。“那只是一次客串，在--”“哦，我明白了，”那个女人说道，打断了她。“不，眼下我不知道有什么机会。”嘉莉的脸色变了。 
“你得有些在纽约演出的经验才行，”和蔼的伯缪台兹太太最后说，“不过，我们可以记下你的名字。”嘉莉站在那里看着这位夫人回到自己的办公室。 
“请问你的地址是什么？”柜台后的一个年轻女人接过中断的谈话，问道。 
“乔治·惠勒太太，”嘉莉说着，走到她在写字的地方。那个女人写下了她的详细地址，然后就对她说请便了。 
在詹克斯的办公室里，她的遭遇也十分相似，唯一不同的是，他在最后说：“要是你能在某个地方戏院演出，或者有一张有你的名字的节目单的话，我也许能效点劳。”在第三个地方，那个人问道：“你想干哪一类的工作？”“你问这个是什么意思？”嘉莉说。 
“喔，你是想演喜剧，还是杂耍剧，还是当群舞演员。”“哦，我想在一出戏里担任一个角色，”嘉莉说。 
“那样的话，”那人说，“你要花些钱才能办得到。”“多少钱？”嘉莉说，看起来也许很可笑，她以前没想过这一点。 
“哦，那就由你说了，”他精明地回答。 
嘉莉好奇地看着他。她几乎不知道该怎么接着往下问了。 
“如果我付了钱，你能给我一个角色吗？”“要是不能给，就把钱退还给你。““哦，”她说。 
那个代理人看出他是在和一个没有经验的人打交道，因此接着说。 
“不管怎样，你都要先付５０块钱，少于这个数，没有哪个代理人会愿意为你费神的。"嘉莉看出了端倪。 
“谢谢你，”她说，“我要考虑一下。” 
她动身要走时又想起了一些什么。 
“要过多久我才能得到一个角色？”她问。 
“哦，那就难说了，”那人说，“也许一个星期，也许一个月。 
我们一有合适的事就会给你的。” 
“我明白了，”嘉莉说，然后，露出一丝悦人的笑容，走了出来。 
那个代理人琢磨了一会儿，然后自言自语道：“这些女人都这么渴望着能当演员，真是可笑。”这个５０块钱的要求让嘉莉想了很多。“也许他们会拿了我的钱，却什么也不给我，”她想，她有一些珠宝--一只钻石戒指和别针，还有几件别的首饰。要是她去当铺当了这些东西，她是可以筹出５０块钱的。 
赫斯渥在她之前回的家。他没有想到她要花这么长的时间去寻找。 
“喂，”他说，不敢询问有什么消息。 
“今天我什么事也没找到，”嘉莉说着，脱下手套。“他们都要你先付钱，才给你事做。”“多少钱？”赫斯渥问。 
“５０块。” 
“他们没作任何要求，是不是？” 
“哦，他们和别的人一样。即便你真地付了钱，也说不准他们到底会不会给你事做。”“唉，我可不愿意为此拿出５０块钱，”赫斯渥说，好像他正手里拿着钱在作决定似的。 
“我不知道，”嘉莉说，“我想去找几个经理试试。”赫斯渥听到这话，已经不再觉得这种想法有什么可怕了。 
他轻轻地前后摇摇啃着他的手指。到了如此山穷水尽的地步，这似乎也是非常自然的。以后，他会好起来的。
Chapter 38 IN ELF LAND DISPORTING: THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT
When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields, employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line and look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. She found there was no discrimination between one and the other of applicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettiness and form. Their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went for nothing. 
"Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at the stage entrance of the Casino. 
"You can't see him now; he's busy." 
"Do you know when I can see him?" 
"Got an appointment with him?" 
"No." 
"Well, you'll have to call at his office." 
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?" 
He gave her the number. 
She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in. Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search. 
The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr. Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in a dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney. 
"You will have to write and ask him to see you." 
So she went away. 
At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and indifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everything carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved. 
At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway closets, berugged and bepanneled, which causes one to feel the greatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itself done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in their fine positions. 
"Ah, be very humble now -- very humble indeed. Tell us what it is you require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of self-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can do." 
This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum -- the attitude, for that matter, of every managerial office in the city. These little proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground. 
Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains. 
Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search that evening. 
"I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, and walked, and waited around." 
Hurstwood only looked at her. 
"I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," she added, disconsolately. 
Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not seem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could rest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not seem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day. 
To-morrow came, and the next, and the next. 
Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once. 
"Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make some changes then." 
He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes and good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh. Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she did not have any experience. One of the proprietors had suggested that the chorus was a little weak on looks. 
The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the month was drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worried before. 
"Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own. 
"Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over the disgrace of the insinuation. 
"I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be the first of the month again." 
She looked the picture of despair. 
Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes. 
"He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see if some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take a position as bartender, if he could get it." 
It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or two slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared. 
"No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home." 
Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and feel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace. This was a bitter thought. 
Carrie came in after he did. 
"I went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly. "You have to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't." 
"I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks." 
In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to energy. 
Monday Carrie went again to the Casino. 
"Did I tell you to come around to-day?" said the manager, looking her over as she stood before him. 
"You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed. 
"Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely. 
Carrie owned to ignorance. 
He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman. "Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning." 
Carrie's heart bounded to her throat. 
"I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, and turned to go. 
"Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?" 
Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows became pleasant. 
A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all immediate fears on that score. 
"Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'll be dropped if you're not." 
Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's idleness. She had a place -- she had a place! This sang in her ears. 
In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months. 
"Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me." 
She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did not, in her enthusiasm, perceive. 
Thus, ever, the voice of success. 
Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and indifferent, but it was a palpable sham. 
"Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face. 
"I have a place." 
"You have?" he said, breathing a better breath. 
"Yes." 
"What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as if now he might get something good also. 
"In the chorus," she answered. 
"Is it the Casino show you told me about?" 
"Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing tomorrow." 
There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was happy. At last Hurstwood said: 
"Do you know how much you'll get?" 
"No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay twelve or fourteen dollars a week." 
"About that, I guess," said Hurstwood. 
There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the mere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak. 
"Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground. 
On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in the line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich, oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her. Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthy of it. It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above insignificance. People came to it in finery and carriages to see. It was ever a center of light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if she could only remain, how happy would be her days! 
"What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill. 
"Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had selected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda." 
"Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie thought, "you go over there." 
Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company: 
"Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda." 
This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, and the rehearsal began. 
Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitude of the manager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at the insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individual conducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutal roughness. As the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. It was very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the part of these young women. 
"Clark," he would call -- meaning, of course, Miss Clark -- "why don't you catch step there?" 
"By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on to yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds into a vehement roar. 
"Maitland! Maitland!" he called once. 
A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie trembled for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear. 
"Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland. 
"Is there anything the matter with your ears?" 
"No, sir." 
"Do you know what 'column left' means?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break up the line?" 
"I was just-" 
"Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open." 
Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn. 
Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke. 
"Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as if in despair. His demeanour was fierce. 
"Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?" 
"Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously by. 
"Well, are you talking?" 
"No, sir." 
"Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again." At last Carrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do all that was required that brought on trouble. 
She heard some one called. 
"Mason," said the voice. "Miss Mason." 
She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her a little, but she did not understand. 
"You, you!" said the manager. "Can't you hear?" 
"Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely. 
"Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager. 
"No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda." 
"Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?" 
"Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art. 
"Why don't you do it then?" Don't go shuffling along as if you were dead. I've got to have people with life in them." 
Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a little. 
"Yes, sir," she said. 
It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy, for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but too excited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise her evolutions as prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she could help it. 
When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder he was out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful to eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from financial distress -- "The sound of glory ringing in her ears." 
When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away, and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was an early irritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going to act and keep house? 
"I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started. He can take his meals out." 
Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such a wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her salary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had her first sight of those high and mighties -- the leading ladies and gentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. She was nothing -- absolutely nothing at all. 
At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemed to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was getting along. The regularity with which he did this smacked of some one who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had a visible means of support, this irritated her. He seemed to be depending upon her little twelve dollars. 
"How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire. 
"Oh, all right," she would reply. 
"Find it easy?" 
"It will be all right when I get used to it." 
His paper would then engross his thoughts. 
"I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "I thought maybe you might want to make some biscuit." 
The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially in the light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave her more courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say things. Still she could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. There was something in the man's manner of which she had always stood in awe. He seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve. 
One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came openly to the surface. 
"We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat he had purchased. "You won't get any money for a week or so yet. 
"No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove. 
"I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added. 
"That's it," she said to herself. "I'm to use my money now." 
Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things for herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice. 
"What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she thought. "I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?" 
The important night of the first real performance came. She did not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think of going. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small part. 
The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon the bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited. Carrie was nothing. 
As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from her. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter. Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about an inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the twelve. 
In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of the women of alleged ability did. 
"I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, in several instances. To do her justice, she was right. 
After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have proved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew but few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that she was scanned closely. The flutter of an eyelash would have brought her a companion. That she did not give. 
One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow. 
"Not going home alone, are you?" he said. 
Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car. Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing else. 
"Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action. 
"No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. I think something will come of that, though." 
She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money, and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had long since realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand. There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he really would get something. Rent day gave him his opportunity. 
"Well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last of my money. I'll have to get something pretty soon." 
Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal. 
"If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get something. Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September." 
"Is he?" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still remained until that time. 
"Would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly. "I think I'll be all right after that time." 
"No," said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate. 
"We can get along if we economise. I'll pay you back all right." 
"Oh, I'll help you," said Carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thus forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of her earnings wrung a faint protest from her. 
"Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?" she said. "What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get something better." 
"I will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing under reproof. "I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here." 
"Oh, you needn't do that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "But there must be other things." 
"I'll get something!" he said, assuming determination.
Then he went back to his paper.
当第二天嘉莉重新寻找工作，去卡西诺戏院时，她发现在歌剧群舞队里，就像在其它行当里一样，很难找到事做。能站在群舞队里的漂亮姑娘多得如同能挥镐干活的工人。她还发现，除了用世俗的标准来衡量美貌和身材之外，对于不同的求职者并不存在任何其它的区别。求职者自己的意愿或对自己的才能的了解，则一文不值。 “请问哪里能找到格雷先生？”她在卡西诺戏院的后台入口处，问一个阴沉着脸的看门人。 
“现在你不能见他。他很忙。” 
“那你知道我什么时候能见他呢？” 
“和他约好了吗？” 
“没有。” 
“那样的话，你得去他的办公室找他。”“哦，天哪！”嘉莉叫道，“他的办公室在哪里？”他给了她门牌号码。 
她知道这时去那里是没有用的，他不会在那里。没有办法，只有利用期间的时间再去找找。 
在其它几个地方的冒险很快就结束了，故事都很凄惨。戴利先生只见事先约好的客人。嘉莉在一间阴暗的办公室里，不顾阻拦，等了一个钟头之后，才从沉着、冷漠的多尼先生嘴里知道了这个规矩。 
“你得写信请求他接见你。” 
这样她就离开了。 
在帝国剧院，她看到一群特别无精打采、无动于衷的人。 
一切都布置得十分华丽，一切都安排得非常细致，一切都显得那么矜持而高不可攀。 
在蓝心戏院，她走进一个平静的楼梯下面的小房间里，地上铺着地毯，墙上装着护墙板。这种地方使人感受到所有权威人士的地位的崇高。在这里，矜持的神气活生生地体现在一个售票员、一个门房和一个助手的身上，他们都因自己的崇高地位而得意洋洋。 
“啊，现在要表现得非常谦卑--非常非常谦卑。请告诉我们你的要求。说得要快，要显得紧张，不要露出丝毫的自尊。 
要是我们一点不感到为难的话，我们可以看看能为你效什么劳。”这就是蓝心戏院的气氛。实际上，这也是城里每一家经理室的共同气氛。这些小业主们，在他们自己的行当中，就是真正的至高无上的统治者。 
嘉莉疲惫地走开了，悲痛之余更加感到难堪。 
那天晚上，赫斯渥听到了这次劳而无获的寻找的详细情况。 
“我连一个人都没见着，”嘉莉说，“我只是走啊，走啊，到处等人。”赫斯渥只是看着她。 
“我看得先有些朋友才能进这一行，”她闷闷不乐地加了一句。 
赫斯渥看出了这件事的困难，但并不认为这有多么可怕。 
嘉莉又疲倦又丧气，不过现在她可以休息了。坐在他的摇椅里，观看这个世界，世间的苦难来得并不很快。明天又是一天嘛。 
明天来了，接下去又是一天，又是一天。 
嘉莉见到了一次卡西诺戏院的经理。 
“你来吧，”他说，“下个星期一来，那时我可能要换些人。”他是个高大而肥胖的人，穿得好，吃得好，鉴别女人就像别人鉴别马匹一样。嘉莉长得俏丽妩媚。即便她一点经验都没有，也可以把她安排进来。有一个东家曾经提到过，群舞队员的相貌差了一些。 
离下星期一还有好几天的时间。离下月１号倒是很近了。 
嘉莉开始发起愁来，她以前还从来没有这么发愁过。 
“你出去的时候真的是在找事做吗？”一天早晨，她问赫斯渥。她自己愁得急了，就想到这上面来了。 
“我当然是在找啦，”他有些生气地说，对这个羞辱他的暗示只是稍微有点感到不安。 
“眼下，”她说，“我可是什么事都愿意做。马上又到下个月１号了。”她看上去绝望极了。 
赫斯渥停止了看报，换上衣服。 
他想，他要出去找事做。他要去看看哪家酿酒厂是否会安排他进某家酒店。是啊，倘若能找到的话，做侍者他也愿意。 
现在他的钱就快用完了，于是开始注意起自己的衣服来，觉得连自己最好的衣服都开始显得旧了。这一点真让他难受。 
嘉莉在他之后回到家里。 
“我去见了几家杂耍剧场的经理，”她无可奈何地说，“你得有一个表演节目才行。他们不要没有表演节目的人。”“我今天见了个开酿酒厂的人，”赫斯渥说，“有一个人告诉我说他会设法在两三个星期之内给我找个职位。”看见嘉莉这么苦恼：他得有所表示，因此他就这样说了。 
这是无精打采的人面对精力充沛的人找的托辞。 
星期一，嘉莉又去了卡西诺戏院。 
“是我叫你今天来的吗？”经理说，上下打量了一番站在他面前的她。 
“你是说星期一来的，”嘉莉很窘迫地说。 
“有过什么经验吗？”他又问，口气几近严厉了。 
嘉莉承认毫无经验。 
他一边翻动一些报纸，一边又把她打量了一番。对这个漂亮的、看上去心绪不宁的年轻女人，他暗自感到满意。“明天早晨来戏院吧。”嘉莉的心跳上了喉头。 
“我会来的，”她吃力地说。她看得出他想要她，转身准备走了。 
他真的会让她工作吗？啊，可爱的命运之神，真的会这样吗？ 
从敞开的窗口传来的城市的刺耳的嘈杂声，已经变得悦耳动听了。 
一个严厉的声音，回答了她内心的疑向，消除了她对此的一切担忧。 
“你一定要准时来这里，”经理粗鲁地说。“否则就会被除名的。”嘉莉匆忙走开。这时她也不去埋怨赫斯渥的游手好闲了。 
她有了一份工作--她有了一份工作！她的耳朵里响起这美妙的歌声。 
她一高兴，差一点就急着要去告诉赫斯渥了。可是，在往家走时，她从更多的方面考虑了这件事情，开始想到她几个星期就找到了工作，而他却闲荡了几个月，这是很反常的。 
“为什么他就找不到事情做呢？”她对自己直言道，“如果我找得到，他也一定应该找得到。我找工作并不是很难呀。”她忘记了自己的年轻美貌。她在兴奋的时候，觉察不到年龄的障碍。 
成功的人总会这样说的。 
可是，她还是掩藏不住自己的秘密。她想表现得镇静自若，无动于衷，但是一眼就能看穿她这是装出来的。 
“怎么样？”看见她轻松的脸色，他说。 
“我找到了一份工作。” 
“找到了吗？”他说，松了一口气。 
“是的。” 
“是份什么样的工作？”他兴致勃勃地问，觉得似乎现在他也能找到什么好的事做了。 
“当群舞队演员，”她回答。 
“是不是你告诉过我的要在卡西诺戏院上演的那出戏？”“是的，”她回答，“我明天开始排练。”因为很高兴，嘉莉还主动作了一些解释。最后，赫斯渥说：“你知道你能拿到多少薪水吗？”“不知道，我也没想要问，”嘉莉说。“我猜他们每星期会付１２或１４块钱吧。”“我看也就是这个数左右，”赫斯渥说。 
那天晚上，他们在家里好好吃了一顿饭，只是因为不再感觉那么紧张可怕了。赫斯渥出去修了面，回来时带了一大块牛腰肉。 
“那么，明天，”他想着，“我自己也去找找看。”怀着新的希望，他抬起头来，不看地板了。 
第二天，嘉莉准时去报到，被安排在群舞队里。她看到的是一个空荡荡、阴森森的大戏院，还带着昨夜演出的余香和排场，它以富丽堂皇和具有东方情调而著称。面对如此奇妙的地方，她又是敬畏又是欣喜。老天保佑这里的一切都是真的。 
她会竭尽全力使自己当之无愧的。这里没有平凡，没有懒散，没有贫困，也没有低微。到这里来看戏的，都是衣着华丽、马车接送的人。这里永远是愉快和欢乐的中心。而现在她也属于这里。啊，但愿她能留下来，那她的日子将会多么幸福！ 
“你叫什么名字？”经理说，这时他正在指挥排练。 
“麦登达，”她立刻想起了在芝加哥时杜洛埃替她选的姓氏，就回答说。“嘉莉·麦登达。”“好吧，现在，麦登达小姐，”他说，嘉莉觉得他的口气非常和蔼可亲，“你去那边。”然后，他对一个年轻的老队员喊道：“克拉克小姐，你和麦登达小姐一对。”这个年轻的姑娘向前迈了一步，这样嘉莉知道该站到哪里，排演就开始了。 
嘉莉很快就发现，这里的排练虽然和阿佛莱会堂的排练稍微有一点相似，但这位经理的态度却要严厉得多。她曾经对米利斯先生的固执己见和态度傲慢感到很惊讶，而在这里指挥的这个人不仅同样地固执己见，而且态度粗暴得近乎野蛮。 
在排练进行之中，他似乎对一些小事都表现得愤怒至极，嗓门也相应地变得越来越大。非常明显，他十分瞧不起这些年轻女人任何乔装的尊严和天真。 
“克拉克，”他会叫道，当然是指克拉克小姐。“你现在怎么不跟上去？”“四人一排，向右转！向右转，我说是向右转！老天爷，清醒些！向右转！”在说这些话时，他会提高最后几个字音，变成咆哮。 
“梅特兰！梅特兰！”一次，他叫道。 
一个紧张不安、衣着漂亮的小姑娘站了出来。嘉莉替她担忧，因为她自己心里充满了同情和恐惧。 
“是的，先生，”梅特兰小姐说。 
“你耳朵有毛病吗？” 
“没有，先生。” 
“你知道‘全队向左转’是什么意思吗？”“知道，先生。”“那么，你跌跌绊绊地向右干什么？想打乱队形吗？”“我只是--”“不管你只是什么的。竖起耳朵听着。”嘉莉可怜她，又怕轮到自己。 
可是，又有一个尝到了挨骂的滋味。 
“暂停一下，”经理大叫一声，像是绝望般地举起双手。他的动作很凶猛。 
“艾尔弗斯，”他大声嚷道，“你嘴里含着什么？”“没什么，”艾尔弗斯小姐说，这时有些人笑了，有些人紧张地站在一边。 
“那么，你是在说话吗？” 
“没有，先生。” 
“那么，嘴就别动。现在，大家一起再来。"终于也轮到了嘉莉。她太急于照要求的一切去做了，因此惹出麻烦。 
她听到在叫什么人。 
“梅森，”那声音说，“梅森小姐。” 
她四下里望望，想看看会是谁。她身后的一个姑娘轻轻地推了她一下，但她不明白是什么意思。 
“你，你！”经理说，“你难道听不见吗？”“哎，”嘉莉说，腿吓得发软，脸涨得通红。 
“你不是叫梅森吗？”经理问。 
“不是，先生，”嘉莉说，“是麦登达。” 
“好吧，你的脚怎么啦？你不会跳舞吗？”“会的，先生，”嘉莉说，她早已学会了跳舞这门艺术。 
“那你为什么不跳呢？别像个死人似地拖着脚走。我要的是充满活力的人。”嘉莉的脸颊烧得绯红。她的嘴唇有些颤抖。 
“是的，先生，”她说。 
他就这样不断地督促着，加上脾气暴躁和精力充沛，过了长长的３个钟头。嘉莉走时已经很累了，只是心里太兴奋了，没有觉察到这一点。她想回家去，按照要求练习她的规定动作。只要有可能的话，她要避免做错任何动作。 
她到家时，赫斯渥不在家里。她猜想他是出去找工作了，这可真是难得。她只吃了一口东西，然后又接着练习，支撑她的是能够摆脱经济困难的梦想--自豪的声音在她的耳朵里响起。 
赫斯渥回来的时候不像出门时那样兴高采烈，而且这时她不得不中断练习去做晚饭。于是就有了最初的恼怒。她既要工作，又要做饭。难道她要一边演出一边持家吗？ 
“等我开始工作后，”她想，“我就不干这些事了。他可以在外面吃饭。”此后，烦恼与日俱增。她发现当群舞演员并不是什么很好的事，而且她还知道了她的薪水是每周１２块钱。几天之后，她第一次见到了那些趾高气扬的人物--饰演主角的男女演员。她发现他们享有特权，受到尊敬。而她却微不足道--绝对的微不足道。 
家里有着赫斯渥，每天都让她心烦。他似乎没事可干，但却敢问她工作如何。他每天要都照例问她这个，有点像是要靠她的劳动而过活的味道。这使她很生气，因为她自己有了具体的生活来源，他看来好像是要依赖于她那可怜的１２块钱了。 
“你干得怎么样？”他会和言悦色地问。 
“哦，很好，”她会答道。 
“觉得容易吗？” 
“习惯了就会好的。” 
然后，他就会埋头看报了。 
“我买了一些猪油，”他会补充说，像是又想起来了。“我想也许你要做些饼干。”个人这样平静地提着建议，倒真使她有点吃惊，特别是考虑到最近的情况变化。她渐渐地开始独立，这使她更加有勇气冷眼旁观，她觉得自己很想说些难听的话。可是，她还是不能像对杜洛埃那样对他说话。这个人的举止中有着某种东西总是令她感到敬畏。他像是有着某种潜在的力量。 
在她第一个星期的排演结束了之后，一天，她所预料的情况发生了。 
“我们得过得很节省才行，”他说着，放下他买的一些肉。 
“这一个星期左右你还拿不到钱的。” 
“拿不到的，”嘉莉说，她正在炉子上翻动着锅里的菜。 
“我除了房租钱，只有１３块钱了，”他加了一句。 
“完了，”她对自己说道。“现在要用我的钱了。”她立刻想起她曾希望为自己买几件东西。她需要衣服。她的帽子也不漂亮。 
“要维持这个家，１２块钱能顶什么用呢？”她想，“我无法维持。他为什么不找些事情做呢？”那个重要的第一次真正演出的夜晚来到了。她没有提议请赫斯渥来看。他也没想着要去看。那样只会浪费钱。她的角色太小了。 
报纸上已经登出了广告，布告栏里也贴出了海报。上面提到了领衔主演的女演员和其他许多演员的名字。嘉莉不在起中。 
就像在芝加哥一样，到了群舞队首次上场的那一刻，她怯场了，但后来她就恢复了平静。她演的角色显然无足轻重，这很令她伤心，但也消除了她的恐惧。她觉得自己太不起眼，也就无所谓了。有幸的是，她不用穿紧身衣服。有一组１２人被指定要穿漂亮的金色短裙，裙长只及膝上约一英寸。嘉莉碰巧在这一组。 
站在舞台上，随队而行，偶尔地提高嗓音加入大合唱，她有机会去注意观众，去目睹一出极受欢迎的戏是怎样开始的。 
掌声很多，但是，她也注意到了一些所谓有才能的女演员表演得有多糟糕。 
“我可以演得比这好，”有几次，嘉莉大胆地对自己说。说句公道话，她是对的。 
戏演完之后，她赶快穿好衣服，因为经理责骂了几个人而放过了她，她想自己演得一定还令人满意。她想赶快出去，因为她的熟人很少，那些名演员都在闲聊。外面等候着马车和一些在这种场合少不了的衣着迷人的青年人。嘉莉发现人们在仔细地打量着她。她只需睫毛一动就能招来一个伴。但她没有这样做。 
然而，一个精于此道的青年还是主动上来了。 
“你是一个人回家，对吗？”他说。 
嘉莉只是加快了脚步，上了第六大道的有轨电车。她满脑子都是对这事感到的惊奇，没有时间去想起它的事情。 
“你有那家酿酒厂的消息了吗？”她在周末的时候问道，希望这样问能激其他的行动。 
“没有，”他回答，“他们还没有完全准备好。不过，我想这事会有一些结果的。”这之后她没再说什么。她不乐意拿出自己的钱，可是又觉得非拿不可。赫斯渥已经感到了危机，精明地决定求助于嘉莉。他早就知道她有多么善良，有多大的忍耐力。想到要这么做，他有一点羞愧，但是想到他真能找到事做，他又觉得自己没错。付房租的那一天为他提供了机会。 
“唉，”他数出钱来说道，“这差不多是我最后的一点钱了。 
我得赶快找到事做。” 
嘉莉斜眼看着他，有几分猜到他要有所要求了。 
“只要能再维持一小段时间，我想我会找到事情的。德雷克９月份肯定会在这里开一家旅馆。”“是吗？”嘉莉说，心想离那时还有短短的一个月。 
“在此之前，你愿意帮我的忙吗？”他恳求道，“然后我想一切都会好了。”“好的，”嘉莉说，命运如此捉弄她，她真是伤心。 
“只要我们节省一些，是能过得去的。我会如数归还你的。”“哦，我会帮你的，”嘉莉说，觉得自己的心肠太硬，这么逼着他低声下气地哀求，可是她想从自己的收入中得到实惠的欲望又使她隐隐地感到不满。 
“乔治，你为什么不暂时随便找个事做做呢？”她说，“这又有什么关系呢？也许过一段时间，你会找到更好的事情的。”“我什么事都愿意做，”他说，松了一口气，缩着头等着挨骂。“上街挖泥我也愿意。反正这里又没人认识我。”“哦，你用不着做那种事，”嘉莉说，为这话说得那么可怜感到伤心了。“但是肯定会有其它的事情的。”“我会找到事做的！”他说，像是下定了决心。 
然后，他又去看报了。
Chapter 39 OF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS: THE PARTING OF WORLDS
What Hurstwood got as the result of the determination was more self-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the same time, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress. 
Her need of clothes -- to say nothing of her desire for ornaments -- grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not to have them. The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the time he asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of decency. He was not always renewing his request, but this love of good appearance was. It insisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wished more and more that Hurstwood was not in the way. 
Hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he had better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for car-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his hand he announced himself as penniless. 
"I'm clear out," he said to Carrie one afternoon. "I paid for some coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents." 
"I've got some money there in my purse." 
Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time. 
"We're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some this afternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it do if we had liver and bacon?" 
"Suits me," said Hurstwood. 
"Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that." 
"Half'll be enough," volunteered Hurstwood. 
She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not to notice it. 
Hurstwood bought the flour -- which all grocers sold in 3 1/2 pound packages -- for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound of liver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance of thirty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. It did not escape her that the change was accurate. There was something sad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was something to eat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe he would get something yet. He had no vices. 
That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed suit, which took Carrie's eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch of violets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie smiled back. 
"She can afford to dress well," thought Carrie, "and so could I, if I could only keep my money. I haven't a decent tie of any kind to wear." 
She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively. 
"I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care what happens." 
One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found nothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting of society's fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to her neighbour and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in the matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in. 
"It's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pink fleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shining shield. 
"Yes; it is," said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her. 
"I'm almost roasting," said the girl. 
Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and saw little beads of moisture. 
"There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before," added the girl. 
"Have you been in others?" asked Carrie, surprised at her experience. 
"Lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?" 
"This is my first experience." 
"Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's Mate' here." 
"No," said Carrie, shaking her head; "not me." 
This conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line was called to form for a new entrance. No further opportunity for conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were getting ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side. 
"They say this show is going on the road next month." 
"Is it?" said Carrie. 
"Yes; do you think you'll go?" 
"I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me." 
"Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you any more, and it will cost you everything you make to live. I never leave New York. There are too many shows going on here." 
"Can you always get in another show?" 
"I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway this month. I'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes." 
Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently it wasn't so very difficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place if this show went away. 
"Do they all pay about the same?" she asked. 
"Yes. Sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay very much." 
"I get twelve," said Carrie. 
"Do you?" said the girl. "They pay me fifteen, and you do more work than I do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just giving you less because they think you don't know. You ought to be making fifteen." 
"Well, I'm not," said Carrie. 
"Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went on the girl, who admired Carrie very much. "You do fine, and the manager knows it." 
To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an air pleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her natural manner and total lack of self-consciousness. 
"Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?" 
"Of course you can," answered the girl. "You come with me when I go. I'll do the talking." 
Carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. She liked this little gaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her tinsel helmet and military accoutrements. 
"My future must be assured if I can always get work this way," thought Carrie. 
Still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe upon her and Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate seemed dismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feed them under Hurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possibly be enough for rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought the shoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem very seriously. Suddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realised that they were going to run short. 
"I don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse at breakfast, "that I'll have enough to pay the rent." 
"How much have you?" inquired Hurstwood. 
"Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be paid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this, there won't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel man will open his hotel this month?" 
"I think so," returned Hurstwood. "He said he would." 
After a while, Hurstwood said: 
"Don't worry about it. Maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that. We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or two." 
"Do you think he will?" she asked. 
"I think so." 
On this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oeslogge clearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said: 
"Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?" 
"No, no, Mr. Wheeler," said Mr. Oeslogge. "Dat iss all right." 
Hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. It seemed an easy thing. He looked out of the door, and then gathered up his coffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate man had begun. 
Rent was paid, and now came the grocer. Hurstwood managed by paving out of his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end of the week. Then he delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and so soon had his ten back, with Oeslogge getting his pay on this Thursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill. 
This entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort. Hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. He schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not to trouble over adding anything himself. 
"He talks about worrying," thought Carrie. "If he worried enough he couldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. No man could go seven months without finding something if he tried." 
The sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy appearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places. Twice a week there were matinees, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack, which he prepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning at ten in the morning and lasting usually until one. Now, to this Carrie added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. She did it because it was pleasant and a relief from dulness of the home over which her husband brooded. 
The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne -- Lola Osborne. Her room was in Nineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up wholly to office buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, looking over a collection of back yards in which grew a number of shade trees pleasant to see. 
"Isn't your home in New York?" she asked of Lola one day. 
"Yes; but I can't get along with my people. They always want me to do what they want. Do you live here?" 
"Yes," said Carrie. 
"With your family?" 
Carrie was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked so much about getting more salary and confessed to so much anxiety about her future, that now, when the direct question of fact was waiting, she could not tell this girl. 
"With some relatives," she answered. 
Miss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's time was her own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing little outings and other things of that sort until Carrie began neglecting her dinner hours. Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position to quarrel with her. Several times she came so late as scarcely to have an hour in which to patch up a meal and start for the theatre. 
"Do you rehearse in the afternoons?" Hurstwood once asked, concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which prompted it. 
"No; I was looking around for another place," said Carrie. 
As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the least straw of an excuse. Miss Osborne and she had gone to the office of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the Broadway and returned straight to the former's room, where they had been since three o'clock. 
Carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty. She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing. Only the last step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned. 
Hurstwood saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind, and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making an effectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy he was content to droop supinely while Carrie drifted out of his life, just as he was willing supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. He could not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and ineffectual way, however -- a way that simply widened the breach by slow degrees. 
A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage where the chorus was going through some of its glittering evolutions, said to the master of the ballet: 
"Who is that fourth girl there on the right -- the one coming round at the end now?" 
"Oh," said the ballet-master, "that's Miss Madenda." 
"She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line?" 
"I will," said the man. 
"Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got." 
"All right. I will do that," said the master. 
The next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error. 
"You lead your company to-night," said the master. 
"Yes, sir," said Carrie. 
"Put snap into it," he added. "We must have snap." 
"Yes, sir," replied Carrie. 
Astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader must be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct expression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to think that perhaps it was merit. 
She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding her arms as if for action -- not listlessly. In front of the line this showed up even more effectually. 
"That girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, another evening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If he hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly. 
"Put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to the man in charge of the ballet. 
This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow-white flannel trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was most stunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one side. Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later appeared, proud of her new laurels. She was especially gratified to find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve. 
Hurstwood heard nothing about this. 
"I'll not give him the rest of my money," said Carrie. "I do enough. I am going to get me something to wear." 
As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the consequences. There were impending more complications rent day and more extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood. Now, however, she proposed to do better by herself. 
Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she found how little her money would buy -- how much, if she could only use all. She forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could be spent for clothes and things that she liked. 
At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. She knew she was going too far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day Hurstwood said: 
"We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week." 
"Do we?" said Carrie, frowning a little. 
She looked in her purse to leave it. 
"I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether." 
"We owe the milkman sixty cents," added Hurstwood. 
"Yes, and there's the coal man," said Carrie. 
Hurstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things she was buying; the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with which she was slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt that something was going to happen. All at once she spoke: 
"I don't know," she said; "I can't do it all. I don't earn enough." 
This was a direct challenge. Hurstwood had to take it up. He tried to be calm. 
"I don't want you to do it all," he said. "I only want a little help until I can get something to do." 
"Oh, yes," answered Carrie. "That's always the way. It takes more than I can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do." 
"Well, I've tried to get something," he exclaimed. "What do you want me to do?" 
"You couldn't have tried so very hard," said Carrie. "I got something." 
"Well, I did," he said, angered almost to harsh words. "You needn't throw up your success to me. All I asked was a little help until I could get something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up all right." 
He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little. 
Carrie's anger melted on the instant. She felt ashamed. 
"Well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on the table. "I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can wait until Saturday, though, I'll have some more." 
"You keep it," said Hurstwood, sadly. "I only want enough to pay the grocer." 
She put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time. Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends. 
In a little while their old thoughts returned to both. 
"She's making more than she says," thought Hurstwood. "She says she's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. I don't care. Let her keep her money. I'll get something again one of these days. Then she can go to the deuce." 
He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible course of action and attitude well enough. 
"I don't care," thought Carrie. "He ought to be told to get out and do something. It isn't right that I should support him." 
In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of Miss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and festive. They called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoon drive. Carrie was with her at the time. 
"Come and go along," said Lola. 
"No, I can't," said Carrie. 
"Oh, yes, come and go. What have you got to do?" 
"I have to be home by five," said Carrie. 
"What for?" 
"Oh, dinner." 
"They'll take us to dinner," said Lola. 
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I won't go. I can't." 
"Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time. We're only going for a drive in Central Park." 
Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded. 
"Now, I must be back by half-past four," she said. 
The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other. 
After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in her attitude toward young men -- especially of the gay and frivolous sort. She felt a little older than they. Some of their pretty compliments seemed silly. Still, she was young in heart and body and youth appealed to her. 
"Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda," said one of the chaps, bowing. "You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?" 
"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, smiling. 
They were off for a drive -- she, looking about and noticing fine clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips which pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the great park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth -- the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all, the beauty. Once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. It was getting dark when he got up out of his chair. 
"I guess she isn't coming home," he said, grimly. 
"That's the way," he thought. "She's getting a start now. I'm out of it." 
Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue, near the Harlem River. 
"What time is it?" she inquired. "I must be getting back." 
"A quarter after five," said her companion, consulting an elegant, open-faced watch. 
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a sigh. "There's no use crying over spilt milk," she said. "It's too late." 
"Of course it is," said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. "We'll drive down to Delmonico's now and have something there, won't we, Orrin?" 
"To be sure," replied Orrin, gaily. 
Carrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner without an excuse. 
They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherry incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to Carrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after Hurstwood's reception, and Ames. 
At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. He liked better books than she read, better people than she associated with. His ideals burned in her heart. 
"It's fine to be a good actress," came distinctly back. 
What sort of an actress was she? 
"What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?" inquired her merry companion. "Come, now, let's see if I can guess." 
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "Don't try." 
She shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. When it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head. 
"No," she said, "I can't. I have a previous engagement." 
"Oh, now, Miss Madenda," pleaded the youth. 
"No," said Carrie, "I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have to excuse me." 
The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen. 
"Cheer up, old man," whispered his companion. "We'll go around, anyhow. She may change her mind." 
这个决心在赫斯渥身上产生的结果是，他更加相信每一个特定的日子都不是找事做的好日子。与此同时，嘉莉却度过了三十个精神痛苦的日子。 她对衣物的需求--更不必说她对装饰物的欲望--随着现实的发展而迅速增加，现实表明，尽管她已在工作，她的需求仍然得不到满足。她有了这些新的想要体面的迫切要求之后，当赫斯渥求她帮助他度过难关时，她对他抱有的那份同情就消失了。他没有总是重提他的要求，而这爱美的愿望却一直在提着要求。这种愿望的要求十分坚决，嘉莉也希望能够如愿以偿，于是就越来越希望赫斯渥不要挡她的道。 
当赫斯渥差不多只剩下最后１０块钱时，他想自己最好还是留点零用钱，不要弄得连乘车、修面之类的费用都要完全依赖于人。因此，当他手头还剩下１０块钱时，他就宣布自己已经身无分文了。 
“我是一文不名了，”一天下午，他对嘉莉说。“今天早上我付了一些煤钱，这样一来，只剩下１毛或者１毛５分钱了。”“我那边的钱包里还有一些钱。”赫斯渥走过去拿了钱，开始是为了买一罐番茄。嘉莉几乎没有注意到这就是新秩序的开始。他拿了１毛５分钱，用这钱买了罐头。此后，他就是这样一点一点地向她要钱，直到有一天早晨，嘉莉突然想起她要到吃晚饭的时候才能回来。 
“我们的面粉全吃光了，”她说，“你最好下午去买一些。鲜肉也吃完了。你看我们吃些肝和咸肉行吗？”“行啊，”赫斯渥说。 
“最好是买半磅或者３A４磅。” 
“半磅就够了，”赫斯渥主动地说。 
她打开钱包，拿出５毛钱放在桌上。他假装没有看见。 
赫斯渥花了１毛３分钱买了一袋３磅半的面粉--所有食品商卖的面粉都是这种包装，又花了１毛５分钱买了半磅肝和咸肉。他把这些东西和２毛２分钱的找头，放在厨房的桌子上，嘉莉是在那里看见的。找头一分不少。这没有逃过她的眼睛。当她意识到，他原来只是想从她这里讨口饭吃的时候，她有点伤心了。她觉得对他太苛刻似乎不大公平。也许他还会找到事做。他也没干什么坏事。 
可是，就在那天晚上，当她走进戏院时，一个群舞队的姑娘，穿着一身崭新的漂亮的杂色的花呢套装从她身边走过，这套衣服吸引住了嘉莉的目光。这个年轻的姑娘佩戴着一束精美的紫罗兰，看上去情绪高涨。她走过时善意地对嘉莉笑了笑，露出漂亮、整齐的牙齿，嘉莉也对她笑了笑。 
“她打扮得起，”嘉莉想，“我也一样，只要我能把自己的钱留下来。我连一条像样的领带都没有。”她伸出一只脚，看着她的鞋子发愣。 
“无论如何，我星期六都要去买双鞋。我才不管会发生什么事呢。”剧团群舞队的演员中有一个最可爱、最富有同情心的小姑娘和她交上了朋友，因为在嘉莉身上，她没有发现任何令她望而生畏的东西。她是一个快乐的小曼依，对社会上严格的道德观点丝毫不懂，然而对她周围的人却很和善宽厚。群舞队的演员很少有交谈的自由，不过还是有一些交谈的。 
“今天晚上很暖和，是吗？”这个姑娘说，她穿着肉色的紧身衣，戴着金色的假头盔。她还拿着一面闪闪发亮的盾牌。 
“是啊，是很暖和，”嘉莉很高兴居然会有人和她说话。 
“我像是在炉子里烤着，”姑娘说。 
嘉莉仔细看着她那有着一双蓝色的大眼睛的漂亮的脸庞，发现她脸上有了小小的汗珠。 
“这出歌剧中，大步走的动作比我以前演过的任何戏中都要多，”姑娘补充说道。 
“你还演过别的戏吗？”嘉莉问，对她的经历很感吃惊。 
“多得很，”姑娘说，“你呢？” 
“我这是第一次。” 
“哦，是吗？我还以为《皇后的配偶》在这里上演的时候，我见过你呢。”“不，”嘉莉摇摇头说，“那不是我。”这段谈话被乐队的吹奏声和舞台两侧电石灯的噼啪声打断了，这时群舞队员们被叫来排好队，准备再次上常这以后没再出现谈话的机会。可是第二天晚上，当她们在作上台的准备时，这个姑娘又出现在她的身边。 
“他们说这台戏下个月要出去巡回演出。”“是吗？”嘉莉说。 
“是的，你想去吗？” 
“我不知道。要是他们让我去的话，我想我会去的。”“哦，他们会让你去的。我可不愿意去。他们不会多给你薪水，而你要把挣来的钱全用在生活费上。我从不离开纽约。 
这里上演的戏可多着呢。” 
“你总是能找到别的戏演吗？” 
“我总是找得到的。这个月就有一台戏在百老汇剧院上演。如果这台戏真要出演的话，我就打算去那家试试，找个角色演演。”嘉莉听着这些，恍然大悟。很显然，要混下去并不十分困难。倘若这台戏出去演，也许她也能再找到一个角色。 
“他们付的薪水都差不多吗？”她问。 
“是的。有时候你可以稍微多拿一点。这一家给得可不太多。”“我拿１２块，“嘉莉说。 
“是吗？”姑娘说。“他们给我１５块。而你的戏比我的重。 
要是我是你的话，我可受不了这个。他们少付你薪水，就是因为他们认为你不知道。你应该能挣１５块的。”“唉，我可没挣到这么多，”嘉莉说。 
“那么，如果你愿意的话，换个地方就能多挣一些，”姑娘接着说，她非常喜欢嘉莉。“你演得很好的，经理是知道的。”说实话，嘉莉的表演确实具有一种令人赏心悦目且有几分与众不同的风采，她自己并没有意识到这一点。这完全是由于她姿态自然，毫无忸怩。 
“你认为我去百老汇剧院能多挣一些吗？”“你当然能多挣一些，”姑娘回答。“等我去的时候，你和我一起。我来和他们谈。”嘉莉听到这里，感激得脸都红了。她喜欢这个扮演士兵的小姑娘。她戴着金箔头盔，佩着士兵装备，看上去经验丰富，信心十足。 
“如果我总能这样找到工作的话，我的将来就一定有保障了，”嘉莉想。 
可是，到了早晨，她受到家务的骚扰，而赫斯渥则坐在那里，俨然一个累赘，这时她的命运还是显得凄惨而沉重。在赫斯渥的精打细算下，他们吃饭的开销并不太大，可能还有足够的钱付房租，但是这样也就所剩无几了。嘉莉买了鞋和其它一些东西，这就使房租问题变得十分严重。在那个不幸的付房租的日子前一个星期，嘉莉突然发现钱快用完了。 
“我看，”早饭时，她看着自己的钱包，叫了起来，“我没有足够的钱付房租了。”“你还有多少钱？”赫斯渥问。 
“喔，我还有２２块钱。但是还有这个星期的所有费用要付，如果我把星期六拿的钱全部用来付房租的话，那么下星期就一分钱也没有了。你认为你那个开旅馆的人这个月会开张吗？”“我想会的，”赫斯渥回答。“他说过要开的。”过了一会儿，赫斯渥说：“别担心了。也许食品店的老板会愿意等一等。他能等的。 
我们和他打了这么久的交道，他会相信我们，让我们赊欠一两个星期的。”“你认为他会愿意吗？"她问。 
“我想会的。” 
因此，就在这一天，赫斯渥在要１磅咖啡时，坦然地直视着食品店老板奥斯拉格的眼睛，说道：“你给我记个帐，每个周末总付行吗？”“行的，行的，惠勒先生，”奥斯拉格先生说，“这没问题。”赫斯渥贫困中仍不失老练，听了这话就不再说什么了。这看来是件容易的事。他望着门外，然后，等咖啡包好，拿起就走了。一个身处绝境的人的把戏就此开始了。 
付过房租，现在又该付食品店老板了。赫斯渥设法用自己那１０块钱先付上，到周末再向嘉莉要。然后，到了下一次，他推迟一天和食品店老板结帐，这样很快他那１０块钱又回来了，而奥斯拉格要到星期四或星期五才能收到上星期六的欠帐。 
这种纠葛弄得嘉莉急于改变一下。赫斯渥好像没有意识到她有权做任何事情。他只是挖空心思地用她的收入来应付所有的开支，但是并不想自己设法来增加一点收入。 
“他说他在发愁，”嘉莉想，“要是他真的很发愁的话，他就不会坐在那里，等着我拿钱了。他应该找些事情做。只要努力去找，谁也不会七个月都找不到事做的。”看他总是呆在家里，衣着不整，愁容满面，嘉莉不得不去别的地方寻求安慰。她一星期有两场日戏，这时赫斯渥就吃自己做的冷快餐。另有两天，排演从上午１０点开始，一般要练到下午１点钟。除了这些以外，嘉莉现在又加上了几次去拜访一两个群舞队演员，其中包括那个戴着金色头盔的蓝眼睛士兵。 
她去拜访她们，因为这使她感到愉快，她还可以摆脱一下那个枯燥无味的家和她那个守在家里发呆的丈夫。 
那个蓝眼睛士兵的名字叫奥斯本--萝拉·奥斯本。她住在十九街，靠近第四大道，这片街区全都造上了办公大楼。 
她在这里有一间舒适的后房间，能看见下面的很多后院，院子里种着一些遮阴的树木，看上去十分宜人。 
“你家不在纽约吗？"一天，她问萝拉。 
“在的，但是我和家里的人相处不好。他们总是要我按照他们的意愿去做。你住在这里吗？”“是的，"嘉莉说。 
“和你家里人住在一起？” 
嘉莉不好意思说自己已经结婚了。她多次谈起过关于多挣薪水的愿望，多次表露过对自己将来的忧虑。可是现在，当她被直接问及事实，等候回答时，她却无法告诉这个姑娘了。 
“和亲戚住在一起，”她回答。 
奥斯本小姐想当然地认为，像她自己一样，嘉莉的时间属于她自己。她总是叫她多待一下，建议出去玩一会儿和做一些其它类似的事，这样一来嘉莉开始忘记吃晚饭的时间了。赫斯渥注意到了这一点，但是觉得无权埋怨她。有几次她回来得太晚，只剩不到一个钟头的时间，匆忙凑合着吃了一顿饭，就动身去戏院了。 
“你们下午也排演吗？”一次，赫斯渥问道。他问这话本来是想用讥讽的口气表示一下抗议和遗憾，但是问话时，他几乎把自己的本意完全掩盖住了。 
“不，我在另找一份工作，”嘉莉说。 
事实上她的确是在找，但是说这话只是提供了一个非常牵强的借口，奥斯本小姐和她去了那位即将在百老汇剧院上演新歌剧的经理的办公室，然后直接回到了奥斯本小姐的住处，３点钟以后她们一直待在那里。 
嘉莉觉得这个问题是对她的自由的侵犯。她并不考虑自己已获得了多少自由。只是觉得她最近的行动，也是她最新获得的自由，不应该受到质问。 
这一切赫斯渥都看得清清楚楚。他有他的精明之处，可是这个人很好面子，这妨碍了他提出任何有力的抗议。他的那种几乎无法理解的冷漠，使得他在嘉莉游离出他的生活的时候，还能得过且过地满足于自我消沉，就像他能得过且过地甘愿看着机会从他的掌握之中流失一样。他又不禁恋恋不舍，以一种温和、恼人而无力的方式表示着抗议。然而，这种方式只是逐渐地扩大了他们之间的裂痕。 
他们之间的裂痕又进一步加大了，这是因为当经理从舞台的两侧之间，看着群舞队在被灯光照得雪亮的台上表演一些令人眼花缭乱的规定动作时，对群舞队的主管说了一番话。 
“那个右边的第四个姑娘是谁--就是正在那一头转过来的那一个？”“哦，”群舞队的主管说，“那是麦登达小姐。”“她长得很漂亮。你为什么不让她领那一队呢？”“我会照你的意思办的，”那人说。 
“就这么办，她在那个位置要比你现在的这一个好看些。”“好的，我一定照办，”主管说。 
第二天晚上，嘉莉被叫出队来，很像是做错了什么。 
“今天晚上你领这一队，”主管说。 
“是，先生，”嘉莉说。 
“要演得起劲一些，”他又说，“我们得演得有劲儿才行。”“是，先生，”嘉莉回答。 
她对这个变动很感惊讶，以为原来的领队一定是病了，但是当她看见她还在队伍里，眼睛里明显地流露出不高兴时，她开始意识到也许是因为她更强一些。 
她那把头甩向一侧，摆好双臂像是要做动作的姿势非常潇洒，显得精神十足。站在队伍的前头，这种姿势得到更加充分的表现。 
“那个姑娘懂得怎样保持自己的姿势优美，”又一天晚上，经理说。他开始想要和她谈谈了。如果他没有定下规矩，不和群舞队队员有任何来往的话，他会毫不拘束地去找她。 
“把那个姑娘放在白衣队的前头，”他对群舞队的主管建议道。 
这支白衣队伍由大约二十个姑娘组成，全都穿着镶有银色和蓝色花边的雪白的法兰绒衣裙。领队的穿着最为夺目。同样的白色衣裙，但是要精致得多，佩带着肩章和银色腰带，一侧还挂着一柄短剑。嘉莉去试穿了这套戏装，几天后就这样登台了，她对自己这些新的荣誉很是得意。她感到特别满意的是，她知道自己的薪水现在由１２块钱变成了１８块钱。 
赫斯渥对此一无所知。 
“我不会把我多加的钱给他的，”嘉莉说，“我给得够多了。 
我要为自己买些衣服穿。” 
实际上，在这第二个月里，她一直尽可能大胆地、不顾一切地为自己买东西，毫不考虑后果。付房租的日子临头时的麻烦更多了，在附近买东西的赊帐范围也更广了。可是现在，她却打算对自己更大方一些。 
她第一步是想买一件仿男式衬衫。在选购衬衫时，她发现她的钱能买的东西太少了--要是全部的钱都归她用，那样就能买很多东西了。她忘了如果她单过，她还得付房租和饭钱，而只是想象着她那１８块钱的每一个子儿都能用来购买她喜欢的衣服和东西。 
最后，她挑中了一些东西，不仅用完了１２块钱以外的全部多加的钱，而且还透支了那１２块钱。她知道自己做得太过份了，但是她那喜欢漂亮衣服的女人天性占了上风。第二天赫斯渥说：“这星期我们欠了食品店老板５块４毛钱。”“是吗？”嘉莉说，稍稍皱了皱眉头。 
她看着钱包里面，准备拿出钱来。 
“我一共只有８块２毛钱了。” 
“我们还欠送牛奶的６毛钱，”赫斯渥补充说。 
“是啊，还有送煤的，”嘉莉说。 
赫斯渥不说话了。他已经看见了她买的那些新东西，她那不顾家务的情形，还有她动辄就要在下午溜出去，迟迟不归。 
他感到有什么事要发生了。突然，她开口说道：“我不知该不该说，”她说，“可是我无法负担一切。我挣的钱不够。”这是个公开的挑战。赫斯渥不得不应战。他努力保持着冷静。 
“我并没有要你负担一切，”他说，“我只是要你帮点忙，等我找到事做。”“哦，是啊，”嘉莉说，“总是这句话。我是入不敷出。我不知道怎么办才好。”“咳，我也在努力找事做嘛！”他叫了起来。“你要我怎么办呢？”“你也许还不够卖力吧？”嘉莉说，“我可是找到事做了。”“嘿，我很卖力的，”他说，气得几乎要说难听的话了。“你不用向我炫耀你的成功。我只是要你帮点忙，等我找到事做。 
我还没有完蛋呢。我会好起来的。” 
他努力说得很坚定，但是他的声音有一点颤抖。 
嘉莉立刻消了气。她感到惭愧了。 
“好啦，”她说，“给你钱吧，”把钱包里的钱全倒在桌上。 
“我的钱不够付全部赊帐。不过，要是他们能等到星期六，我还会拿到一些钱。”“你留着吧，”赫斯渥伤心地说，“我只要够付食品店老板的钱就行了。”她把钱放回钱包，就去早早准备晚饭，以便按时开饭。她这样闹了一下之后，觉得自己似乎应该作些补偿。 
过了一会儿，他们又像以前一样各想各的了。 
“她挣的钱比她说的要多，”赫斯渥想。“她说她挣１２块钱，但是这个数是买不了那么多东西的。我也不在乎。就让她留着她的钱吧。我总有一天会找到事做的。到那时就叫她见鬼去吧。”他只是在气头上说了这些话，但这却充分预示了一种可能的事态发展以及对此的态度。 
“我才不管呢，”嘉莉想，“应该有人叫他出去，做点事情。 
怎么说也不该要我来养活他呀。” 
在这些日子里，嘉莉通过介绍认识了几个年轻人，他们是奥斯本小姐的朋友，是那种名符其实的愉快而欢乐的人。一次，他们来找奥斯本小姐，邀下午一起乘马车兜风。当时嘉莉也在她那里。 
“走，一起去吧，”萝拉说。 
“不，我不能去，”嘉莉说。 
“哎呀，能去的，一起去吧，你有什么事情呀？”“我得５点钟到家，”嘉莉说。 
“干什么？” 
“哦，吃晚饭。” 
“他们会请我们吃晚饭的，”萝拉说。 
“啊，不，”嘉莉说，“我不去。我不能去。”“哦，去吧，他们是些好小伙子。我们会准时送你回去的。 
我们只去中央公园兜兜风。” 
嘉莉考虑了一会儿，终于让步了。 
“不过，我４点半必须回去，”她说。 
这句话从萝拉的一只耳朵进去，又从另一只耳朵出来了。 
在杜洛埃和赫斯渥之后，对待青年男子，尤其是对那种冒失而轻浮的人，她的态度总有那么一点讥讽的味道。她觉得自己比他们老成一些。他们说的有些恭维话听起来很愚蠢。然而，她的身心毕竟都还年轻，青年人对她仍有吸引力。 
“哦，我们马上就回来，麦登达小姐，”小伙子中的一个鞠了鞠躬说。“现在你相信我们不会耽搁你的，对不对？”“哦，这我就不知道了，”她笑着说。 
他们动身去兜风。她环顾四周，留意着华丽的服饰。小伙子们则说着那些愚蠢的笑话和无味的妙语，这在故作忸怩的荡子圈子里就算是幽默了。嘉莉看到了去公园的庞大的马车队伍，从五十九街的入口处开始，绕过艺术博物馆，直到一百一十街和第七大道拐角的出口处。她的目光又一次被这派富裕的景象所吸引--考究的服装，雅致的马具，活泼的马儿，更重要的是，还有美人。贫困的折磨又一次刺痛了她，但是现在，她忘记了赫斯渥，也就多少忘记了一些自己的烦恼。 
赫斯渥等到４点、５点、甚至６点钟。当他从椅子里站起来的时候，天已经快黑了。 
“我看她是不会回家了，”他冷冷地说。 
“就是这么回事，”他想，“她现在崭露头角了。我就没份了。”嘉莉倒是的确发觉了自己的疏忽，但那时已经是５点１刻了，那辆敞篷马车则远在第七大道上，靠近哈莱姆河边。 
“几点钟了？”她问。“我得回去了。” 
“５点１刻，”她身边的伙伴看了看一只精致的敞面怀表，说道。 
“哦，天哪！”嘉莉叫道。然后，她叹了一口气，又靠在座位上。“无法挽回的事，哭也没用了，”她说，“太迟了。”“是太迟了，”那个青年说，这时他在想象着丰盛的晚餐以及怎样能使谈话愉快，以便在散戏之后能再相聚。他对嘉莉很着迷。“我们现在就去德尔莫尼利饭店吃些东西好吗，奥林？”“当然好啦，”奥林高兴地回答。 
嘉莉想到了赫斯渥。以前她从来没有无缘无故就不回家吃晚饭的。 
他们乘车往回赶，６点１刻时才坐下来吃饭。这是谢丽饭店那晚餐的重演，嘉莉痛苦地回想起当时的情景。她想起了万斯太太，从那次赫斯渥接待了她之后，就再也没有来过。她还想起了艾姆斯。 
她的记忆在这个人身上停住了。这是个强烈而清晰的幻象。他喜欢的书比她看的要好，喜欢的人比她结交的要强。他的那些理想在她的心里燃烧。 
“当一个好的女演员的确不错，”她又清楚地听到了这句话。 
她算个什么样的女演员呢？ 
“你在想什么，麦登达小姐？”她的那位快乐的伙伴问道。 
“好吧，现在让我看看能否猜得出来。” 
“哦，不，”嘉莉说，“别猜了。” 
她抛开幻想，吃起饭来。她有些把它忘记了，心情倒也愉快。可是当提到散戏之后再见面的事时，她摇了摇头。 
“不，”她说，“我不行。我已经有了约会。”“哦，行的，麦登达小姐，”那青年恳求道。 
“不，”嘉莉说，“我不行。你对我真好，可我还得请你原谅我。”那青年看上去垂头丧气极了。 
“振作一点，老家伙，”他的朋友对着他的耳朵低声说，“不管怎么样，我们都要去一趟那里。她也许会改变主意的。”
Chapter 40 A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL
There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed. 
"Is that you?" he said. 
"Yes," she answered. 
The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising. 
"I couldn't get home last evening," she said. 
"Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't care. You needn't tell me that, though." 
"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I don't care." 
From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending. 
In this fashion, September went by. 
"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several times. 
"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now." 
Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. "Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success -- The-," etc., was upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted. 
"I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne. 
Carrie went with her to apply to another manager. 
"Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions. 
"I'm with the company at the Casino now." 
"Oh, you are?" he said. 
The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week. 
Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. People recognised ability. 
So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat. 
Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he folded his hands and waited -- for what, he could not anticipate. 
At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there. 
"I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge. 
Carrie was only faintly surprised. 
"How much is it?" she asked. 
"Sixteen dollars," he replied. 
"Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to Hurstwood. 
"Yes," he said. 
"Well, I never heard anything about it." 
She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense. 
"Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the door. "I can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly. 
"Well, when can you?" said the grocer. 
"Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood. 
"Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I need the money." 
Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed also. 
"Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it." 
The grocery man went away. 
"How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. "I can't do it." 
"Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get. He'll have to wait." 
"I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie. 
"Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood. 
"It's funny," she replied, still doubting. 
"What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken something." 
"Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now." 
"All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of the grind of this thing. 
Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something. 
There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages paid. As usual -- and for some inexplicable reason -- the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties. 
Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the lines. 
Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting -- a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not counted. 
The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused. 
Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men -- indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in the "World." He read it fully -- the names of the seven companies involved, the number of men. 
"They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though." 
The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites Walk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out." 
Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations. 
"They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any money. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to have its cars." 
He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them. So was property and public utility. 
"Those fellows can't win," he thought. 
Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies, which read: 
ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD 
SPECIAL NOTICE 
The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured. (Signed) Benjamin Norton PRESIDENT He also noted among the want ads. one which read: 
WANTED -- 50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection guaranteed. 
He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It signified to him the unassailable power of the companies. 
"They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't anything those men can do." 
While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing -- or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little -- almost nothing. 
"Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet." 
He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would be standing anything. 
He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn. 
"Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll get two a day." 
"How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt." 
"Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called out the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right." 
"You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice. 
"I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all right." 
"They'll want motormen mostly." 
"They'll take anybody; that I know." 
For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit. 
In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move. 
"Where are you going?" she asked. 
"Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added: "I think I can get on over there." 
"On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished. 
"Yes," he rejoined. 
"Aren't you afraid?" she asked. 
"What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them." 
"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday." 
"Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll run the cars all right." 
He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here -- the least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow. 
"What a day to go over there," thought Carrie. 
Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry -- a dark, silent man -- to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war. 
When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men -- whom he took to be strikers -- watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up. 
He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him. 
"What are you looking for?" 
"I want to see if I can get a place." 
"The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in him -- neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side. 
Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks. 
"Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk. 
"Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood. 
"What are you -- a motorman?" 
"No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood. 
He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or leave him, just as he chose. 
"Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I guess you can learn. What is your name?" 
"Wheeler," said Hurstwood. 
The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do." 
Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after. 
"There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey. 
"I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. 
They had been in strikes before.
然而，就嘉莉而言，不存在什么散场后的玩乐。她径直回家去了，还在想着自己没有回家吃饭的事。赫斯渥已经睡着了，但是当她穿过房间朝自己的床走去时，他醒来看了看。 “是你吗？”他说。 
“是的，”她回答。 
第二天早饭时，她想要道个歉。 
“昨天晚上我没办法回家吃饭，”她说。 
“啊，嘉莉，”他回答，“说这话有什么用呢？我不在乎的。不过，你大可不必告诉我这个。”“我没办法，”嘉莉说，脸色更红了。然后，发现他看上去像是在说“我知道的，”她叫了起来：“哦，好哇。我也不在乎。”从这以后，她对这个家更加漠不关心了。他们之间似乎已经没有了任何相互交谈的共同基矗她总是等着他来开口问她要开支的钱。这使他十分难堪，因此他极不情愿这样做。他宁愿躲着肉铺老板和面包房老板。他向奥斯拉格赊了１６块钱的食品帐，贮存了一批主要食品，这样他们在一段时间之内就不用买这些东西了。然后，他换了一家食品店。对于肉铺老板和其他几家老板，他也采用了同样的办法。这一切，嘉莉从未直接听他谈起过。他只开口要他能指望得到的东西，越来越深地陷入了只可能有一种结局的处境。 
就这样，９月份过去了。 
“德雷克先生不打算开旅馆了吗？”嘉莉问了几次。 
“要开的，不过现在他要到１０月份才能开。”嘉莉开始感到厌恶了。“这种人哪，”她常常自言自语。她的出门访友越来越多。她把自己多余的钱大部分用来买衣服，这笔钱毕竟也不是什么惊人的数目嘛，她参加演出的歌剧四星期内要去外地演出的消息终于宣布了。在她采取行动之前，所有的广告栏和报纸上都登着：“伟大的喜歌剧之杰作上演最后两周--”云去。 
“我不打算去巡回演出，”奥斯本小姐说。 
嘉莉跟着她一起去向另一个经理求职。 
“有什么经验吗？”是他的问题之一。 
“现在，我是在卡西诺戏院演出的剧团的演员。”“哦，是吗？”他说。 
谈的结果是又签了一份周薪２０块钱的合同。 
嘉莉很高兴。她开始觉得自己在这个世界上已经有了一席之地。人们还是赏识才能的。 
她的处境发生了如此巨大的变化，使得家里的气氛变得无法忍受了。家里有的只是贫困和烦恼，或者看上去是这样，因为它是一个负担。它变成了一个避之唯恐不及的地方。可是，她却还在那里睡觉，干相当多的家务活，保持家里的整洁。 
对于赫斯渥，这里则是他可以坐的地方。他坐着摇啊，摇啊，看看报纸，沉没在自己悲惨的命运之中。１０月份过去了，接着是１１月份。他几乎没有觉察，就已经到了严冬，而他还是坐在那里。 
嘉莉干得越来越好，这一点他很清楚。现在，她的衣服漂亮多了，甚至可以说得上是华丽了。他看着她进进出出，有时候自己想象她飞黄腾达的情景。他吃得很少，有些消瘦了。他没有食欲。他的衣服也已经破旧。关于要找事做的那套话，连他自己都觉得乏味可笑。因此，他就十指交叉地等待着--等待什么呢，他也无法预料。 
可是，最终麻烦事积得太多了。债主的追逼、嘉莉的冷漠、家里的寂静，还有冬天的来临，这一切加在一起使麻烦达到了顶点。这是由奥斯拉格亲自上门讨债而引发的，当时嘉莉也在家中。 
“我来收欠帐，”奥斯拉格先生说。 
嘉莉只是微微有点吃惊。 
“有多少欠帐？”她问。 
“１６块钱，”他回答。 
“哦，有那么多吗？”嘉莉说，“这数目对吗？”她转向赫斯渥问道。 
“对的，”他说。 
“可是，我从没听说过这笔帐呀。” 
她看上去像是以为他负的债是些不必要的开支。 
“噢，我们是欠了这笔帐，”他回答。然后，他走到门口。 
“可今天我付不了你一分钱，”他温和地说。 
“那么，你什么时候能付呢？”食品店老板说。 
“不管怎么样，星期六之前是不行的，”赫斯渥说。 
“嘿！”食品店老板回答。“这话说得真好。但是我必须拿到这笔钱。我要钱用。”嘉莉正站在房间里离门远些的地方，听到了这一切。她很苦恼。这事太糟糕、太无聊了。赫斯渥也恼火了。 
“喂，”他说，“现在说什么也没用的。如果你星期六来的话，我会付你一些的。”食品店老板走掉了。 
“我们怎么来付这笔账呢？”嘉莉问，对这笔帐很吃惊。“我可付不起。”“哦，你不必付的，”他说，“他收不到的帐就是收不到的。 
他只得等着。” 
“我不明白我们怎么会欠这么一大笔帐呢？”嘉莉说。 
“哦，我们吃掉的，”赫斯渥说。 
“真奇怪，”她回答，还是有些怀疑。 
“现在你站在那里，说这些话有什么用呢？”他问，“你以为是我一个人吃的吗？听你的口气，像是我偷了什么似的。”“可是，不管怎么说，这数目太大了，”嘉莉说，“不该要我付这笔帐的。现在我已经是入不敷出了。”“好吧，”赫斯渥回答，默默地坐了下来。这事真折磨人，他已经受够了。 
嘉莉出去了，而他还坐在那里，下定决心要做些事情。 
大约就在这段时间里，报上不断出现有关布鲁克林有轨电车工人即将罢工的传闻和通告。工人们对工作时间和工资待遇普遍感到不满。像往常一样--并且为了某种无法解释的缘故--工人们选择冬天来逼资方表态，解决他们的困难。 
赫斯渥早已从报上知道了这件事情，一直在想着罢工之后将会出现的大规模的交通瘫痪。在这次和嘉莉争吵的前一两天，罢工开始了。一个寒冷的下午，天色阴暗，眼看就要下雪了，报上宣布有轨电车工人全线罢工了。 
赫斯渥闲得无聊，头脑里装满了人们关于今年冬天将缺少劳动力和金融市场将出现恐慌局面的多种预测，很有兴趣地看着罢工的新闻。他注意到了罢工的司机和售票员提出的要求。他们说，过去他们一直拿着２块钱一天的工资，但是最近一年多来，出现了“临时工”，他们谋生的机会就随之减少了一半，而劳作的时间却由十个小时增加到了十二个小时，甚至是十四个小时。这些“临时工”是在繁忙和高峰的时候临时来开一次电车的工人。这样开一次车的报酬只有２毛５分钱。等高峰或繁忙时刻一过，他们就被解雇了。最糟糕的是，谁也不知道自己什么时候有车可开。他必须一早就去车场，不管好天歹天都得等在那里，直到用得着他的时候。等候这么久，平均只有开两次车的机会--三小时多一点的工作，拿５毛钱的报酬。等候的时间是不计酬的。 
工人们抱怨说，这种制度正在扩展，用不了多久，７０００名雇工中只会有少数人能真正保持住２块钱一天的固定工作了。他们要求废除这种制度，并且除了无法避免的耽搁之外，每天只工作十个小时，工资为２块２毛５分。他们要求资方立即接受这些条件，但是遭到了各家电车公司的拒绝。 
赫斯渥开始是同情这些工人的要求的，当然，也很难说他不是自始至终都在同情他们，尽管他的行动与此矛盾。他几乎所有的新闻都看，起初吸引他的是《世界报》上报道罢工消息的耸人听闻的大标题。他接着往下看了全文，包括罢工所涉及的七家公司的名称和罢工的人数。 
“他们在这样的天气里罢工真傻，”他心里想，“不过，只要他们能赢，但愿他们会赢。”第二天，对这事的报道更多了。“布鲁克林区的居民徒步上街，”《世界报》说。“劳动骑士会中断了所有过桥的有轨电车线路。”“大约七千人在罢工。”赫斯渥看了这些新闻，在心里对这事的结果如何形成了自己的看法。他这个人十分相信公司的力量。 
“他们是赢不了的，”他说，指的是工人。“他们分文没有。 
警察会保护公司的，他们必须这样做。大众得有电车乘坐才行。”他并不同情公司，但是力量属于他们。产业和公用事业也属于他们。 
“那些工人赢不了的，”他想。 
在别的新闻中，他注意到了其中一家公司发布的通告，通告说：“大西洋道电车公司特别通告鉴于本公司司机、售票员以及其他雇员突然擅离职守，今对所有被迫罢工的忠实员工予以一个申请复职的机会。凡于１月１６日星期三正午１２时之前提出申请者，将按申请收到的时间顺序，予以重新雇用（并确保安全），相应分派车次和职位，否则作解雇论。即将招募新人，增补每一空缺。此布。 
总经理 
本杰明·诺顿（签名） 
他还在招聘广告中看到这样一则广告： 
“招聘--五十名熟练司机，擅长驾驶威斯汀豪斯机车，在布鲁克林市区内。专开邮车，确保安全。"他特别注意到了两处的“确保安全”这几个字。这向他表明了公司那不容置疑的威力。 
“他们有国民警卫队站在他们一边，”他想，“那些工人是毫无办法的。”当他脑子里还在想着这些事情时，发生了他和奥斯拉格以及嘉莉的冲突事件。以前也曾有过许多令他恼火的事，但是这次事件似乎是最糟糕不过的。在此之前，她还从没有指责过他偷钱--或者很接近这个意思。她怀疑这么一大笔欠帐是否正常。而他却千辛万苦地使得开支看上去还很少。他一直在欺骗肉铺老板和面包房老板，只是为了不向她要钱。他吃得很少--几乎什么都不吃。 
“该死的！”他说，“我能找到事做的。我还没有完蛋呢。”他想现在他真得做些事了。受了这样一顿含沙射影的指责之后还闲坐在家里，这也太不自重了。哼，照这样再过一段时间，他就什么都得忍受了。 
他站起身来，看着窗外寒冷的街道。他站在那里，慢慢想到了一个念头，去布鲁克林。 
“为什么不去呢？”他心里说，“谁都可以在那里找到工作。 
一天能挣两块钱呢。” 
“可是出了事故怎么办？”一个声音说，“你可能会受伤的。”“哦，这类事不会多的，”他回答，“他们出动了警察。谁去开车都会受到很好的保护的。”“可你不会开车呀，”那声音又说。 
“我不申请当司机，”他回答。“我去卖票还是行的。”“他们最需要的是司机。”“他们什么人都会要的，这点我清楚。”他和心里的这位顾问翻来覆去辩论了几个钟头，对这样一件十拿九稳能赚钱的事，他并不急于立即采取行动。 
次日早晨，他穿上自己最好的衣服--其实已经够寒酸的了，就四处忙开了，把一些面包和肉用一张报纸包起来。嘉莉注视着他，对他的这一新的举动产生了兴趣。 
“你要去哪里？”她问。 
“去布鲁克林，”他回答。然后，见她还想问的样子，便补充说：“我想我可以上那里找到事做。”“在有轨电车线路上吗？”嘉莉说，吃了一惊。 
“是的，”他回答。 
“你不害怕吗？”她问。 
“有什么可怕的呢？”他回答，“有警察保护着。”“报上说昨天有四个人受了伤。”“是的。”他回答，“但是你不能听信报上说的事。他们会安全行车的。”这时，他表情很坚决，只是有几分凄凉，嘉莉感到很难过。 
这里再现了昔日的赫斯渥身上的某种气质，依稀能看见一点点过去那种精明而且令人愉快的力量的影子。外面是满天阴云，飘着几片雪花。 
“偏偏挑这么糟的天气去那里，”嘉莉想。 
这一次他走在她之前，这可真是一件不同寻常的事。他向东步行到十四街和第六大道的拐角处，在那里乘上了公共马车。他从报上得知有几十个人正在布鲁克林市立电车公司大楼的办公室里申请工作并受到雇用。他，一个阴郁、沉默的人，一路上又乘公共马车又搭渡船到达了前面提到过的办公室。 
这段路程很长，因为电车不开，天气又冷，但他还是顽强地、艰难地赶着路。一到布鲁克林，他就明显地看到和感到罢工正在进行。这一点从人们的态度上就看得出来。有些电车轨道上，沿线没有车辆在行驶。有些街角上和附近的酒店周围，小群的工人在闲荡。几辆敞篷货车从他身边驶过，车上安着普通的木椅，标有“平坦的灌木丛”或“展望公园，车费一毛”的字样。他注意到了那些冰冷甚至阴郁的面孔。工人们正在进行一场小小的战争。 
当他走近前面提到的办公室时，他看见周围站着几个人，还有几个警察。在远处的街角上还有些别的人在观望着--他猜想那些人是罢工者。 
这里所有的房屋都很矮小，而且都是木结构的，街道的铺设也很简陋。和纽约相比。布鲁克林真显得寒酸而贫穷。 
他走到一小群人的中间，警察和先到的人都注视着他。起中的一个警察叫住了他。 
“你在找什么？” 
“我想看看能否找到工作。” 
“上了那些台阶就是办公室，”这警察说。从他的脸上看，他是毫无偏袒的。但在他的内心深处，他是同情罢工并且憎恨这个“工贼”的。然而，同样在他的内心深处，他也感受到警察的尊严和作用，警察就是要维持秩序。至于警察的真正的社会意义，他从未想过。他那种头脑是不会想到这些的。这两种感觉在他心里混为一体，相互抵消，使他采取了中立的态度。他会像为自己一样为这个人去坚决地战斗，但也只是奉命而行。 
一旦脱下制服，他就会立即站到自己同情的那一边去。 
赫斯渥上了一段布满灰尘的台阶，走进一间灰色的办公室，里面有一道栏杆、一张长写字台和几个职员。 
“喂，先生，”一个中年人从长写字台边抬头看着他说。 
“你们要雇人吗？”赫斯渥问道。 
“你是干什么的--司机吗？” 
“不，我什么也不是，”赫斯渥说。 
他一点儿也不为自己的处境感到窘迫。他知道这些人需要人手。如果一个不雇他，另一个会雇的。至于这个人雇不雇他，可以随他的便。 
“哦，我们当然宁愿要有经验的人，”这个人说。他停顿了一下，这时赫斯渥则满不在乎地笑了笑。然后，他又说：“不过，我想你是可以学的。你叫什么？”“惠勒，”赫斯渥说。 
这个人在一张小卡片上写了一条指令。“拿这个去我们的车场，”他说，“把它交给工头。他会告诉你做什么的。”赫斯渥下了台阶，走了出去。他立即按所指的方向走去，警察从后面看着他。 
“又来了一个想尝试一下的。”警察基利对警察梅西说。 
“我想他准会吃尽苦头，”后者平静地轻声回答。 
他们以前经历过罢工。
Chapter 41 THE STRIKE
The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a lot of green hands around -- queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place. 
Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn. 
In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather. 
"Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?" Hurstwood heard one of them remark. 
"Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do." 
"Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom Hurstwood did not see. 
"Not very." 
"That Scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice, "told me that they hit him in the car with a cinder." 
A small, nervous laugh accompanied this. 
"One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "They broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police could stop 'em." 
"Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by another. 
Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers seemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish -- things said to quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited. 
Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were rather social, and he listened to what they said. 
"Are you a railroad man?" said one. 
"Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory." 
"I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, with reciprocal feeling. 
There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the conversation became strong again. 
"I don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "They've got the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do." 
"Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark I wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these." 
"It's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "A poor man ain't nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain't most no one would help you." 
"Right you are," said the other. "The job I had I lost 'cause they shut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down." 
Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a little superior to these two -- a little better off. To him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand. 
"Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success. 
"Next," said one of the instructors. 
"You're next," said a neighbour, touching him. 
He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed. 
"You see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. "This throws the current off or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle." 
Hurstwood smiled at the simple information. 
"Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here," he said, pointing with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight. When it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour." 
Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a very little practice. 
The instructor explained a few more details, and then said: 
"Now, we'll back her up." 
Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard. 
"One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That's bad. It's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want to do that." 
"I see," said Hurstwood. 
He waited and waited, while the man talked on. 
"Now you take it," he said, finally. 
The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped the car with the brake. 
"You want to be careful about that," was all he said. 
Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled. 
"You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "It takes a little practice." 
One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to and fro on the short track. 
They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was disagreeable -- miserably disagreeable -- in all its phases. Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he thought. 
After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came. 
The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about. 
At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him. 
"They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does that fellow from Newark stay?" 
Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in years -- twenty-one about -- but with a body lank and long, because of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering. 
"How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired Hurstwood, discreetly. 
The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer. 
"You mean eat?" he replied. 
"Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York tonight." 
"The foreman'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me." 
"That so?" 
"Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I live way over in Hoboken." 
Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment. 
"They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this noon. I know that wasn't much." 
Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed. 
"It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply. 
"Not much," answered Hurstwood. 
"I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way." 
Hurstwood did so. 
"Isn't there some place I can stay around here tonight?" he inquired. "If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't-" 
"There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one of them." 
"That'll do," he assented. 
He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night. 
"I'll ask him in the morning." 
He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the police. 
The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands. 
Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while. 
"Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest. 
"Rather." 
A long silence. 
"Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man. 
"Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood. 
Another silence. 
"I believe I'll turn in," said the man. 
Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes. 
While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial. 
"Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around. 
Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence. 
Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept. 
In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into wakefulness. 
"Guess I'd better get up," he said. 
There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt disagreeable, his hair bad. 
"Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat. 
Downstairs things were stirring again. 
He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground. 
"Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy. 
"No," said Hurstwood. 
"Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while." 
Hurstwood hesitated. 
"Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked, with an effort. 
"Here you are," said the man, handing him one. 
He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad coffee. Then he went back. 
"Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "You take this car out in a few minutes." 
Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything was better than the barn. 
On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts the leaders disclaimed. 
Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten. There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods. 
All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia. 
Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper. 
"Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny policemen got up beside him on the platform -- one on either hand. 
At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever. 
The two policemen looked about them calmly. 
"'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue. 
"I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want a steady job of this." 
"Nor I." 
Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders. 
"Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for anyone who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd." 
The two officers kept silent for a few moments. 
"The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on the left. "I don't see his car anywhere." 
"Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen. 
"Schaeffer and Ryan." 
There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. he would do well enough. 
He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making apologetic remarks, but he refrained. 
"You want to look out for them things," said the officer on the left, condescendingly. 
"That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly. 
"There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right. 
Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting. 
"Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!" 
Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably. 
At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to stop. 
"Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game." 
Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist. 
"Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled. 
Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car. 
Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been. 
Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track. 
"They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen. 
"We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other. 
Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers. 
"Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of another man's mouth, do you?" 
Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do. 
"Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do his work." 
"Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?" 
"Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen, roughly. "Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was down beside him. 
"Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell do you mean? Out, now." 
It was like a small swarm of bees. 
"Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm not doing anything." 
"Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll give ye a bat on the sconce. Back, now." 
"What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths. 
Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck. 
Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered. 
"Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than fear. 
"Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?" inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want to stay here all day? Get down." 
Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the nervous conductor as if he had been called. 
"Hurry up, now," said the other policeman. 
Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the work. 
"Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man's job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet, now. Wait." 
Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses. 
"Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work. You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!" 
"May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open a nearby window and stuck out her head. 
"Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen. "You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you, you hard-hearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye-" 
But the officer turned a deaf ear. 
"Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared round upon the scattered company. 
Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another shattered the window behind. 
"Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself. 
Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses. 
"That -- -- -- -- hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "I gave him a good crack for it, though." 
"I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other. 
"I know that big guy that called us a -- -- -- -," said the first. "I'll get him yet for that." 
"I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second. 
Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit. The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing. 
They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in his plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble. 
"There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better send some one over there and clean them out." 
The car ran back more quietly -- hooted, watched, flung at, but not attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns. 
"Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right." 
The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to. 
The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do something -- this, even -- for a while. It would get better. He would save a little. 
A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time since morning. 
"The little cur!" he muttered. 
"Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen. 
"No," he answered. 
At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him: 
"Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined. 
Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on before and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in it. 
All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made three such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful. 
On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old telegraph pole. 
"Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen. 
"Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself." 
The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow. 
"You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your car." 
Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him. 
"Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to the corporations." 
He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as before, he pretended not to hear him. 
"Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fight poor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman. 
A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about, determined but fearful. 
A man grabbed him by the coat. 
"Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him over the railing. 
"Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely. 
"I'll show you -- you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw. 
"Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and adding, of course, the usual oaths. 
Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was making faces. 
He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the release effected. 
"Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off. 
The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a half-dozen blocks away. 
"There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman. 
"I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and Hurstwood dodged a stone. 
Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by running toward the car. A woman -- a mere girl in appearance -- was among these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak or shout before he fell. 
"Let go of me," he said, falling on his side. 
"Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging him off and he wrestled for freedom. 
"Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up." 
He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was red. 
"They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief. 
"Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch." 
His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another. 
He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in. 
He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made. 
"Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer, opening the door and looking in. 
He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold and frightened. 
"Where's the conductor?" he asked. 
"Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman. 
Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder. 
"Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who did that?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment and then got down. 
"George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me." 
He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street. 
"Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath. 
A half block away, a small girl gazed at him. 
"You'd better sneak," she called. 
He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused. All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief. 
He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers. 
"Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "That's a pretty tough game over there." 
Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the "World." 
"Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out in all Parts of the City." 
He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one thing he read with absorbing interest.
赫斯渥申请求职的车场极缺人手，实际上是靠三个人在那里指挥才得以运行。车场里有很多新手，都是些面带饥色的怪人，看上去像是贫困把他们逼上了绝路。他们想提起精神，做出乐观的样子。但是这个地方有着一种使人内心自惭而羞于抬头的气氛。 赫斯渥往后走去，穿过车棚，来到外面一块有围墙的大场地。场地上有一连串的轨道和环道。这里有六辆电车，由教练员驾驶，每辆车的操纵杆旁边都有一名学徒。还有一些学徒等候在车场的一个后门口。 
赫斯渥默默地看着这个情景，等候着。有一小会儿，他的同伴们引起了他的注意，尽管他们并不比那些电车更使他感兴趣。不过，这帮人的神色令人不快。有一两个人非常瘦。有几个人相当结实。还有几个人骨瘦如柴，面色蜡黄，像是遭受过各种逆境的打击。 
“你看到报上说他们要出动国民警卫队了吗？”赫斯渥听到其中的一个人说。 
“哦，他们会这样做的，”另外一个人回答，“他们总是这样做的。”“你看我们会遇到很多麻烦吗？”又有一个人说，赫斯渥没看见是谁。 
“不会很多。” 
“那个开上一辆车出去的苏格兰人，”一个声音插进来说，“告诉我他们用一块煤渣打中了他的耳朵。”伴随着这句话的是一阵轻轻的、神经质的笑声。 
“按报上说的，第五大道电车线路上的那些家伙中的一个肯定吃尽了苦头，”又一个声音慢吞吞地说，“他们打破了他的车窗玻璃，把他拖到街上，直到警察来阻止了他们。”“是的，但是今天增加了警察，”另一个补充说。 
赫斯渥仔细地听着，心里不置可否。在他看来，这些说话的人是给吓坏了。他们狂热地喋喋不休--说的话是为了使自己的头脑安静下来。他看着场地里面，等候着。 
有两个人走到离他很近的地方，但是在他的背后。他们很喜欢交谈，他便听着他们的谈话。 
“你是个电车工人吗？”一个说。 
“我吗？不是。我一直在造纸厂工作。” 
“我在纽瓦克有一份工作，直到去年的１０月份，”另一个回答，觉得应该有来有往。 
有几句话的声音太小，他没有听见。随后，谈话的声音又大了起来。 
“我不怪这些家伙罢工，”一个说，“他们完全有权利这样做，可是我得找些事做。”“我也是这样，”另一个说，“要是我在纽瓦克有工作的话，我是不会来这里冒这种险的。”“这些日子可真是糟透了，你说是吧？”那个人说，“穷人无处可去。老天在上，你就是饿死在街头，也不会有人来帮助你。”“你说得对，”另一个说，“我是因为他们停产才丢掉了我原来的工作。他们开工了一整个夏天，积了一大批货，然后就停产了。”这番话只是稍稍引起了赫斯渥的注意。不知怎么地，他觉得自己比这两个人要优越一点--处境要好一点。在他看来，他们无知、平庸，像是牧羊人手里的可怜的羊。 
“这些可怜虫，”他想，流露出昔日得意时的思想和情感。 
“下一个，”其中的一个教练员说。 
“下一个是你，”旁边的一个人说，碰了碰他。 
他走了出去，爬上驾驶台。教练员当然地认为不需要任何开场白。 
“你看这个把手，”他说着，伸手去拉一个固定在车顶上的电闸。“这东西可以截断或者接通电流。如果你要倒车，就转到这里，如果你要车子前进，就转到这里。如果你要切断电源，就转到中间。”听到介绍这么简单的知识，赫斯渥笑了笑。 
“看着，这个把手是控制速度的。转到这里，”他边说边用手指指点着，“大约是每小时四英里。这里是八英里。开足了大约是每小时十四英里。”赫斯渥镇静地看着他。他以前看过司机开车。他差不多知道他们怎么开的车，确信只要稍微操练一下，他也会开的。 
教练员又讲解了几个细节，然后说： 
“现在，我们把车倒回去。” 
当车子开回场地时，赫斯渥沉着地站在一边。 
“有一件事你要当心，那就是起动时要平稳。开了一档速度之后，要等它走稳了，再换档加速。大多数人的一个通病就是总想一下子就把它开足全速。那不好，也很危险。会损坏马达的。你可不要那样做。”“我明白了，”赫斯渥说。 
那个人不断地讲着，他在一边等了又等。 
“现在你来开吧，”他终于说道。 
这位从前的经理用手握住操纵杆，自以为轻轻地推了一下。可是，这东西起动起来比他想象的要容易得多，结果车猛地一下迅速朝前冲去，把他向后甩得靠在了车门上。他难为情地直起身来，这时教练员用刹车把车停了下来。 
“你要小心才是，”他只说了这么一句。 
可是，赫斯渥发现使用刹车和控制速度并不像他以为的那样立刻就能掌握。有一两次，要不是教练员在一旁提醒和伸手帮他的话，他就会从后面的栅栏上犁过去了。这位教练员对他颇为耐心，但他从未笑过。 
“你得掌握同时使用双臂的诀窍，”他说，“这需要练习一下。”１点钟到了，这时他还在车上练习，他开始感到饿了。天下起雪来，他觉得很冷。他开始对在这节短轨道上开来开去有些厌倦了。 
他们把电车开到轨道的末端，两人一起下了车。赫斯渥走进车场，找到一辆电车的踏板坐下，从口袋里拿出报纸包的午饭。没有水，面包又很干，但是他吃得有滋有味。在这里吃饭可以不拘礼节。他一边吞咽，一边打量着四周，心想这份工作真是又乏味又平淡。无论从哪方面说，这活儿都是令人讨厌的，十分令人讨厌的。不是因为它苦，而是因为它难。他想谁都会觉得它难的。 
吃完饭后，他又像先前一样站在一边，等着轮到他。 
本来是想叫他练习一下午的，可是大部分时间却花在等候上了。 
终于到了晚上，随之而来的是饥饿和如何过夜的问题，他在心里盘算着。现在是５点半，他必须马上吃饭。倘若他要回家去，就得又走路又搭车地冻上两个半钟头。此外，按照吩咐，他第二天早晨７点钟就得来报到，而回家就意味着他必须在不该起来且不想起来的时候起床。他身上只有嘉莉给的大约１元１角５分钱，在他想到来这里之前，他原打算用这笔钱来付两个星期的煤帐的。 
“他们在这附近肯定有个什么地方可以过夜的，”他想，“那个从纽瓦克来的家伙住在哪里呢？”最后，他决定去问一下。有一个小伙子冒着寒冷站在车场的一个门口边，等着最后一次轮到他。论年龄他还只是个孩子--大约２１岁--但是由于贫困，身材却长得又瘦又长。稍微好一点的生活就能使这个小伙子变得丰满并神气起来。 
“要是有人身无分文，他们怎么安排他？”赫斯渥小心翼翼地问。 
这个小伙子把脸转向问话的人，表情敏锐而机警。 
“你指的是吃饭吗？”他回答。 
“是的。还有睡觉。我今天晚上无法回纽约了。”“我想你要是去问工头的话，他会安排的。他已经给我安排了。”“是这样吗？”“是的。我只是告诉他我一分钱也没有。哎呀，我回不了家了。我家还远在霍博肯。”赫斯渥只是清了一下嗓子，算是表示感谢。 
“我知道他们在楼上有一个地方可以过夜。但是我不清楚是个什么样的地方。我想肯定糟糕得很。今天中午他给了我一张餐券。我知道饭可是不怎么样的。”赫斯渥惨然一笑，这个小伙子则大笑起来。 
“这不好玩，是吗？”他问，希望听到一声愉快的回答，但是没有听到。 
“不怎么好玩，”赫斯渥回答。 
“要是我的话，现在就去找他，”小伙子主动说，“他可能会走开的。”赫斯渥去找了。 
“这附近有什么地方可以让我过夜吗？”他问。“要是我非回纽约不可，我恐怕不能--”“如果你愿意睡，”这人打断了他，说道，“楼上有几张帆布床。”“这就行了，”他表示同意。 
他本想要一张餐券，但是好像一直都没有合适的机会，他就决定这一晚上自己付了。 
“我明天早上再向他要。” 
他在附近一家便宜的餐馆吃了饭，因为又冷又寂寞，就直接去找前面提到的阁楼了。公司天黑之后就不再出车。这是警察的劝告。 
这个房间看上去像是夜班工人休息的地方。里面放着大约九张帆布床，两三把木椅，一个肥皂箱，一个圆肚小炉子，炉子里升着火。他虽然来得很早，但已经有人在他之前就来了。 
这个人正坐在炉子边烤着双手。 
赫斯渥走近炉子，也把手伸出来烤火。他这次出来找事做所遇到的一切都显得穷愁潦倒，这使他有些心烦，但他还是硬着头皮坚持下去。他自以为还能坚持一阵子。 
“天气很冷，是吧？”先来的人说。 
“相当冷。” 
一段长时间的沉默。 
“这里可不大像个睡觉的地方，是吧？”这人说。 
“总比没有强，”赫斯渥回答。 
又是一阵沉默。 
“我想上床睡觉了，”这人说。 
他起身走到一张帆布床边，只脱了鞋子，就平躺了下来，拉过床上那条毯子和又脏又旧的盖被，裹在身上。看到这个情景，赫斯渥感到恶心，但他不去想它，而是盯着炉子，想着别的事情。不一会儿，他决定去睡觉，就挑了一张床，也把鞋子脱了。 
他正准备上床睡觉，那个建议他来这里的小伙子走了进来，看见赫斯渥，想表示一下友好。 
“总比没有强，”他说，看了看四周。 
赫斯渥没把这话当作是对他说的。他以为这只是那个人自己在表示满意，因此没有回答。小伙子以为他情绪不好，就轻轻吹起了口哨。当他看见还有一个人睡着了时，就不再吹口哨，默不作声了。 
赫斯渥尽量在这恶劣的环境下把自己弄得舒服一些。他和衣躺下来，推开脏盖被，不让它挨着头。但是，他终于因疲劳过度而瞌睡了。他开始感到盖被越来越舒服，忘记了它很脏，把它拉上来盖住脖子，睡着了。 
早晨，他还在做着一个愉快的梦，几个人在这寒冷而凄凉的房间里走动，把他弄醒了。他在梦中回到了芝加哥，回到了他自己那舒适的家中。杰西卡正在准备去什么地方，他一直在和她谈论着这件事。他脑子里的这个情景如此清晰，和现在这个房间一对比，使他大吃了一惊。他抬起头来，这个冷酷、痛苦的现实，使他猛地清醒了。 
“我看我还是起床吧，”他说。 
这层楼上没有水。他在寒冷中穿上鞋了，站起身来，抖了抖自己僵硬的身子。他觉得自己衣衫不整，头发凌乱。 
“见鬼！”他在戴帽子时，嘴里嘀咕道。 
楼下又热闹起来。 
他找到一个水龙头，下面有一个原来用来饮马的水槽。可是没有毛巾，他的手帕昨天也弄脏了。他将就着用冰冷的水擦擦眼睛就算洗好了。然后，他找到已经在场上的工头。 
“你吃过早饭了吗？”那个大人物问。 
“没有，”赫斯渥说。 
“那就去吃吧，你的车要等一会儿才能准备好。”赫斯渥犹豫起来。 
“你能给我一张餐券吗？”他吃力地问。 
“给你，”那人说，递给他一张餐券。 
他的这顿早餐和头一天的晚餐一样差，就吃了些炸牛排和劣质咖啡。然后他又回来了。 
“喂，”当他进来时，工头指着他招呼说，“过一会儿，你开这辆车出去。”他在阴暗的车棚里爬上驾驶台，等候发车的信号。他很紧张，不过开车出去倒是一件令人欣慰的事。无论干什么事都比呆在车棚里强。 
这是罢工的第四天，形势恶化了。罢工工人听从他们的领袖以及报纸的劝告，一直在和平地进行斗争。没有什么大的暴力行动。电车遭到阻拦，这是事实，并且和开车的人展开了辩论。有些司机和售票员被争取过去带走了，有些车窗玻璃被砸碎，也有嘲笑和叫骂的，但是至多只有五六起冲突中有人受了重伤。这些行动是围观群众所为，罢工领袖否认对此负责。 
可是，罢工工人无事可干，又看到公司在警察的支持下，显得神气活现，他们被惹恼了。他们眼看着每天有更多的车辆在运行，每天有更多的公司当局的布告，说罢工工人的有效反抗已经被粉碎。这迫使罢工工人产生了铤而走险的想法。他们看到，和平的方式意味着公司很快就会全线通车，而那些抱怨的罢工工人就会被遗忘。没有什么比和平的方式对公司更有利了。 
突然，他们狂怒起来，于是暴风骤雨持续了一个星期。袭击电车，殴打司乘人员，和警察发生冲突，掀翻轨道，还有开枪的，最后弄得常常发生街头斗殴和聚众闹事，国民警卫队密布全城。 
赫斯渥对形势的这些变化一无所知。 
“把你的车子开出去，”工头叫道，使劲地向他挥动着一只手。一个新手售票员从后面跳上车来，打了两遍铃，作为开车的信号。赫斯渥转动操纵杆，开车从大门出来，上了车场前面的街道。这时，上来两个身强力壮的警察，一边一个，站在驾驶台上他的身边。 
听得车场门口一声锣响，售票员打了两遍铃，赫斯渥起动了电车。 
两个警察冷静地观察着四周。 
“今天早晨天气真冷，”左边的一个说，口音带着浓重的爱尔兰土腔。 
“昨天我可是受够了，”另一个说，“我可不想一直干这种活。”“我也一样。”两个人都毫不在意赫斯渥，他冒着寒风站在那里，被吹得浑身冰冷，心里还在想着给他的指令。 
“保持平稳的速度，”工头说过，“遇到任何看上去不像是真正的乘客的人，都不要停车。遇到人群你也无论如何不要停车。”两个警察沉默了一会儿。 
“开前一辆车的人肯定是安全通过了，”左边的警察说，“到处都没看到他的车。”“谁在那辆车上？”第二个警察问，当然是指护车的警察。 
“谢弗和瑞安。” 
又是一阵沉默，在这段时间内，电车平稳地向前行驶。沿着这段路没有多少房屋。赫斯渥也没看见多少人。在他看来，情况并不太糟。倘若他不是这么冷的话，他觉得自己是可以开得很好的。 
突然，出乎他的预料，前面出现了一段弯路，打消了他的这种感觉。他切断电源，使劲地一转刹车，但是已经来不及避免一次不自然的急转弯了。这把他吓了一跳，他想要说些抱歉的话，但又忍住了没说。 
“你要当心这些转弯的地方，”左边的警察屈尊地说。 
“你说得很对，”赫斯渥惭愧地表示同意。 
“这条线上有很多这种转弯的地方，”右边的警察说。 
转弯之后，出现了一条居民较多的街道。看得见前面有一两个行人。有一个男孩拎着一只铁皮牛奶桶，从一家大门里出来，从他的嘴里，赫斯渥第一次尝到了不受欢迎的滋味。 
“工贼！”他大声骂道，“工贼！” 
赫斯渥听见了骂声，但是努力不置可否，甚至连心里也一声不吭。他知道他会挨骂的，而且可能会听到更多类似的骂声。 
在前面的拐角处，一个人站在轨道旁，示意车子停下。 
“别理他，”一个警察说，“他要搞鬼的。”赫斯渥遵命而行。到了拐角处，他看出这样做是明智的。 
这个人一发觉他们不打算理他，就挥了挥拳头。 
“啊，你这该死的胆小鬼！”他大声叫道。 
站在拐角处的五六个人，冲着疾驶而过的电车，发出一阵辱骂和嘲笑声。 
赫斯渥稍稍有一点畏缩。实际情况比他原来想象的还要糟一些。 
这时，看得见前面过去三四条横马路的地方，轨道上有一堆东西。 
“好哇，他们在这里捣过鬼，”一个警察说。 
“也许我们要来一场争论了，”另一个说。 
赫斯渥把车开到附近停了下来。可是，还没等他把车完全停稳，就围上来一群人。这些人有一部分是原来的司机和售票员，还有一些是他们的朋友和同情者。 
“下车吧，伙计，”其中一个人用一种息事宁人的口气说。 
“你并不想从别人的嘴里抢饭吃，是吧？”赫斯渥握着刹车和操纵杆不松手，面色苍白，实在不知如何是好。 
“靠后站，”一个警察大声叫道，从驾驶台的栏杆上探出身来。“马上把这些东西搬开。给人家一个机会干他的工作。”“听着，伙计，”这位领头的人不理睬警察，对赫斯渥说。 
“我们都是工人，像你一样。倘若你是个正式的司机，受到了我们所受的待遇，你不会愿意有人插进来抢你的饭碗的，是吧？ 
你不会愿意有人来剥夺你争取自己应有的权利的机会的，是吧？”“关掉发动机！关掉发动机！”另一个警察粗声粗气地催促着。“快滚开。”他说着，跃过栏杆，跳下车站在人群的面前，开始把人群往回推。另一个警察也立即下车站到他的身边。 
“赶快靠后站，”他们大叫道，“滚开。你们到底要干什么？ 
走开，赶快。” 
人群就像是一群蜜蜂。 
“别推我，”其中的一个罢工工人坚决地说，“我可没干什么。”“滚开！”警察喊道，挥舞着警棍。“我要给你脑门上来一棍子。快后退。”“真是见鬼了！”另一个罢工工人一边喊着，一边倒推起来，同时还加上了几句狠狠的咒骂声。 
啪地一声，他的前额挨了一警棍。他的两眼昏花地眨了几下，两腿发抖，举起双手，摇摇晃晃地朝后退去。作为回敬，这位警察的脖子上挨了飞快的一拳。 
这个警察被这一拳激怒了，他左冲右撞，发疯似地挥舞着警棍四处打人。他得到了他的穿蓝制服的同行的有力支援，这位同行还火上浇油地大声咒骂着愤怒的人群。由于罢工工人躲闪得快，深有造成严重的伤害。现在，他们站在人行道上嘲笑着。 
“售票员在哪里？”一个警察大声叫着，目光落在那个人身上，这时他已经紧张不安地走上前来，站到赫斯渥身边。赫斯渥一直站在那里呆呆地看着这场纠纷，与其说是害怕，不如说是吃惊。 
“你为什么不下车到这里来，把轨道上的这些石头搬开？”警察问。“你站在那里干什么？你想整天待在这里吗？下来！”赫斯渥激动地喘着粗气，和那个紧张的售票员一起跳下车来，好像叫的是他一样。 
“喂，赶快，“另一个警察说。 
虽然天气很冷，这两个警察却又热又狂。赫斯渥和售票员一起干活，把石头一块一块地搬走。他自己也干得发热了。 
“啊，你们这些工贼，你们！”人群叫了起来，“你们这些胆小鬼！要抢别人的工作，是吗？要抢穷人的饭碗，是吗？你们这些贼。喂，我们会抓住你们的。你们就等着吧。”这些话并不是出自一个人之口。到处都有人在说，许多类似的话混合在一起，还夹杂着咒骂声。 
“干活吧，你们这些恶棍！”一个声音叫道，“干你们卑鄙的活吧。你们是压贫穷人的吸血鬼！”“愿上帝饿死你们，”一个爱尔兰老太婆喊道，这时她打开附近的一扇窗户，伸出头来。 
“是的，还有你，”她和一个警察的目光相遇，又补充道。 
“你这个残忍的强盗！你打我儿子的脑袋，是吧？你这个冷酷的杀人魔鬼。啊，你--”但是警察却置若罔闻。 
“见你的鬼去吧，你这个老母夜叉，”他盯着四周分散的人群，低声咕哝着。 
这时石头都已搬开了，赫斯渥在一起连续不断的谩骂声中又爬上了驾驶台。就在两个警察也上车站到他的身旁，售票员打铃时，砰！砰！从车窗和车门扔进大大小小的石头来。有一块差点擦伤了赫斯渥的脑袋。又一块打碎了后窗的玻璃。 
“拉足操纵杆。”一个警察大声嚷道，自己伸手去抓把手。 
赫斯渥照办了，电车飞奔起来，后面跟着一阵石头的碰撞声和一连串咒骂声。 
“那个王八蛋打中了我的脖子，”一个警察说，“不过，我也好好回敬了他一棍子。”“我看我肯定把几个人打出了血，”另一个说。 
“我认识那个骂我们是×××的那个大块头家伙，”第一个说，“为此，我不会放过他的。”“一到那里，我就知道我们准会有麻烦的，”第二个说。 
赫斯渥又热又激动，两眼紧盯着前方。对他来说，这是一段惊人的经历。他曾经从报纸上看到过这种事情，但是身临起境时却觉得完全是一件新鲜事。精神上他倒并非胆小怕事。刚刚经历的这一切，现在反倒激发他下定决心，要顽强地坚持到底。他再也没去想纽约或者他的公寓。这次出车似乎要他全力以赴，无暇顾及其它了。 
现在他们畅通无阻地驶进了布鲁克林的商业中心。人们注视着打碎的车窗和穿便服的赫斯渥。不时地有声音叫着“工贼”，还听到其它的辱骂声，但是没有人群袭击电车。到了商业区的电车终点站，一个警察去打电话给他所在的警察分局，报告路上遇到的麻烦。 
“那里有一帮家伙，”他说，“还在埋伏着等待我们。最好派人去那里把他们赶走。”电车往回开时，一路上平静多了--有人谩骂，有人观望，有人扔石头，但是没有人袭击电车。当赫斯渥看见车场时，轻松地出了一口气。 
“好啦，”他对自己说。“我总算平安地过来了。”电车驶进了车场，他得到允许可以休息一下，但是后来他又被叫去出车。这一次，新上来了一对警察。他稍微多了一点自信，把车开得飞快，驶过那些寻常的街道，觉得不怎么害怕了。可是另一方面，他却吃尽了苦头。那天又湿又冷，天上飘着零星的雪花，寒风阵阵，因为电车速度飞快，更加冷得无法忍受。他的衣服不是穿着来干这种活的。他冻得直抖，于是像他以前看到别的司机所做的那样，跺着双脚，拍着两臂，但是一声不吭。他现在的处境既新鲜又危险，这在某种程度上减轻了他对被起来这里感到的厌恶和痛苦，但是还不足以使他不感到闷闷不乐。他想，这简直是狗过的日子。被起来干这种活真是命苦哇。 
支撑着他的唯一念头，就是嘉莉对他的侮辱。他想，他还没有堕落到要受她的侮辱的地步。他是能够干些事的--甚至是这种事--是能够干一阵子的。情况会好起来的。他会攒一些钱的。 
正当他想着这些时，一个男孩扔过来一团泥块，打中了他的手臂。这一下打得很疼，他被激怒了，比今天早晨以来的任何时候都要愤怒。 
“小杂种！”他咕哝道。 
“伤着你了吗？”一个警察问道。 
“没有，”他回答。 
在一个拐角上，电车因为拐弯而放慢了速度。一个罢工的司机站在人行道上，向他喊道：“伙计，你为什么不下车来，做个真正的男子汉呢？请记住，我们的斗争只是为了争取像样的工资，仅此而已。我们得养家糊口埃"这个人看来很倾向于采取和平的方式。 
赫斯渥假装没有看见他。他两眼直瞪着前方，拉足了操纵杆。那声音带着一些恳求的味道。 
整个上午情况都是这样，一直持续到下午。他这样出了三次车。他吃的饭顶不住这样的工作，而且寒冷也影响了他。每次到了终点站，他都要停车暖和一下，但他还是难过得想要呻吟了。有一个车场的工作人员看他可怜，借给他一顶厚实的帽子和一副羊皮手套。这一次，他可真是感激极了。 
他下午第二次出车时，开到半路遇到了一群人，他们用一根旧电线杆挡住了电车的去路。 
“把那东西从轨道上搬开，”两个警察大声叫道。 
“唷，唷，唷！”人群喊着，“你们自己搬吧。”两个警察下了车，赫斯渥也准备跟着下去。 
“你留在那里，”一个警察叫道，“会有人把你的车开走的。”在一片混乱声中，赫斯渥听到一个声音就在他身边说话。 
“下来吧，伙计，做一个真正的男子汉。不要和穷人斗。那让公司去干吧。”他认出就是在拐角处对他喊话的那个人。这次他也像前面一样。假装没听见。 
“下来吧，”那个人温和地重复道。“你不想和穷人斗的。一点也不想的。”这是个十分善辩且狡猾的司机。 
从什么地方又来了一个警察，和那两个警察联合起来，还有人去打电话要求增派警察。赫斯渥注视着四周，态度坚决但内心害怕。 
一个人揪住了他的外套。 
“你给我下车吧，”那个人嚷着，用力拉他，想把他从栏杆上拖下来。 
“放手，”赫斯渥凶狠地说。 
“我要给你点厉害瞧瞧--你这个工贼！”一个爱尔兰小伙子喊着跳上车来，对准赫斯渥就是一拳。赫斯渥急忙躲闪，结果这一拳打在肩膀上而不是下颚上。 
“滚开，”一个警察大叫着，赶快过来援救，当然照例加上一阵咒骂。 
赫斯渥恢复了镇静，面色苍白，浑身发抖。现在，他面临的情况变得严重了。人们抬头看着他，嘲笑着他。一个女孩在做着鬼脸。 
他的决心开始动摇了。这时开来一辆巡逻车，从车上下来更多的警察。这样一来，轨道迅速得到清理，路障排除了。 
“马上开车，赶快，”警察说，于是他又开着车走了。 
最后他们碰到了一群真正的暴徒。这群暴徒在电车返回行驶到离车场一两英里的地方时，截住了电车。这一带看起来非常贫困。他想赶快开过去，可是轨道又被阻塞了。他还在五六条横马路之外，就看见这里有人在往轨道上搬着什么东西。 
“他们又来了！”一个警察叫了起来。 
“这一次我要给他们一些厉害，”第二个警察说，他快要忍耐不住了。当电车开上前时，赫斯渥浑身感到一阵不安。像先前一样，人群开始叫骂起来。但是，这回他们不走过来，而是投掷着东西。有一两块车窗玻璃被打碎了，赫斯渥躲过了一块石头。 
两个警察一起冲向人群，但是人们反而朝电车奔来。其中有一个女人--看模样只是个小姑娘--拿着一根粗棍子。 
她愤怒至极，对着赫斯渥就是一棍子，赫斯渥躲开了。这一下，她的同伴们大受鼓舞，跳上车来，把赫斯渥拖下了车。他还没有来得及说话或者叫喊，就已经跌倒了。 
“放开我，”他说，朝一边倒下去。 
“啊，你这个吸血鬼，”他听到有人说。拳打脚踢像雨点般落到他的身上。他仿佛快要窒息了。然后，有两个人像是在把他拖开，他挣扎着想脱身。 
“别动了，”一个声音说，“你没事了。站起来吧。”他被放开后，清醒了过来。这时，他认出是那两个警察。他感到精疲力尽得快要晕过去了。他觉得下巴上有什么湿的东西。他抬起手去摸摸，然后一看，是血。 
“他们把我打伤了，”他呆头呆脑地说，伸手去摸手帕。 
“好啦，好啦，”一个警察说，“只是擦破了点皮。”现在，他的神志清醒了，他看了看四周。他正站在一家小店里，他们暂时把他留在那里。当他站在那里揩着下巴时，他看见外面的电车和骚动的人群。那里有一辆巡逻车，还有另外一辆车。 
他走到门口，向外看了看。那是一辆救护车，正在倒车。 
他看见警察使劲朝人群冲了几次，逮捕了一些人。 
“倘若你想把车开回去的话，现在就来吧，”一个警察打开小店的门，向里看了看说。 
他走了出来，实在不知道自己该怎么办才好。他感到很冷，很害怕。 
“售票员在哪里？”他问。 
“哦，他现在不在这里，”警察说。 
赫斯渥朝电车走去，紧张地爬上了车。就在他上车时，响了一声手枪声，他觉得有什么东西刺痛了他的肩膀。 
“谁开的枪？”他听到一个警察叫起来，“天哪！谁开的枪？”两人甩下他，朝一幢大楼跑去。他停了一会儿，然后下了车。 
“天哪！”赫斯渥喊道，声音微弱。“这个我可受不了啦。”他紧张地走到拐角处，弯进一条小街，匆匆走去。 
“哎唷！”他呻吟着，吸了一口气。 
离这里不远，有一个小女孩在盯着他看 
“你最好还是赶快溜吧，”她叫道。 
他冒着暴风雪上了回家的路，暴风雪刮得人睁不开眼睛。 
等他到达渡口时，已经是黄昏了。船舱里坐满了生活舒适的人，他们好奇地打量着他。他的头还在打着转转，弄得他糊里糊涂。河上的灯火在白茫茫的漫天大雪中闪烁着，如此壮观的景色，却没有引其他的注意。他顽强地、步履艰难地走着，一直走回了公寓。他进了公寓，觉得屋里很暖。嘉莉已经出去了。 
桌上放着两份她留在那里的晚报。他点上了煤气灯，坐了下来。接着又站了起来，脱去衣服看看肩膀。只是擦伤了一小点。 
他洗了手和脸，明显地还在发愣，又把头发梳好。然后，他找了些东西来吃，终于，他不再感到饿了，就在他那舒服的摇椅里坐了下来。这一下可是轻松极了。 
他用手托住下巴，暂时忘记了报纸。 
“嘿，”过了一会儿，他回过神来说，“那里的活儿可真难干呀。”然后他回头看见了报纸。他轻轻叹了一口气。拾起了《世界报》。 
“罢工正在布鲁克林蔓延，”他念道，“城里到处都有暴乱发生。”他把报纸拿好些，舒舒服服地往下看。这是他最感兴趣的新闻。
Chapter 42 A TOUCH OF SPRING: THE EMPTY SHELL
Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of judgment will none the less realise the negative influence on him of the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it. He said so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse than the ordinary roughness -- quitting so soon in the face of this seemed trifling. He did not want to work. 
She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any of them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself in the loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple of laughter: 
"Well, who are you?" 
It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It might as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. He expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But Carrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, courtesied sweetly again and answered: 
"I am yours truly." 
It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it, hearing the laughter. 
"I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get the last laugh. 
Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or "business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think. 
As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in recognition. 
"You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how intelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though." 
"Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found herself trembling violently. 
"Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus. "There isn't another one of us has got a line." 
There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the company realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when next evening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress. 
The next day she asked him about his venture. 
"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't want anybody just now -- not before next week." 
Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the like with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found himself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had once attended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. He sat, gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the clink of glasses. 
"You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standing again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores for a good story. 
All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike. He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the doze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time, however, it did not seem quite so strange. 
Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man -- not the group with whom he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit -- called. He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off. 
"They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "If I had it I'd pay them." 
Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding, had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of herself amount to anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of pussy-like way and instinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to Carrie. 
"Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration. "You're so good." 
Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared. Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No longer the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that men could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost its force with her. It required superiority -- kindly superiority -- to move her -- the superiority of a genius like Ames. 
"I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day. "They're all so stuck on themselves." 
"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who had received a condescending smile or two from that quarter. 
"Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. He assumes such an air." 
Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner: 
"Are you paying room-rent where you are?" 
"Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?" 
"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's too big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only six dollars a week for both." 
"Where?" said Carrie. 
"In Seventeenth Street." 
"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was already turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was thinking if she had only herself to support this would leave her seventeen for herself. 
Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if she must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and thus making him act for himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared he might resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at the show and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he would, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if he made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly. 
Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leaving and Carrie was selected. 
"How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing the good news. 
"I didn't ask him," said Carrie. 
"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask. Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow." 
"Oh, no," said Carrie. 
"Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway." 
Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part. 
"How much do I get?" she inquired. 
"Thirty-five dollars," he replied. 
Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged Lola, who clung to her at the news. 
"It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especially when you've got to buy clothes." 
Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near. 
"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't use the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move." 
Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent than ever. 
"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way." 
"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly. 
"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time." 
Carrie thought a while. 
"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see first, though." 
With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever. 
As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on her," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place." 
Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table. 
"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked. 
"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift. 
"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We don't need four rooms." 
Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have exhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of his determination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower. 
"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary. 
"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms, which would do just as well." 
Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the money to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. That very day she did it. Having done so, there was but one other thing to do. 
"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come." 
"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter. 
"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room. 
"Certainly," cried Lola. 
They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her expenditures -- enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged salary would not begin for ten days yet -- would not reach her for seventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend. 
"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she confided. 
"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, if you need it." 
"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along." 
They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like a criminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had realised that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude, there was something pathetic. 
She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go, and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper, while she glanced at him. 
Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous. 
"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood, laying down a two-dollar bill. 
"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money. 
"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook it for dinner." 
Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and getting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were old and poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before, but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it, after all. He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine appearance the days he had met her in the park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it been all his fault? 
He came back and laid the change down with the food. 
"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things." 
"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it." 
"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll be other things." 
He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quaver in her voice. 
To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case. She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had regretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she had any choice in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him ill. There was something cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling that he would never understand what Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision in her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not want to make any one who had been good to her feel badly. 
She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought. 
Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady packing and singing. 
"Why don't you come over with me to-day?" she asked. 
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mind lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?" 
"Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse. 
"I want to get some other things," said Carrie. 
"Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad to be of service. 
It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to the grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was upon him -- had been for two days -- but chill, grey weather had held him back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers of spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front windows, and felt the south wind blowing. 
"It's lovely out to-day," she remarked. 
"Is it?" said Hurstwood. 
After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes. 
"Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie, nervously. 
"No," he said. 
He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing. 
Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park, which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected. It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling up. Coming back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock. 
There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall, tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it, folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused him to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room. 
When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in. Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late. He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself. 
As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost without further action on his part. 
Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green paper money lay soft within the note. 
"Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "I'm going away. 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 mantel-piece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, 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 onto 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 dinner-time. 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.
然而，那些认为赫斯渥的布鲁克林之行是个判断错误的人，也将意识到他尝试过并且失败了的事实在他身上产生的消极影响。对这件事情，嘉莉得出了错误的看法。他谈得很少，她还以为他遇到的只不过是些一般的粗暴行为。遇到这种情况，这么快就不干了，真是没意思。他就是不想工作。她这时在扮演一群东方美女中的一个。在这出喜歌剧的第二幕中，宫廷大臣让这群美女列队从新登基的国王面前走过，炫耀他的这群后宫宝贝。她们中谁都没被指定有台词，但是在赫斯渥睡在电车场的阁楼上的那天晚上，那个演主角的喜剧明星想玩个噱头，就声音洪亮地说：“喂，你是谁呀？”引起了一阵笑声。 
只是碰巧这时是嘉莉在他面前行礼。就他而言，原本随便对谁都是一样的。他并不指望听到回答，而且如果回答得笨拙是要挨骂的。但是，嘉莉的经验和自信给了她胆量，她又甜甜地行了个礼，回答说：“我是你忠实的姬妾。”这是一句很平常的话，但是她说这话时的风度却吸引了观众，他们开心地嘲笑着假装凶相、威严地站在这个年轻女人面前的国王。这个喜剧演员听到了笑声，也喜欢这句话。 
“我还以为你叫史密斯呢，”他回答说，想博得最后的一阵笑声。 
说完这句话，嘉莉几乎被自己的大胆吓得发抖。剧团的全体成员都受过警告，擅自加台词或动作，要受到罚款或更严重的惩罚。她不知如何是好。 
当她站在舞台侧面自己的位置上，等待下一次上场时，那位喜剧大师退场从她身边走过，认出了她便停了下来。 
“你以后就保留这句台词吧，”他说，看出她显得非常聪明。“不过，别再加什么了。”“谢谢你，”嘉莉毕恭毕敬地说。等他走了，她发现自己在剧烈地颤抖。 
“哦，你真走运，”群舞队的另一个队员说，“我们中间没有谁能得到过一句台词。”这件事的重要性是无可置疑的。剧团里人人都意识到她已经开始崭露头角了。第二天晚上，这句台词又博得了喝彩，嘉莉暗自感到庆幸。她回家时非常高兴，知道这事肯定很快就会有好的结果。可是，见到赫斯渥在家，她的那些愉快的想法就被赶跑了。取而代之的是要结束这种痛苦局面的强烈愿望。 
第二天，她问他找事做的情况。 
“他们不想出车了，除非有警察保护。他们目前不要用人，下星期之前都不要用人。”下一个星期到了，但是嘉莉没见赫斯渥有什么变化。他似乎比以前更显得麻木不仁。他看着嘉莉每天早晨出去参加排练之类的事，冷静到了极点。他只是看报，看报。有几次他发现自己眼睛盯着一则新闻，脑子里却在想着别的事情。他第一次明显地感到这样走神时，他正在回想他曾在骑马俱乐部里参加过的一次狂欢舞会，他当时曾是这个俱乐部的会员。他坐在那里，低着头，渐渐地以为自己听到了往日的人声和碰杯声。 
“你太棒了，赫斯渥，”他的朋友沃克说，他又打扮得漂漂亮亮地站在那里，满面笑容，态度和善，刚才讲了一个好听的故事，此刻正在接受旁人的喝彩。 
突然他抬头一看，屋里寂静得像是有幽灵一般。他听到时钟清楚的滴嗒声，有些怀疑刚才自己是在打瞌睡。可是，报纸还是笔直地在他手里竖着，刚才看的新闻就在他眼前，于是他打消了认为自己刚才是在打瞌睡的想法。可这事还是很奇怪。 
等到第二次又发生这样的事时，似乎就不那么奇怪了肉铺、食品店、面包房和煤炭店的老板们--不是他正在打交道的那些人，而是那些曾最大限度地赊帐给他的人--上门要帐了。他和气地对付所有的这些人，在找借口推托上变得很熟练了。最后，他胆大起来，或是假装不在家，或是挥挥手叫他们走开。 
“石头里榨不出油来，”他说，“假如我有钱，我会付给他们的。”嘉莉正在走红。她那个演小兵的朋友奥斯本小姐，已经变得像是她的仆人了。小奥斯本自己不可能有任何作为。她就像小猫一样意识到了这一点，本能地决定要用她那柔软的小爪子抓住嘉莉不放。 
“哦，你会红起来的，”她总是这样赞美嘉莉，“你太棒了。”嘉莉虽然胆子很小，但是能力很强。别人对她的信赖使她自己也觉得仿佛一定会红起来，既然她一定会红，她也就胆大了起来。她已经老于世故并经历过贫困，这些都对她有利。她不再会被男人一句无足轻重的话弄得头脑发昏。她已经明白男人也会变化，也会失败。露骨的奉承对她已经失去了作用。 
要想打动她，得有高人一等的优势--善意的优势-—像艾姆斯那样的天才的优势。 
“我不喜欢我们剧团里的男演员，”一天她告诉萝拉，“他们都太自负了。”“你不认为巴克利先生很好吗？”萝拉问，她曾经得到过这个人恩赐给她的一两次微笑。 
“喔，他是不错，”嘉莉回答，“但是他不真诚。他太装模作样了。”萝拉第一次试探着影响嘉莉，用的是以下的方式。 
“你住的地方要付房租吗？” 
“当然要付，”嘉莉回答。“为什么问这个？”“我知道一个地方能租到最漂亮的房间带浴室，很便宜。 
我一个人住太大了，要是两个人合住就正合适，房租两个人每周只要６块钱。 
“在哪里？”嘉莉说。 
“十七街。” 
“可是，我还不知道我是不是想换个地方住，”嘉莉说，脑子里已经在反复考虑那３块钱的房租了。她在想，如果她只需养活她自己，那她就能留下她那１７块钱自己用了。 
这件事直到赫斯渥从布鲁克林冒险回来而且嘉莉的那句台词获得成功之后才有了下文。这时，她开始感到自己必须得到解脱。她想离开赫斯渥，这样让他自己去奋斗。但是他的性格已经变得很古怪，她怕他可能不会让她离开他的。他可能去戏院找到她，就那样追着她不放。她并不完全相信他会那样做，但是他可能会的。她知道，如果他使自己引起了人们的注意，不管是怎么引起的，这件事都会令她难堪的。这使她十分苦恼。 
有一个更好的角色要让她来扮演，这样一来就使情况急转直下了。这个角色是个贤淑的情人，扮演它的女演员提出了辞职，于是嘉莉被选中来补缺。 
“你能拿多少钱？”听到这个好消息，奥斯本小姐问道。 
“我没有问，”嘉莉说。 
“那就去问清楚。天哪，不去问，你什么也得不到的。告诉他们，不管怎样，你都得拿４０块钱。”“哦，不，”嘉莉说。 
“别不啦！”萝拉叫了起来。“无论如何要问问他们。”嘉莉听从了这个劝告，不过还是一直等到经理通知她扮演这个角色她得有些什么行头的时候。 
“我能拿多少钱？”她问。 
“３５块，”他回答。 
嘉莉惊喜至极，竟没想起要提４０块钱的事。她高兴得几乎发狂，差一点要拥抱萝拉了。萝拉听到这个消息就粘上了她。 
“你应该拿得比这更多，”萝拉说，“尤其是如果你得自备行头的话。”嘉莉想起这事吃了一惊。去哪里弄这一笔钱呢？她没有积蓄能应付这种急需，付房租的日子又快到了。 
“我不付房租了，”她说，想起自己的急需。“我用不着这套公寓了。这一次我不会拿出我的钱。我要搬家。”奥斯本小姐的再次恳求来的正是时候，这一次提得比以前更加迫切。 
“来和我一起住，好吗？”她恳求说，“我们可以得到最可爱的房间。而且那样你几乎不用花什么钱。”“我很愿意，”嘉莉坦率地说。 
“哦，那就来吧，”萝拉说。“我们一定会很快活的。”嘉莉考虑了一会儿。 
“我想我会搬的，”她说，然后又加了一句。“不过，我得先看看。”这样打定了这个主意之后，随着付房租的日子的临近，加上购置行头又迫在眉睫，她很快就从赫斯渥的没精打采上找到了借口。他比以前更少说话，更加消沉。 
当付房租的日子快到的时候，他心里产生了一个念头。债权人催着要钱，又不可能再往下拖了，于是就有了这个念头。 
２８块钱的房租实在太多了。“她也够难的，”他想，“我们可以找个便宜一些的地方。”动了这个念头之后，他在早餐桌上开了口。 
“你觉得我们这里的房租是不是太贵了？”他问。 
“我是觉得太贵了，”嘉莉说，不明白他是什么意思。 
“我想我们可以找个小点的地方，”他建议说，“我们不需要四间房子。”这明显地表明他决心和她待在一起，她对此感到不安。如果他在仔细地观察，就会从她的面部表情上看出这一点。他并不认为要求她屈就一些有什么可大惊小怪的。 
“哦，这我就不知道了，”她回答，变得谨慎起来。 
“这周围肯定有地方能租到两间房子，我们住两间也就够了。”她心里很反感。“不可能的！”她想。谁拿钱来搬家？连想都不敢想和他一起住在两间房子里！她决定尽快把自己的钱花在买行头上，要赶在什么可怕的事情发生之前。就在这一天，她买了行头。这样做了以后，就别无选择了。 
“萝拉，”她拜访她的朋友时说，“我看我要搬来了。”“啊，太好了！”后者大叫起来。 
“我们马上就能拿到手吗？”她问，指的是房子。 
“当然罗，”萝拉嚷道。 
她们去看了房子。嘉莉从自己的开支中省下了１０块钱，够付房租而且还够吃饭的。她的薪水要等十天以后才开始增加，要等十七天后才能到她的手中。她和她的朋友各付了６块钱房租的一半。 
“现在，我的钱只够用到这个周末了，”她坦白说。 
“哦，我还有一些，”萝拉说。“如果你要用，我还有２５块钱。”“不用，”嘉莉说。“我想我能对付的。”她们决定星期五搬家，也就是两天以后。现在事情已经定了下来，嘉莉却感到心中不安起来。她觉得自己在这件事情上很像是一个罪犯。每天看看赫斯渥，她发现他的态度虽然令人生厌，但也有些叫人可怜的地方。 
就在她打定主意要走的当天晚上，她看着他，发现这时的他不再显得那么既无能又无用，而只不过是被倒霉的运气压垮和打败了。他目光呆滞，满脸皱纹，双手无力。她觉得他的头发也有些灰白了。当她看着他时，他对自己的厄运毫无察觉，坐在摇椅里边摇边看着纸。 
她知道这一切即将结束，反倒变得很有些放心不下了。 
“你出去买些罐头桃子好吗？”她问赫斯渥，放下一张２块钱的钞票。 
“当然可以，”他说，惊讶地看着钱。 
“你看看能不能买些好芦笋，”她补充说，“我要用来做晚饭。”赫斯渥站起来，拿了钱，匆忙穿上大衣，又拿了帽子。嘉莉注意到他这两件穿戴的东西都已经旧了，看上去很寒酸。这在以前显得很平常，但是现在却使她觉得特别地触目惊心。也许他实在是没有办法。他在芝加哥干得很好的。她回想起他在公园里和她约会的那些日子里他那堂堂的仪容。那时候，他是那么生气勃勃、衣冠整洁。难道这一切全是他的错吗？ 
他回来了，把找头和食物一起放下。 
“还是你拿着吧，”她说，“我们还要买别的东西。”“不，”他说，口气里带着点自尊，“你拿着。”“哦，你就拿着吧，”她回答，真有些气馁。“还有别的东西要买。”他对此感到惊奇，不知道自己在她眼里已经变成了一个可怜虫。她努力克制住自己，不让自己的声音发抖。 
说实话，对待任何事情，嘉莉的态度都是这样。她有时也回想起自己离开杜洛埃，待他那么不好，感到很后悔。她希望自己永远不要再见到他，但她对自己的行为却感到羞愧。这倒不是说在最后分手时，她还有什么别的选择。当赫斯渥说他受伤时，她是怀着一颗同情的心，自愿去找他的。然而在某个方面曾有过某些残忍之处，可她又无法按照逻辑推理来想出究竟残忍在哪里，于是她就凭感觉断定，她永远不会理解赫斯渥的所作所为，而只会从她的行为上看出她在作决定时心肠有多么硬。因此她感到羞愧。这倒不是说她还对他有情。她只是不想让任何曾经善待过她的人感到难过而已。 
她并没有意识到她这样让这些感情缠住自己是在做些什么。赫斯渥注意到了她的善意，把她想得好了一些。“不管怎么说，嘉莉还是好心肠的。”他想。 
那天下午，她去奥斯本小姐的住处，看见这位小姐正在边唱歌边收拾东西。 
“你为什么不和我一道今天就搬呢？”她问道。 
“哦，我不行，”嘉莉说。“我星期五会到那里的。你愿意把你说过的那２５块钱借给我吗？”“噢，当然愿意，”萝拉说着，就去拿自己的钱包。 
“我想买些其它的东西，”嘉莉说。 
“哦，这没问题，”这位小姑娘友善地回答，很高兴能帮上忙。 
赫斯渥已经有好些天除了跑跑食品店和报摊以外，整天无所事事了，现在他已厌倦了待在室内--这样已有两天了--可是寒冷、阴暗的天气又使他不敢出门。星期五天放晴了，暖和起来。这是一个预示着春天即将到来的可爱的日子。 
这样的日子在阴冷的冬天出现，表明温暖和美丽并没有抛弃大地。蓝蓝的天空托着金色的太阳，洒下一片水晶般明亮温暖的光辉。可以听得见麻雀的叫声，显然外面是一片平静。嘉莉打开前窗，迎面吹来一阵南风。 
“今天外面的天气真好，”她说。 
“是吗？”赫斯渥说。 
早饭后，他立刻换上了别的衣服。 
“你回来吃中饭吗？”嘉莉紧张地问。 
“不，”他说。 
他出门来到街上，沿着第七大道朝北走去，随意选定了哈莱姆河作为目的地。他那次去拜访酿酒厂时，曾看见河上有几条船。他想看看那一带地区发展得怎么样了。 
过了五十九街，他沿着中央公园的西边走到七十八街。这时，他想起了他们原来住的那块地方，就拐过去看看那一大片建起的高楼。这里已经大为改观。那些大片的空地已经造满了房子。他倒回来，沿着公园一直走到一百一十街，然后又拐进了第七大道，１点钟时才到达那条美丽的河边。 
他注视着眼前的这条河流，右边是起伏不平的河岸，左边是丛林密布的高地，它就在这中间蜿蜒流去，在灿烂的阳光下闪闪发亮。这里春天般的气息唤醒了他，使他感觉到了这条河的可爱。于是，他背着双手，站了一会儿，看着河流。然后，他转身沿着河朝东区走去，漫不经心地寻找着他曾看见过的船只。等到他发现白天就要过去，夜晚可能转凉，想起要回去的时候，已经是４点钟了。这时他饿了，想坐在温暖的房间里好好地吃上一顿。 
当他５点半钟回到公寓时，屋里还是黑的。他知道嘉莉不在家，不仅因为门上的气窗没有透出灯光，而且晚报还塞在门外的把手和门之间。他用钥匙打开门，走了进去。里面一片漆黑。他点亮煤气灯，坐了下来，准备等一小会儿。即使嘉莉现在就回来，也要很晚才能吃饭了。他看报看到６点钟。然后站起身来去弄点东西给自己吃。 
他起身时，发觉房间里似乎有些异样。这是怎么啦？他看了看四周，觉得像是少了什么东西。然后，看见了一个信封放在靠近他坐的位置的地方。这个信封本身就说明了问题，几乎用不着他再做什么了。 
他伸手过去拿起信封。他在伸手的时候，就浑身打了个寒战。信封拿在他手里发出很响的沙沙声。柔软的绿色钞皮夹在信里。 
“亲爱的乔治，”他看着信，一只手把钞票捏得嘎吱响。“我要走了。我不再回来了。不用再设法租这套公寓了，我负担不起。倘若我能做得到的话，我会乐意帮你的，但是我无法维持我们两个人的生活，而且还要付房租。我要用我挣的那点钱来买衣服。我留下２０块钱。我眼下只有这么多。家具任由你处理，我不要的。嘉莉。”他把信放下，默默地看了看四周。现在他知道少了什么了。是只当做摆设的小钟，那是她的东西。它已经不在壁炉台上了。他走进前房间、他的卧室和客厅，边走边点亮煤气灯。五斗橱上，不见了那些银制的和金属品做的小玩意儿。桌面上，没有了花边台布。他打开衣橱—-她的衣服不见了。他拉开抽屉--她的东西没有了。她的箱子也从老地方失踪了。回到他自己的房间里看看，他挂在那里的自己的旧衣服都还在原来的地方。其它的东西也没少。 
他走进客厅站了一会儿，茫然地看着地板。屋里寂静得开始让人觉得透不过起来。这套小公寓看上去出奇地荒凉。他完全忘记了自己还饿着肚子，忘记了这时还是吃晚饭的时候，仿佛已经是深夜了。 
他突然发现自己手里还拿着那些钞票。一共是２０块钱，和她说的一样。这时他走了回来，让那些煤气灯继续亮着，感觉这套公寓像是空洞洞的。 
“我要离开这里，”他对自己说。 
此刻，想到自己的处境，一种无限凄凉的感觉猛然袭上他的心头。 
“扔下了我！”他咕哝着，并且重复了一句。“扔下了我！”这个地方曾经是多么的舒适，在这里他曾经度过了多少温暖的日子，可如今这已经成了往事。他正面临着某种更加寒冷、更加凄凉的东西。他跌坐在摇椅里，用手托着下巴--没有思想，只有感觉把他牢牢地抓祝于是，一种类似失去亲人和自我怜悯的感觉控制了他。 
“她没有必要出走的，”他说，“我会找到事做的。”他坐了很久，没有摇摇椅，然后很清楚地大声补充说：“我尝试过的，不是吗？”半夜了，他还坐在摇椅里摇着，盯着地板发呆。
Chapter 43 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. Paving 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 previous earnings, she had eleven. Five of this went to pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The next week she was even in greater feather. Now, only three dollars need be paid for room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for food and her own whims. 
"You'd better save a little for summer," cautioned Lola. "We'll probably close in May." 
"I intend to," said Carrie. 
The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing. Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her room. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with her. 
"Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight. 
"Very well," said Carrie. 
In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours, she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the common run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he smiled most graciously. 
"Got to go straight home, have you?" he said. 
"Yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding. 
"She's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, and thereafter his respect and ardour were increased. 
She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There were days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully dressed. She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure. 
At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known of it, and it took her breath. "Miss Carrie Madenda," it was labelled. "One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company." At Lola's advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had got one there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was interested. 
The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found that a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with which many approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others. So much for the lessons of Hurstwood and Drouet. 
In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next season it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with it. As usual, Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home engagement. 
"They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced, after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and get in that." 
"I'm willing," said Carrie. 
They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again. That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th. 
"Those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager, "will have to sign this week." 
"Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go." 
"I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else." 
"Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her admirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the season." 
Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road. 
"We can get along," added Lola. "I always have." 
Carrie did not sign. 
The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published picture, and the programme bearing her name had some little weight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week. 
"Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to go away from New York. They forget all about you if you do." 
Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least, no more attention was paid to her than before. At the same time there seemed very little in her part. It consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out. 
"Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go the first week we will cut it out." 
Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the dress rehearsal she was disconsolate. 
"That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curious effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her to frown a little more when Sparks dances." 
Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly. 
"Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager. 
Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke. 
"No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before." 
Carrie looked at him in astonishment. 
"I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see how it looks." 
It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so quaint and droll it caught even the manager. 
"That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I think it will take." 
Going over to Carrie, he said: 
"Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'll make the part really funny." 
On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to her part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars. 
In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, gray-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All the gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital. 
At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the place came for loud applause it was only moderate. What could be the trouble? He realised that something was up. 
All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was frowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and laughing. 
"By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm not going to have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that when I do my turn or I quit." 
"Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came. "That's what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to that." 
"But she ruins my work." 
"No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only a little fun on the side." 
"It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand all right. I'm not going to stand that." 
"Well, wait until after the show. Wait until tomorrow. We'll see what we can do." 
The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed while on the stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit. 
The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was repeatedly emphasised. 
"Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the sage critic of the "Sun." "It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended to take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but the audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious." 
The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish a catch phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising: "If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown." 
The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the manager. 
"You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This is delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own." 
The author also sent word. 
That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most pleasant greeting for her. 
"Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a little song, which he would like you to sing next week." 
"Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie. 
"It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very simple,' he says, 'and would suit you exactly.'" 
"Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly. 
"Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matter I want to speak to you about." 
"Certainly," replied Carrie. 
In that latter place the manager produced a paper. 
"Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the matter of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?" 
"Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears. 
"Supposing, then, you just sign this." 
Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one, with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand trembling from excitement she affixed her name. 
"One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again alone. She found, after all -- as what millionaire has not? -- that there was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities. 
Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first realising who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing over again. 
"That's her, all right, I guess," he said. 
Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby. 
"I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny, plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. She seemed a creature afar off -- like every other celebrity he had known. 
"Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her." 
It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.
嘉莉在她那舒适的房间里安顿了下来，这时她在想不知道赫斯渥会怎样看待她的出走。她把几件东西匆匆摆好后，就动身去戏院，心里有些料想会在戏院门口碰到他。因为没有发现他，她的恐惧心理消失了，于是她感觉对他更加友好了一些。她几乎把他忘了，直到散戏后准备出来时，想到他可能趁这个机会等在那里，她又感到害怕了。一天又一天过去了，她没有听到任何消息，这样一来打消了他会来找她麻烦的想法。 过了不久，除了偶尔想起以外，她完全摆脱了在公寓里时那种压在她生活上的忧愁。 
如果你注意到一种职业会有多快就能把一个人完全吸引住的话，你会感到奇怪的。听着小萝拉的闲言碎语，嘉莉开始了解戏剧界的情况了。她知道了戏剧界的报纸是个什么样子，哪些报纸刊登有关女演员的新闻和类似的东西。她开始看报纸上的那些评论介绍，不单是有关她在其中扮演一个很小的角色的那出歌剧的，也看其它的。渐渐地，她心里充满了想上报的愿望。她渴望自己也像别人一样有名，并且贪婪地阅读一切有关她这一行里那些名角儿的褒贬评论。她所神往的这个花花世界完全把她吸引住了。 
差不多也就在这个时候，报纸和杂志开始将舞台上的美人的照片用作插图，而且此后这种作法形成了热潮。装饰性很强的带有插图的大幅戏剧版面充斥了各种报纸，特别是星期日版报纸，这些版面上刊登出戏剧界大名角儿的半身和全身照片，照片四周还饰有艺术花边。杂志--或者至少是一两种较新的杂志--也偶尔刊登漂亮名角儿的照片，时而还刊登各剧的剧照。嘉莉看着这些，兴趣越来越大。什么时候会登出一幅她正在演的那出歌剧的剧照呢？什么时候会有份报纸认为她的照片值得一登呢？ 
在她出演新角色之前的那个星期天，她浏览了报纸上的戏剧版，想看看会不会有什么短的介绍。倘若报上只字不提，也是在她的意料之中的，但是在那些小新闻中，接在几则较为重要的新闻之后，还真有一段很短的介绍。嘉莉看的时候，全身都激动起来。 
正在百老汇戏院上演的《阿布都尔的后妃》一剧中的乡下姑娘卡蒂莎一角，原由伊内兹·卡鲁扮演，今后将由群舞队中最伶俐的队员嘉莉·麦登达担任。 
嘉莉高兴地为自己感到庆幸。啊，这可是太好了！终于上报了！这生平第一次的、盼望已久的、令人愉快的报纸介绍！而且他们说她伶俐。她都忍不住想放声大笑一常不知萝拉看见了没有？ 
“这张报纸登了关于明晚我要扮演新角色的介绍。”嘉莉对她的朋友说。 
“哦，好极了！是真的登了？”萝拉喊着，朝她跑来。“这就好了，”她说，看看报纸。“现在只要你演得好，报上的评论会更多的。我的照片有一次登在《世界报》上。”“这是真的？”嘉莉问。 
“什么这是真的？哦，据我看是真的，”小姑娘回答，“他们还在照片四周饰了花边。”嘉莉笑了。 
“报上还从未登过我的照片呢。” 
“但是会登的，”萝拉说，“你就等着瞧吧。你演得比现在大多数登过照片的人都要好。”听到这话，嘉莉深深地觉得感激。她差不多要爱上萝拉了，因为萝拉给了她同情和赞美。这对她十分有益，而且几乎是十分必要的。 
她扮演这个角色所展示的才能又引来了报纸的另一段评论，说她的表演受到欢迎。这使她高兴万分。她开始认为自己正在引起世人的注意。 
她第一个星期拿到她那３５块钱的时候，觉得这是一个巨大的数目。付房租只要花３块钱。说起来似乎很可笑。把借萝拉的那２５块钱还掉之后，她还剩下７块钱。加上以前余下的４块钱，她已经有了１１块钱。其中的５块钱被用来付她非买不可的行头的分期付款。第二个星期她更加情绪高涨。现在只要付３块钱的房租和５块钱的行头。剩下的钱她用来吃饭和买一些自己喜欢的东西。 
“你最好攒一点钱夏天用，”萝拉提醒道。“我们可能在５月份停演的。”“我会攒的，”嘉莉说。 
每星期３５块钱的固定收入，对一个几年来一直忍受着靠几个零花钱过日子的人，是会产生消极影响的。嘉莉发现自己的钱包里装满了面值可观的绿色钞票。没有人要靠她养活，因此她开始购买漂亮的衣服和可爱的小玩意儿，开始吃好的，并装饰自己的房间，不久她的身边就聚集了一些朋友。她和萝拉的那伙人中的几个青年见了面。剧团的男演员也未经正式介绍就结识了她。其中的一个还迷上了她。有几次他陪她走回家。 
“我们停一下，进去吃点点心吧，”一天午夜，他建议说。 
“很好，”嘉莉说。 
餐馆里被灯光照成了玫瑰色，坐满了喜欢夜里出来寻欢作乐的人。她发现自己在挑这个男人的毛玻他太做作，太固执己见了。他和她的谈话从未超出一般的服饰和物质成就的话题。点心吃完时，他极有礼貌地笑了笑。 
“你得直接回家，是吗？”他说。 
“是的，”她回答，露出心领神会的神气。 
“她可不像看上去那样幼稚，”他想，从此对她更加尊重和热情。 
她难免受到萝拉的爱好的影响，和她一起寻欢作乐。有些白天，她们出去乘马车兜风；有些夜晚，她们在散戏之后去吃宵夜；有些下午，她们打扮得十分雅致，在百老汇大街上散步。 
她正投身于这大都市的欢乐的漩涡之中。 
终于有一家周报登出了她的照片。她事先不知道，所以这张照片还让她吃了一惊。照片附有简短的说明：“嘉莉·麦登达小姐，上演《阿布都尔的后妃》的剧团的红演员之一。”她听从萝拉的劝告，曾经请萨罗尼为她拍了几张照片。他们登出了一张。她想去街上买几份这张报纸，但是又想起自己没有什么很熟的朋友可以送的。在这个世界上，显然只有萝拉一个人对此感兴趣。 
从社交方面看，大都市是个冷酷的地方，嘉莉很快就发现有一点钱并没有带给她任何东西。富人和名人的世界还是和以前一样可望而不可及。她能够感觉得到，很多接近她的人所表现的那份悠闲快乐的背后，并没有任何温暖的、富于同情心的友谊。所有的人似乎都在自寻其乐，不顾可能给别人带来悲伤的后果。赫斯渥和杜洛埃给她的教训已经够多的了。 
４月里，她得知歌剧可能演到５月中旬或者５月底结束，这要根据观众多少而定。下个季度就要出去巡回演出。她不知道自己是否跟着去。奥斯本小姐则因为自己的薪水不高，照例想在本地另签演出合同。 
“卡西诺戏院将在夏季上演一出戏，”她出去打听了一下情况后，宣布说，“我们试试去那里找个角色。”“我很乐意，”嘉莉说。 
她们及时去联系，并被告知了再去申请的合适时间。这个时间是５月１６日。而她们自己的演出５月５日就结束。 
“凡是下季度愿意随团外出演出的人，”经理说，“都得在这个星期签约。”“你别签，”萝拉劝道，“我不会去的。”“我知道，”嘉莉说，“可是也许我找不到别的事做。”“哼，我可不去，”这个小姑娘说，她有些捧场的人能帮她的忙。“我去过一次，一个季度演到头却毫无收获。”嘉莉考虑了一下这件事。她从来没有出去巡回演出过。 
“我们能混下去的，”萝拉补充说，“我总是这样过来的。”嘉莉没有签约。 
那个要在夏季在卡西诺戏院上演滑稽剧的经理，从未听说过嘉莉，但是报上对她的那几次介绍、登出的照片以及有她名字的节目单，对他产生了一些的影响。他按３０块钱的周薪分给她一个没有台词的角色。 
“我不是告诉过你吗？”萝拉说，“离开纽约不会对你有任何好处。你一走，人们就把你全忘了。”这时，那些在星期日版报纸上刊登插图预告即将上演的戏剧的先生们，因为嘉莉容貌美丽，选中了她和其他一些演员的照片作为这出戏的预告的插图。因为她长得非常漂亮，他们把她的照片放在显著的位置，四周还饰了花边。嘉莉很高兴。 
可是，剧团经理部的人似乎并没有从中看出什么。至少，对她并不比以前更为重视。同时，她演的这个角色简直没什么可演的。这个角色是一个没有台词的教友会小教徒，只是在各场戏中站在一边。剧作家原来设想如果找到合适的女演员担任这个角色，这个角色的戏会大有看头，但是现在既然这个角色胡乱分给了嘉莉，他倒宁愿砍了这个角色。 
“别抱怨了，老朋友，”经理说，“如果第一个星期演不好的话，我们就砍了它。”嘉莉事先一点不知道这个息事宁人的主意。她懊丧地排练着自己的角色，觉得自己实际上是被闲置在一边。彩排时她闷闷不乐。 
“并不太糟嘛，”剧作家说，经理也注意到嘉莉的忧郁使这个角色产生了奇妙的效果。“告诉她在斯派克斯跳舞的时候，眉头再皱紧一些。”嘉莉自己并不知道，但是在她的眉间稍稍出现了一些皱纹，而且她的嘴也很奇特地撅着。 
“再皱紧一点眉头，麦登达小姐，”舞台监督说。 
嘉莉立刻露出高兴的脸色，以为他的意思是在指责她。 
“不对，要皱眉，”他说，“像你刚才那样皱眉。”嘉莉吃惊地看着他。 
“我真的要你皱眉头，”他说，“等斯派克斯先生跳舞的时候，使劲地邹起眉头。我要看看效果怎么样。”这太容易做到了。嘉莉做出愁眉苦脸的样子。效果十分奇妙而可笑，连经理也被吸引住了。 
“这样很好，”他说，“要是她能这样做到底，我看会成功的。”他走到嘉莉面前说：“你就一直皱着眉头。使劲地皱着。做出非常生气的样子。 
这样就会使这个角色很引人发笑了。” 
开演的那天晚上，嘉莉觉得似乎自己演的角色终究还是无足轻重。那些快乐、狂热的观众在第一幕里好像都没有看见她。她把眉头皱了又皱。但是什么效果也没有。观众的目光都集中在那些主角们的精心表演上。 
在第二幕里，观众们因为听厌了一段枯燥无味的对白，目光开始在舞台上扫来扫去，于是就看见了她。她就在那里，穿着灰色的衣服，漂亮的脸上显得严肃而忧郁。起初，大家都以为她是一时不高兴，表情是真的，一点也不觉得可笑。但她一直皱着眉头，时而看看这个主角，时而又看看那个主角。这时，观众开始发笑了。前排的那些大腹便便的绅士们开始觉得她是一个可人的小东西。她的那种皱眉正是他们乐于用亲吻来抚平的。所有的男人都向往着她。她演得真是棒极了。 
最后，那个正在舞台中心演唱的主要喜剧演员，注意到在不该笑的时候有人发出一阵咯咯的笑声。然后，一阵又是一阵。到了应该博得高声喝彩的地方，听到的喝彩声却不大。是怎么回事呢？他知道是出了问题。 
一次下场后，他突然看见了嘉莉。她独自在舞台上皱着眉头，而观众有的在咯咯地笑，有的则在放声大笑。 
“天哪，我可受不了这个！”这个演员想，“我可不要别人来搅了我的演出。要么我演的时候她不要这么干，要么我就不干了。”“咳，这没什么嘛，”当听到抗议时，经理说道。“那是她该做的。你不用理睬的。”“可是她毁了我的演出。”“不，她没有，”前者安慰说，“那只不过是附加的一点笑料。”“真是这样吗？”这个大喜剧演员嚷了起来，“她害得我一点也使不出身手。我不会容忍的。”“行啦，等戏演完了再说吧。等明天再说，让我们看看该怎么办。”可是，到了下一幕，就决定了该怎么办了。嘉莉成了这出戏的主要特色。观众越是仔细地观察她，就越明显地表示出对她的喜爱。嘉莉在舞台上给观众带来的那种奇特、撩人、愉快的气氛，使得这出戏的其它特色都相形见绌。经理和整个剧团都意识到她获得了成功。 
那些报纸上的剧评家使她的成功更为圆满。有些长篇评论称赞这出滑稽剧的演出质量，一再提到嘉莉。并且反复强调了剧中那富有感染力的笑料。 
“麦登达小姐在卡西诺戏院舞台上的特殊性格角色的表演是迄今在该戏院上演的此类演出中的最喜人的一段，"《太阳报》的德高望重的剧评家如是说。”这是一段既不哗众取宠又不矫揉造作的滑稽表演，像美酒一样温馨。显然这个角色原来并不想占有重要的地位，因为麦登达小姐不常出常但是观众却以其特有的癖好，做出了自己的选择。这个教友会小教徒的与众不同之处在于，她一出场就受到了青睐，而且此后很轻松地引人注目并博得喝彩。命运的变化莫测真是不可思议。“《世界晚报》的剧评家，照例想创造一个能风靡全城的警句，就用这样的建议作为结束语：“如果你想不发愁，请看嘉莉皱眉头。"就嘉莉的命运而言，这一切产生了奇迹般的效果，就在那天早晨，她收到经理的贺信。 
“你就像风暴一样席卷了全城，”他写道，“这很可喜。我为你，也为我自己感到高兴。”剧作家也有信来。 
那天晚上，当她走进戏院时，经理极其和悦地招呼她。 
“史蒂文斯先生，”他说，指的是那位剧作家，“正在写一首小曲子，想要你下个星期演唱。”“哎呀，我不会唱歌，”嘉莉回答。 
“这事并不难。那是一首很简单的曲子，”他说，“你唱正合适。”“当然可以，我愿意试试，”嘉莉伶俐地说。 
“你化妆之前到票房里来一下好吗？”经理又补充说，“我有点小事想和你谈谈。”“我一定来，”嘉莉回答。 
在票房里，经理拿出一张纸。 
“现在，当然罗，”他说道，“我们不想在薪水上亏待你。按照你在这里的合同，今后的三个月里你每周只有３０块钱。如果把它定为，比如说每周１５０块钱，并把合同期延长到十二个月，你看怎么样？”“哦，太好了，”嘉莉说，几乎不相信自己的耳朵。 
“那么，就请你把这个签了吧。” 
嘉莉一看是一份和先前那份同样格式的新合同，只是薪水和期限的数字变了。她用一只激动得发抖的手签上了自己的名字。 
“每周１５０块钱！”当又只有一个人的时候，她喃喃地念着。她发现--哪个百万富翁不是这样呢？--人的头脑终究无法意识到大笔金额的意义。那只是闪闪发光的几个字，里面却包含着无限的可能性。 
在布利克街一家三等旅馆里，郁郁沉思的赫斯渥，看见了报道嘉莉成功的戏剧新闻，但一开始他并没有意识到指的是谁。然后，他突然想起来了，就又把全篇报道看了一遍。 
“是她，我看就是她，”他说。 
这时他朝这个阴暗、破烂的旅馆门厅四周看了看。 
“我看她是交了红运了，”他想，眼前又出现了昔日那明亮豪华的世界，那里的灯光、装饰、马车和鲜花。啊，她现在到了禁城里面了！禁城那些辉煌的大门都敞开了，请她从寒冷的凄凉的外面进到了里面。她仿佛成了一个高不可攀的人物--就像他曾经认识的所有其他名人一样。 
“好哇，让她自己享受去吧，”他说，“我不会打扰她的。”这是一颗被压弯、玷污，但还没有被压碎的自尊心坚强地下的决心。
Chapter 44 AND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND: WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY
When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her dressing-room had been changed. 
"You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stage lackeys. 
No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body were having their say. 
Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested, and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: "How friendly we have always been." Only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him. 
Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of something -- perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty -- to be other than she had been. After the performances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided. 
Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to her lips -- bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers -- whom she did not know from Adam -- having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed himself politely in. 
"You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been thinking of changing your apartments?" 
"I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie. 
"Well, I am connected with the Wellington -- the new hotel on Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers." 
Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid restaurant. 
"Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of familiarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every detail -- hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for every floor, elevators and all that. You know what our restaurant is." 
Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to be a millionaire. 
"What are your rates?" she inquired. 
"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day." 
"Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that." 
"I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every other hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have not thought about it, but your name is worth something to us." 
"Oh!" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance. 
"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and -- although you may not believe it -- patrons." 
"Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious proposition in her mind. 
"Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything will do for the summer -- a mere figure -- anything that you think you could afford to pay." 
Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance. 
"You can come to-day or to-morrow-the earlier the better -- and we will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms -- the very best we have." 
"You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme affability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what is right, however. I shouldn't want to-" 
"You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers. "We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of, the week or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates." 
The speaker paused. 
"Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added. 
"I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal this morning." 
"I did not mean at once," he returned, "Any time will do. Would this afternoon be inconvenient?" 
"Not at all," said Carrie. 
Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time. 
"I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do. I forgot about that." 
"Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to say whom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself." 
He bowed and backed toward the door. 
"At four, then, we may expect you?" 
"Yes," said Carrie. 
"I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew. 
After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola. 
"Did they really?" exclaimed the latter, thinking of the Wellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that fine? Oh, jolly! It's so swell. That's where we dined that night we went with those two Cushing boys. Don't you know?" 
"I remember," said Carrie. 
"Oh, it's as fine as it can be." 
"We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie, later in the afternoon. 
The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and bath -- a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds, white, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan, footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week. 
"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about. 
"It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and looking down into crowded Broadway. 
The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and incandescent lights arranged in three places. 
"Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers. 
"Oh, very," answered Carrie. 
"Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door." 
Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbelled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often dreamed of occupying. 
"I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she observed to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street. 
"Oh, by all means," said the latter. 
The next day her trunks left for the new abode. 
Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her dressing-room door. 
Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of surprise. 
"Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking at the card, added: "Mrs. Vance." 
"Why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie coming toward her across the now vacant stage. "How in the world did this happen?" 
Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her friend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation had come about accidentally. 
"I don't know," returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron. 
"Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just like you, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down there and see.' I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?" 
"Oh, very well," returned Carrie. "How have you been?" 
"Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking about you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon." 
"Oh, nonsense," said Carrie, blushing. "You know I'd be glad to see you." 
"Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinner with me now? Where are you stopping?" 
"At the Wellington," said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of pride in the acknowledgment. 
"Oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without its proper effect. 
Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she surmised. 
"Oh, I don't think I can," said Carrie, "to-night. I have so little time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine with me?" 
"I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night," said Mrs. Vance, studying Carrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other's eyes. "I promised faithfully to be home at six." Glancing at the small gold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: "I must be going, too. Tell me when you're coming up, if at all." 
"Why, any time you like," said Carrie. 
"Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now." 
"Moved again?" exclaimed Carrie, laughing. 
"Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just have to move. Remember now -- half-past five." 
"I won't forget," said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now -- perhaps better. Something in the other's solicitude and interest made her feel as if she were the one to condescend. 
Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly developed since Monday. What they contained she well knew. Mash notes were old affairs in their mildest form. She remembered having received her first one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as a chorus girl, she had received others -- gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. They were common sport between her and Lola, who received some also. They both frequently made light of them. 
Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes did not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus one: 
I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury. There isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I say this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I love you and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that prompts me to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which to plead my cause? 
Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest -- though never delight -- than those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity -- or that self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity -- was not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation, being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She had not had fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not had adulation and affectionate propositions before. Now they had come. Wherefore? She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness and indifference. 
"Do look here," she remarked to Lola. "See what this man says: 'If you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with an imitation of languor. "The idea. Aren't men silly?" 
"He must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed Lola. 
"That's what they all say," said Carrie, innocently. 
"Why don't you see him," suggested Lola, "and hear what he has to say?" 
"Indeed I won't," said Carrie. "I know what he'd say. I don't want to meet anybody that way." 
Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes. 
"He couldn't hurt you," she returned. "You might have some fun with him." 
Carrie shook her head. 
"You're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier. 
Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary had not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her. Without money -- or the requisite sum, at least -- she enjoyed the luxuries which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places seemed to open quite without the asking. These palatial chambers, how marvellously they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs. Vance in the Chelsea -- these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes, offers of fortune. And still her dreams ran riot. The one hundred and fifty! the one hundred and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin's cave it seemed to be. Each day, her head almost turned by developments, her fancies of what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew and multiplied. She conceived of delights which were not -- saw lights of joy that never were on land or sea. Then, at last, after a world of anticipation, came her first installment of one hundred and fifty dollars. 
It was paid to her in greenbacks -- three twenties, six tens, and six fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it. 
"Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda -- one hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have made." 
"Yes, indeed," returned Carrie. 
Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and she heard the changed tone of address. 
"How much?" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had only recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her back to the few weeks in which she had collected -- or rather had received -- almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly foreman in a shoe factory -- a man who, in distributing the envelopes, had the manner of a prince doling out favours to a servile group of petitioners. She knew that out in Chicago this very day the same factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls working in long lines at clattering machines; that at noon they would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that Saturday they would gather, as they had when she was one of them, and accept the small pay for work a hundred times harder than she was now doing. Oh, it was so easy now! The world was so rosy and bright. She felt so thrilled that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think, wondering what she should do. 
It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and fifty in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In itself, as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed. Her hotel bill did not require its use. Her clothes had for some time been wholly satisfactory. Another day or two and she would receive another hundred and fifty. It began to appear as if this were not so startlingly necessary to maintain her present state. If she wanted to do anything better or move higher she must have more -- a great deal more. 
Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the folly of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie, and said so, publicly -- adding, however, that she was merely pretty, good-natured, and lucky. This cut like a knife. The "Herald," getting up an entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund, did her the honour to beg her to appear along with celebrities for nothing. She was visited by a young author, who had a play which he thought she could produce. Alas, she could not judge. It hurt her to think it. Then she found she must put her money in the bank for safety, and so moving, finally reached the place where it struck her that the door to life's perfect enjoyment was not open. 
Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing was going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was star. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their mansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of loafing thespians in search of next season engagements. The whole city was quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence the feeling that there was little to do. 
"I don't know," she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the windows which looked down into Broadway, "I get lonely; don't you?" 
"No," said Lola, "not very often. You won't go anywhere. That's what's the matter with you." 
"Where can I go?" 
"Why, there're lots of places," returned Lola, who was thinking of her own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "You won't go with anybody." 
"I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know what kind they are." 
"You oughtn't to be lonely," said Lola, thinking of Carrie's success. "There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes." 
Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd. 
"I don't know," she said. 
Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.
　等嘉莉又来到后台的时候，她发现一夜之间她的化妆室换了。 “你用这一间吧，麦登达小姐，”一个后台侍役说。 
她用不着再爬几段楼梯去和另一个演员合用一小间了。 
换了一个较宽敞的化妆室，装备有楼上那些跑龙套的无名之辈享受不到的便利设施。她高兴得深深地透了一口气。但她的感受是肉体上的而不是精神上的。实际上，她根本就不在思考。支配她的只是感情和知觉。 
渐渐地，别人的敬意和祝贺使她能从精神上欣赏自己的处境了。她不用再听从别人的指挥，而是接受别人的请求了，还是很客气的请求。当她穿着她那身整出戏从头穿到尾的简单行头出场时，剧组的其他演员都妒忌地看着她。所有那些原以为和她地位相同以及高她一等的人，现在都友好地对她笑着，像是在说：“我们一向都很友好的。”只有那个自己的角色深受损害的喜剧明星，傲慢地独自走着。打个比方说，他是不能认敌为友。 
嘉莉演着自己的简单角色，渐渐明白了观众为什么为她喝彩，感觉到其中的美妙。她觉得有点内疚--也许是因为受之有愧吧。当她的同伴们在舞台两侧招呼她时，她只是淡淡地笑笑。她不是那种一有了地位就妄自尊大的人。她从来就没想过要故作矜持或傲慢--改变自己平常的样子。演出结束以后，她和萝拉一起坐戏院提供的马车回到自己的房间。 
此后的一个星期里，成功的最初果实一盘接一盘地送到了她的嘴边。她那丰厚的薪水尚未到手，但这无关紧要。看来只要有了许诺，世人就满足了。她开始收到来信和名片。一位威瑟斯先生--这人她根本不认识--想方设法地打听到了她的住处，走了进来，客气地鞠着躬。 
“请原谅我的冒昧，”他说，“你想过要换房子吗？”“我没想过，”嘉莉回答。 
“哦，我在威灵顿饭店工作，那是百老汇大街上的一家新旅馆。你可能在报上看过有关它的报道。”嘉莉想起这是个旅馆的名字，是那些最新、最富丽堂皇的旅馆中的一家。她听人说起它里面设有一个豪华的餐厅。 
“正是这样，”威瑟斯先生见她承认知道这家旅馆，继续说道。“倘若你还没有决定住在哪里度夏的话，我们现在有几套十分高雅的房阁，想请你去看看。我们的套房各项设施齐全--热水、冷水、独用浴室、每层楼的专门服务、电梯等，应有尽有。你是知道我们餐厅的情况的。”嘉莉默默地看着他。她在怀疑，他是不是把她当成了百万富翁。 
“你们的房钱是多少？”她问。 
“哦，这就是我现在来要和你私下里谈的事。我们规定的房钱自３块至５０块钱一天不等。”“天哪！"嘉莉打断他说，"我可付不起那么高的房钱。”“我知道你是怎么想的，”威瑟斯先生大声说，停顿了一下。“但是让我来解释一下。我说过那是我们规定的价格。可是，像所有其它旅馆一样，我们还有特优价格。也许你还没有想过，但是你的大名对我们是有价值的。”“啊！”嘉莉不由自主地喊了起来，一眼看出了他的用意。 
“当然啦，每家旅馆都要依靠其主顾的名声。像你这样的名角儿，”说着，他恭敬地鞠了鞠躬，嘉莉却羞红了脸，“可以引起人们对旅馆的注意，而且--虽然你可能不会相信--还可以招徕顾客。”“哦，是啊，”嘉莉茫然地回答，想在心里安下这个奇特的建议。 
“现在，”威瑟斯先生接着说，一边轻轻地挥动着他的圆顶礼帽，并用一只穿着擦得很亮的皮鞋的脚敲打着地板，“如果可能的话，我想安排你来住在威灵顿饭店。你不用担心费用问题。实际上，我们用不着谈这些。多少都行，住一个夏天，一点点意思就行了，你觉得能付多少就付多少。”嘉莉要插话，但是他不让她有机会开口。 
“你可以今天或者明天来，越早越好。我们会让你挑选优雅、明亮、临街的房间--我们的头等房间。”“承蒙你一片好意。”嘉莉说，被这个代理人的极端热忱感动了。“我很愿意来的。不过，我想我还是按章付费。我可不想--”“你根本不用担心这个，”威瑟斯先生打断了她。“我们可以把这事安排得让你完全满意，什么时候都可以。倘若你对３块钱一天感到满意的话，我们也同样满意。你只要在周末或者月底，悉听尊便，把这笔钱付给帐房就可以了，他会给你一张这种房间按我们的规定价格收费的收据。”说话的人停顿了一下。 
“你就来看看房间吧，”他补充说。 
“我很高兴去，”嘉莉说，“但是今天上午我要排练。”“我的意思并不是要你立刻就去，”他回答，“任何时候都行。今天下午可有什么不方便吗？”“一点也没有，”嘉莉说。 
突然，她想起了此时不在家的萝拉。 
“我有一个同住的人，”她补充说，“我到哪里，她也得到哪里。刚才我忘了这一点。”“哦，行啊，”威瑟斯先生和悦地说。“你说和谁住就和谁祝我已经说过，一切都可以按你的意思来安排。”他鞠着躬，朝门口退去。 
“那么，４点钟，我们等你好吗？” 
“好的，”嘉莉说。 
“我会等在那里，领你去看房间的，”威瑟斯先生这样说着，退了出去。 
排练结束后，嘉莉把这事告诉了萝拉。 
“他们真是这个意思吗？”后者叫了起来，心想威灵顿饭店可是那帮大老板的天下。“这不是很好吗？哦，太妙了！这太好了。那就是那天晚上我们和库欣两兄弟一起去吃饭的地方。 
你知道不知道？” 
“我记得的，”嘉莉说。 
“啊，这真是好极了。” 
“我们最好去那里看看吧，”后来到了下午，嘉莉说。 
威瑟斯先生带嘉莉和萝拉看的房间是和会客厅在同一层楼的一个套房，有三个房间带一间浴室。房间都漆成巧克力色和深红色，配有相称的地毯和窗帘。东面有三扇窗户可以俯瞰繁忙的百老汇大街，还有三扇窗户俯瞰与百老汇大街交叉的一条小街。有两间漂亮的卧室，里面放有涂着白色珐琅的铜床，缎带包边的白色椅子以及与之配套的五斗橱。第三个房间，或者说是会客室，里面有一架钢琴，一只沉甸甸的钢琴灯，灯罩的式样很华丽，一张书桌，几只舒服的大摇椅，几只沿墙放的矮书架，还有一只古玩架子，上面摆满了稀奇古怪的玩意儿。墙上有画，长沙发上有柔软的土耳其式枕垫，地板上有棕色长毛绒面的踏脚凳。配有这些设施的房间通常的价格是每周１００块钱。 
“啊，真可爱！”萝拉四处走动着，叫了起来。 
“这地方很舒服，”嘉莉说，她正掀起一幅网眼窗帘，看着下面拥挤的百老汇大街。 
浴室装修得很漂亮，铺着白色的瓷砖，里面有一只蓝边的磨石大浴缸，配有镀镍的水龙头等。浴室里又亮又宽敞，一头的墙上嵌着一面斜边镜子，有三个地方装着白炽灯。 
“你对这些感到满意吗？”威瑟斯先生问道。 
“喔，非常满意，”嘉莉回答。 
“好的，那么，你觉得什么时候方便就搬进来，这套房子随时恭候你的光临。茶房会在门口把钥匙交给你的。”嘉莉注意到了铺着优美的地毯，装璜高雅的走廊，铺着大理石的门厅，还有华丽的接待室，这就是她曾经梦寐以求的地方。 
“我看我们最好现在就搬进来，你看怎么样？”她对萝拉说，心里想着十七号街的那套普通的房间。 
“哦，当然可以，”后者说。 
第二天，她的箱子就搬到了新居。 
星期三，演完日戏之后，她正在换装，听到有人敲她的化妆室的门。 
嘉莉看到茶房递给她的名片，大大地吃了一惊。 
“请告诉她，我马上就出来，”她轻声说道。然后，看着名片，加了一句：“万斯太太。”“喂，你这个小坏蛋，”当她看见嘉莉穿过这时已经空了的舞台向她走来时，万斯太太叫了起来。“这究竟是怎么回事呀？”嘉莉高兴地放声大笑。她的这位朋友的态度丝毫不显得尴尬。你会以为这么长时间的分别只不过是一件偶然发生的事而已。 
“这我就不知道了，”嘉莉回答，对这位漂亮善良的年轻太太很热情，尽管开始时感到有些不安。 
“哦，你知道的，我在星期日版的报纸上看到了你的照片，但是你的名字把我弄糊涂了。我想这一定是你，或者是一个和你长得一模一样的人，于是我说：'好哇，现在我就去那里看个明白。'我长这么大还没有这么吃惊过呢。不管那些了，你好吗？”“哦，非常好，”嘉莉回答，“你这一向也好吗？”“很好。你可真是成功了。所有的报纸都在谈论你。我都怕你会得意忘形了。今天下午我差一点就没敢到这里来。”“哦，别胡说了，”嘉莉说，脸都红了。“你知道，我会很高兴见到你的。”“好啦，不管怎么样，我找到了你。现在你能来和我一起吃晚饭吗？你住在哪里？”“在威灵顿饭店，”嘉莉说。她让自己在说这话时流露出一些得意。 
“哦，是真的吗？”对方叫道。在她身上，这个名字产生了起应有的影响。 
万斯太太知趣地避而不谈赫斯渥，尽管她不由自主地想起了他。毫无疑问，嘉莉已经抛弃了他。她至少能猜到这一点。 
“哦，我看今天晚上是不行了，”嘉莉说。“我来不及。我得７点半就回到这里，你来和我一起吃饭好吗？”“我很乐意。但是我今天晚上不行，”万斯太太说，仔细地打量着嘉莉漂亮的容貌。在她看来，嘉莉的好运气使她显得比以前更加高贵、更加可爱了。"我答应过６点钟一准回家的。"她看了看别在胸前的小金表，补充说。“我也得走了。告诉我假如你能来的话，什么时候会来。”“噢，你高兴什么时候就什么时候，”嘉莉说。 
“好的，那么就明天吧。我现在住在切尔西旅馆。”“又搬家了？”嘉莉大声笑着说。 
“是的。你知道我在一个地方住不到六个月的。我就是得搬家。现在记住了，５点半。”“我不会忘记的，”嘉莉说，当她走时又看了她一眼。这时，嘉莉想起，现在她已经不比这个女人差了--也许还要好一些。万斯太太的关心和热情，有点使她觉得自己是屈就的一方了。 
现在，像前些天一样，每天卡西诺戏院的门房都要把一些信件交给她。这是自星期一以来迅速发展起来的一大特色。这些信件的内容她十分清楚。情书都是用最温柔的形式写的老一套东西。她记得她的第一封情书是早在哥伦比亚城的时候收到的。从那以后，在她当群舞演员时，又收到了一些--写信的是些想请求约会的绅士。它们成了她和也收到过一些这种信的萝拉之间的共同笑料。她们两个常常拿这些信来寻开心。 
可是，现在信来得又多又快。那些有钱的绅士除了要提到自己种种和蔼可亲的美德之外，还会毫不犹豫地提其他们有马有车。因此有这样一封信说：我个人名下有百万财产。我可以让你享受一切荣华富贵。你想要什么就会有什么。我说这些，不是因为我要夸耀自己有钱，而是因为我爱你并愿意满足你的所有欲望。是爱情促使我写这封信的。你能给我半个小时，听我诉说衷肠吗？ 
嘉莉住在十七街时收到的这种来信，和她搬进威灵顿饭店的豪华房间之后收到的这一类来信相比，前者读起来更有兴趣一些，虽然从不会使她感到高兴。即便到了威灵顿饭店，她的虚荣心—-或者说是自我欣赏，其更为偏激的形式就被称作虚荣心--还没有得到充分的满足，以至于她对这些信件会感到厌烦。任何形式的奉承，只要她觉得新鲜，她都会喜欢。只是她已经懂得了很多，明白自己已经今非昔比。昔日，她没有名，也没有钱。今天，两者都有了。昔日，她无人奉承，也无人求爱。今天，两者都来了。为什么呢？想到那些男人们竟会突然发现她比之从前是如此地更加具有吸引力，她觉得很好笑。这至少激起了她的冷漠。 
“你来看看吧，”她对萝拉说，“看看这个人说的话，‘倘若你能给我半个小时，’”她重复了一遍，装出可怜巴巴有气无力的口气。“真奇怪。男人们可不是蠢得很吗？”“听他的口气，他肯定很有钱，”萝拉说。 
“他们全都是这样说的，”嘉莉天真地说。 
“你为什么不见他一面，”萝拉建议说，“听听他要说些什么呢？”“我真的不愿意，”嘉莉说，“我知道他要说什么的。我不想以这种方式见任何人。”萝拉用愉快的大眼睛看着她。 
“他不会伤害你的，”她回答，“你也许可以跟他开开心。”嘉莉摇了摇头。 
“你也太古怪了，”这个蓝眼睛的小士兵说道。 
好运就这样接踵而来。在这整整一个星期里，虽然她那数目巨大的薪水还没有到手，但是仿佛人们都了解她并信任她。 
她并没有钱。或者至少是没有必要的一笔钱，但她却享受着金钱所能买到的种种奢侈豪华。那些上等地方的大门似乎都对她敞开着，根本不用她开口。这些宫殿般的房间多么奇妙地就到了她的手中。万斯太太优雅的房间在切尔西旅馆，而这些房间则属于她。男人们送来鲜花，写来情书，主动向她奉献财产。 
可她还在异想天开地做着美梦。这１５０块钱！这１５０块钱！这多么像是一个通往阿拉丁宝洞般世界的大门。每天，她都被事态的发展弄得几乎头昏眼花，而且，她对有了这么多钱，自己将会有个什么样的未来的幻想也与日俱增，越来越丰富了。她想象出世间没有的乐事--看见了地面或海上都从未出现过的欢乐的光芒。然后，无限的期待终于盼来了她的第一份１５０块钱的薪水。 
这份薪水是用绿色钞票付给她的--三张２０块，六张１０块，还有六张５块。这样放到一起就成了使用起来很方便的一卷。发放薪水的出纳员在付钱的同时还对她含笑致意。 
“啊，是的，”当她来领薪水时，出纳员说，“麦登达小姐，１５０块。看来戏演得很成功。”“是的，是很成功，”嘉莉回答。 
紧接着上来一个剧团的无足轻重的演员。于是，她听到招呼这一位的口气改变了。 
“多少？”同一个出纳员厉声说。一个像她不久前一样的无名演员在等着领她那微薄的薪水。这使她回想起曾经有几个星期，她在一家鞋厂里，几乎像个仆人一样，从一个傲慢无礼的工头手里领取--或者说是讨取--每周４块半的工钱。 
这个人在分发薪水袋时，神情就像是一个王子在向一群奴颜卑膝的乞求者施舍恩惠。她知道，就在今天，远在芝加哥的那同一家工厂的厂房里，仍旧挤满了衣着简朴的穷姑娘，一长排一长排地在卡嗒作响的机器旁边干活。到了中午，她们只有半个钟头的时间胡乱吃一点东西。到了星期六，就像她是她们中的一个的时候一样，她们聚在一起领取少得可怜的工钱，而她们干的活却比她现在所做的事要繁重１００倍。哦，现在是多么轻松啊！世界是多么美好辉煌。她太激动了，必须走回旅馆去想一想自己应该怎么办。 
假如一个人的需求是属于感情方面的，金钱不久就会表明自己的无能。嘉莉手里拿着那１５０块钱，却想不出任何特别想做的事。这笔钱本身有形有貌，她看得见，摸得着，在头几天里，还是个让人高兴的东西。但是它很快就失去了这个作用。 
她的旅馆帐单用不着这笔钱来支付。她的衣服在一段时间之内完全可以满足她了。再过一两天，她又要拿到１５０块钱。她开始觉得，要维持她眼前的状况，似乎并不是那么急需这笔钱。倘若她想干得更好或者爬得更高的话，她则必须拥有更多的钱--要多得多才行。 
这时，来了一位剧评家，要写一篇那种华而不实的采访。 
这种采访通篇闪耀着聪明的见解，显示出评论家的机智，暴露了名人们的愚蠢，因而能博得读者大众的欢心。他喜欢嘉莉，并且公开这么说，可是又补充说她只是漂亮、善良而且幸运而已。这话像刀子一样扎人。《先驱报》为筹措免费送冰基金而举行招待会，邀请她和名人们一同出席，但不用她捐款，以示对她的敬意。有一个年轻作家来拜访她，因为他有一个剧本，以为她可以上演。可惜她不能作主。想到这个，她就伤心。然后，她觉得自己必须把钱存进银行以保安全，这样发展下来，到了最后，她终于明白了，享受十全十美的生活的大门还没有打开。 
渐渐地，她开始想到原因在于现在是夏季。除了她主演的这类戏剧之外，简直就没有其它的娱乐。第五大道上的富翁们已经出去避暑，空出的宅第都已锁好了门窗，钉上了木板。麦迪逊大街也好不了多少。百老汇大街上挤满了闲荡的演员，在寻找下个季度的演出机会。整个城市都很安静，而她的演出占用了她晚上的时间，因此有了无聊的感觉。 
“我不明白，”一天，她坐在一扇能俯视百老汇大街的窗户旁边，对萝拉说，“我感到有些寂寞，你不觉得寂寞吗？”“不，”萝拉说，“不常觉得。你什么地方都不愿意去。这就是你感到寂寞的原因。”“我能去哪里呢？”“嗨，地方多得很，”萝拉回答。她在想着自己和那些快乐的小伙子的轻松愉快的交往。“你又不愿意跟任何人一起出去。”“我不想和这些给我写信的人一起出去。我知道他们是些什么样的人。”“你不应该感到寂寞，”萝拉说，想着嘉莉的成功。“很多人都愿意不惜任何代价来取得你的地位。”嘉莉又朝窗外看着过往的人群。 
“我不明白，”她说。 
不知不觉地，她闲着的双手开始使她感到厌倦。
Chapter 45 CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR
The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken refuge with seventy dollars -- the price of his furniture -- between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room -- thirty-five cents a day -- to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He read these things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. On the bill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be. 
Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for him -- he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still running. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it. When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief. 
He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the latter was about to invest. 
"How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say. 
"Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands full now." 
The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he did talk. 
"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!" 
It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors, Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger, sitting near by seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets. 
One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollars in all. 
He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged -- unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this thought. 
Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents -- not enough to eat for the morrow. 
Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away. 
"My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to do?" 
The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk. 
"I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something -- it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to have something." 
The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said: 
"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside." 
Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort. 
"I thought you might tell me." 
The fellow shook his head irritably. 
Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye. 
"Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in a position where I have to get something at once." 
The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I should judge so." 
"I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm not here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week." 
The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye. 
"What hotel did you manage?" he inquired. 
"It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years." 
"Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of that?" 
The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact. 
"Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day." 
The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something. 
"Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk. 
In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter, appeared. 
"Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something." 
"I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like." 
"Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to eat." 
"All right, sir," said Olsen. 
Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner changed. 
"I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed. 
Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for private contempt. 
"You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook. 
The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and intellectual in his eyes, said: 
"Well, sit down over there." 
Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks -- all were over him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals -- his temper was too lonely -- and they made it disagreeable for him. 
With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure. 
One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in others. 
In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big box, he could not lift it. 
"What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle it?" 
He was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit. 
"No," he said, weakly. 
The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale. 
"Not sick, are you?" he asked. 
"I think I am," returned Hurstwood. 
"Well, you'd better go sit down, then." 
This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day. 
"That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the night clerk. 
"What's the matter with him?" 
"I don't know. He's got a high fever." 
The hotel physician looked at him. 
"Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia." 
Accordingly, he was carted away. 
In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was discharged. 
No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Some old garments had been given him -- a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities. 
Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to look. From this it was but a step to beggary. 
"What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve." 
His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near. 
"Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in a position where I must ask someone." 
The man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and took out a dime. 
"There you are," he said. 
"Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more attention to him. 
Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful. 
The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried. 
It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something which is always better. 
It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. How successful she was -- how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe run of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungry before he said: 
"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars." 
Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me a little," he kept saying to himself. 
Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more. 
Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that he was mistaken. 
"She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached. 
Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with ladies -- the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres and hotels. 
Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away. 
"Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something." 
At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway -- a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers -- a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration -- the city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways. 
This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself. 
Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement. 
As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and bobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling. 
As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving -- watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter -- a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt. 
The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of the walk. 
"Stand over there," he said. 
By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet. 
"Cold, ain't it?" 
"I'm glad winter's over." 
"Looks as though it might rain." 
The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet. 
There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward. 
"Beds, eh, all of you?" 
There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval. 
"Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself." 
They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to talk. 
"Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me?" 
No reply. 
"Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man." 
"Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. "It's all I can afford." 
"All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone. 
Coming back, he resumed his place and began again. 
"I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There are" -- counting -- "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?" 
One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece. 
"Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds. How about these?" 
"Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand. 
"That," said the, captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents more?" 
"I will," said a voice. 
Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed. 
When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind -- the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back. 
There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least. Tomorrow, maybe, he would do better. 
Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in reply. 
There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse. 
Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him. 
"Twelve cents, gentlemen -- twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go." Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him. 
"Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain. 
Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. 
"Line up over there," he said. 
Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like himself about this. 
"Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead -- a little, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of in dividual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune. 
"Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently. 
"Hub! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading. 
"Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another. 
"Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third. 
A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe. 
"That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents." 
Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding. 
The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail. 
"Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and cold. Some one give me four cents." 
There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground. 
The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men. 
"Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen cents." 
No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak. 
At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner. 
While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful. 
"Here you are," he said. 
"Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants. "Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added. 
Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went. 
"One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up. Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now." 
He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. They were expected, however. 
Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now." 
Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night. 
"I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die."
那个愁眉不展的赫斯渥，寄身在一家廉价旅馆里，除了他那卖家具的７０块钱之外，一无所有。他就那样坐在旅馆里，看着报纸，送走了炎热的夏天，又迎来了凉爽的秋天。他的钱正在悄悄地消失，对此他并不是完全无动于衷。当他每天５毛５毛地往外拿钱支付每天５毛的房钱时，他变得焦虑不安起来，于是最终换了一个更便宜的房间--３毛５分钱一天，想使他的钱能维持得更久一些。他常常看到有关嘉莉的消息。《世界报》刊登过一两次她的照片，他还在一把椅子上看到了一张过期的《先驱报》，得知她最近和其他的演员一想参加了一次为某项事业而举行的义演。他百感交集地读着这些消息。每一则消息仿佛都在把她越来越远地送入另一个世界。这个世界离他越远，就越显得高不可攀。他还在布告牌上看到一张漂亮的海报，画着她演的教友会小教徒的角色。端庄而又俊俏。 他不止一次地停下来，看着这些，眼睛盯着那美丽的面孔闷闷发呆。他衣衫褴褛，和她现在的情况相比，他恰恰形成了一个鲜明的对照。 
不知怎么地，只要他知道她还在卡西诺戏院里演出，虽然他从未有过要走近她的想法，他就下意识地感到有一种安慰--他还不完全是孤单一人。这出戏似乎成了一场雷打不动的固定演出，所以过了一两个月，他开始想当然地以为它还要演下去。９月里，剧团出去巡回演出，他也没有发觉。当他的钱用到只剩下２０块的时候，他搬到波威里街一个１毛５分钱一天的寄宿处，那里只有一个四壁空空的休息室，里面放满了桌子、长凳，还有几把椅子。在这里，他喜欢闭上眼睛，回想过去的日子，这个习惯在他身上越来越根深蒂固了。开始时这并不是沉睡，而只是在心里回想起他在芝加哥的生活中的情景和事件。因为眼前的日子越来越黑暗，过去的时光就越发显得光明，而和过去有关的一切都变得分外突出。 
他还没有意识到这个习惯对他的影响有多大，直到有一天他发现自己嘴里在重复着他曾经回答他的一个朋友的老话。他们正在费莫酒店里。好像他就站在他那个雅致的小办公室门口，衣冠楚楚的，和萨加·莫里森谈论着芝加哥南部某处地产的价值，后者正准备在那里投资。 
“你愿意和我一起在那上面投资吗？”他听到莫里森说。 
“我不行，”他回答，就像他多年前的回答一样，“我眼下腾不出手来。”他的嘴唇在动，这惊醒了他。他不知道自己是不是真的说了出来。第二次他发觉这种情况时，他真的是在说话。 
“你为什么不跳呢，你这个大傻瓜？”他在说，“跳呀！”这是他在向一群演员讲的一个好笑的英国故事。甚至当他被自己的声音弄醒的时候，他还在笑着。坐在旁边的一个顽固的怪老头看上去像是受了打扰，至少，他瞪眼看的样子十分尖刻。赫斯渥挺起身来。记忆中的这段笑话立刻消失了，他感到有些害臊。于是他离开他那把椅子，踱出门外，到街上找消遣去了。 
一天，他在浏览《世界晚报》的广告栏时，看到上面说卡西诺戏院正在上演一出新戏。他心里当即一愣。嘉莉已经走了！ 
他记得就在昨天还看见她的一张海报，但是毫无疑问，那是没有被新海报覆盖而留下的。说来奇怪，这件事震惊了他。他几乎只得承认，不知怎么地，他是靠知道她还在这座城市里才支撑了下来。现在她却走了。他不明白怎么会漏掉这么重要的消息。天知道现在她要到什么时候才能回来。一种精神上的恐惧促使他站起身来，走进阴暗的过道，那里没人看见他。他数了数自己剩下的钱，总共只有１０块钱了。 
他想知道他周围这些住在寄宿处的其他人都是怎么过活的。他们好像什么事都不干。也许他们靠乞讨生活--对，他们肯定是靠乞讨生活。当初他得意的时候，就曾经给过他们这种人无数的小钱。他也曾看到过别人在街上讨钱。或许，他可以同样地讨点钱。这种想法简直令人恐怖。 
坐在寄宿处的房间里，他用得只剩下最后５毛钱了，他省了又省，算了又算，终于影响了健康。他已不再强壮。这样一来，连他的衣服也显得很不合身了。这时他决定必须做些事情，但是，四处走走之后，眼看着一天又过去了，只剩下最后的２毛钱，已不够明天吃饭了。 
他鼓足勇气，来到百老汇大街，朝百老汇中央旅馆走去。 
在离开那里一条横马路的地方，他停住脚，犹豫起来。一个面带愁容的大个子茶房正站在一个侧门口，向外看着。赫斯渥打算去求他帮忙。他一直走上前去，不等对方转身走开，就招呼起来。 
“朋友，”他说，虽然自己身处困境，也能看出这个人的地位之低。“你们旅馆有什么事可以给我做吗？”这个茶房瞪大眼睛看着他，这时他接着说。 
“我没有工作，也没有钱，我必须找些事情做--不管什么事情都行！我不想谈论我的过去，但是倘若你能告诉我怎样可以找到事情做，我将十分感激你。即使只能在眼下工作几天也没有关系。我非得找到事做不可。”茶房还在盯着他看，想做出无动于衷的样子。然后，看见赫斯渥还要往下说，茶房就打断了他。 
“这和我无关。你得到里面去问。” 
奇怪的是，这句话反倒促使赫斯渥去作进一步的努力。 
“我还以为你可以告诉我的。” 
那个家伙不耐烦地摇了摇头。 
这位前经理进到里面，径直走到办公室里办事员的写字台边。这家旅馆的一位经理正巧在那里。赫斯渥直视着这位经理的眼睛。 
“你能给个什么事情让我做几天吗？”他说，"我已经到了非立刻找些事情做不可的地步了。"这位悠闲自在的经理看着他，像是在说：“是啊，我看是这样的。”“我到这里来，”赫斯渥不安地解释说，“因为我得意的时候也曾当过经理。我碰到了某种厄运，但是我来这里不是为了告诉你这个。我想要些事情做，哪怕只做一个星期也行。”这个人觉得自己从这位求职者的眼睛里看到了一丝狂热的光芒。 
“你当过哪家旅馆的经理？”他问。 
“不是旅馆，”赫斯渥说道，“我曾经在芝加哥的费莫酒店当过十五年的经理。”“这是真的吗？”这位旅馆经理说，“你怎么会离开那里的呢？”赫斯渥的形象和这个事实相对照，确实令人吃惊。 
“喔，因为我自己干了蠢事。现在不谈这个了吧。如果你想知道的话，你会弄清楚的。我现在一个钱也没有了，而且，如果你肯相信我的话，我今天还没有吃过任何东西。”这位旅馆经理对这个故事有点感兴趣了。他几乎不知道该怎样对待这样一个人物，可是赫斯渥的真诚使他愿意想些办法。 
“叫奥尔森来。”他对办事员说。 
一声铃响，一个小茶房来领命跑出去叫人，随后茶房领班奥尔森走了进来。 
“奥尔森，”经理说，“你能在楼下给这个人找些事情做吗？ 
我想给他一些事情做。” 
“我不知道，先生”奥尔森说，“我们需要的人手差不多都已经有了。不过如果你愿意的话，我想我可以找到一些事情的。”“就这么办吧。带他去厨房，告诉威尔逊给他一些东西吃。”“好的，先生，”奥尔森说。 
赫斯渥跟着他去了。一等经理看不见他们，茶房领班就改变了态度。 
“我不知道究竟有什么事情可做，”他说。 
赫斯渥没有说话。他私下里很瞧不起这个替人搬箱子的大个子家伙。 
“叫你给这个人一些东西吃”他对厨子说。 
厨子打量了一番赫斯渥，发现他的眼睛里有些敏锐且聪明的神色，说道：“好的，坐到那边去吧。”就这样，赫斯渥被安顿在百老汇中央旅馆里，但是没过多久。他既没有体力又没有心情来干每家旅馆都有的最基本的拖地板擦桌椅之类的活儿。由于没有更好的事可干，他被派去替火伕当下手，去地下室干活。凡是可能让他做的事，他都得去做。那些茶房、厨子、火伕、办事员都在他之上。此外，他的样子也不讨这些人的喜欢，他的脾气太孤僻，他们都不给他好脸色看。 
然而，他以绝望中的人的麻木不仁和无动于衷，忍受着这一切。他睡在旅馆屋顶的一间小阁楼里，厨子给他什么他就吃什么，每周领取几块钱的工钱，这些钱他还想攒起来。他的身体已经支撑不住了。 
２月里的一天，他被派到一家大煤炭公司的办公室去办事。天一直在下雪，雪又一直在融化，街上泥泞不堪。他在路上把鞋湿透了，回来就感到头晕而且疲倦。第二天一整天，他觉得异常的情绪低落，于是尽量地闲坐在一边，惹得那些喜欢别人精力充沛的人很不高兴。 
那天下午，要搬掉一些箱子，腾出地方来安放新的厨房用具。他被派去推手推车。碰到一只大箱子，他搬不起来。 
“你怎么啦？”茶房领班说，“你搬不动吗？”他正拼命地要把它搬起来，但是这时他放了手。 
“不行，”他虚弱地说。 
这人看看他，发现他的脸色像死人一样苍白。 
“你是不是生病了？”他问。 
“我想是病了，”赫斯渥回答。 
“哦，那你最好去坐一会儿。” 
他照做了，但是不久病情就迅速加重。看来他只能慢慢地爬进自己的房间了，他一天没出房间。 
“那个叫惠勒的人病了，”一个茶房向夜班办事员报告说。 
“他怎么啦？” 
“我不知道，他在发高烧。” 
旅馆的医生去看了他。 
“最好送他去贝列佛医院，”他建议道，“他得了肺炎。”于是，他被车拉走了。 
三个星期之后，危险期过去了。但是差不多到了５月１号，他的体力才允许他出院。这时他已经被解雇了。 
当这位过去身强体壮、精力充沛的经理出院慢步走进春天的阳光里时，没有谁会比他看上去更虚弱了。他从前的那身肥肉已全然不知去向，他的脸又瘦又苍白，双手没有血色，全身肌肉松驰。衣服等等加在一起，他的体重只有１３５磅。有人给了他一些旧衣服--一件廉价的棕色上衣和一条不合身的裤子。还有一些零钱和忠告。他被告知该去申请救济。 
他又回到波威里街的寄宿处，盘算着去哪里申请救济。这只差一步就沦为乞丐了。 
“有什么办法呢？”他说，“我不能挨饿呀。”他的第一次乞讨是在阳光灿烂的第二大道上。一个衣冠楚楚的人从施托伊弗桑特公园里出来，正不慌不忙地朝他踱过来。赫斯渥鼓起勇气，侧身走近了他。 
“请给我１毛钱好吗？”他直截了当地说。“我已经到了非得乞讨不可的地步了。”这人看也不看他一眼，伸手去摸背心口袋，掏出一枚１角银币。 
“给你，”他说。 
“多谢多谢。”赫斯渥轻声说，但对方不再理睬他了。 
他对自己的成功感到满意，但又为自己的处境感到羞愧，他决定只再讨２毛５分钱，因为那就够了。他四处游荡，观察着路人，但过了很久才等到合适的人和机会。当他开口讨钱时，却遭到了拒绝。他被这个结果惊呆了，过了一个钟头才恢复过来，然后又开口气讨。这一次他得到了一枚５分镍币。经过十分谨慎的努力，他真的又讨到了２毛钱，但这事多么让人难受。 
第二天他又去做同样的努力，遭遇了种种挫折，也得到了一两次慷慨的施舍。最后，他突然想到人的面孔是一门大学问，只要去研究一下，就可以看脸色挑中愿意慷慨解囊的人。 
然而，这种拦路乞讨对他来说并不是什么愉快的事。他曾看到过一个人因此而被捕，所以他现在生怕自己也会被捕。可是他还是继续干着这一行，心中模模糊糊地期待着，说不准什么时候总能碰上个好运。 
此后的一天早晨，他带着一种满意的感觉看到了由“嘉莉·麦登达小姐领衔主演”的卡西诺剧团回来的通告。在过去的这些日子里，他常常想到她。她演得那么成功--她该会有多少钱啊！然而，即使是现在，也是因为运气太坏，一直都讨不到钱，他才决定向她求助的。他真是饿极了，才想起说：“我去向她要。她不会不给我几块钱的。”于是，他有一天下午就朝卡西诺戏院走去，在戏院前来回走了几次，想找到后台的入口。然后，他就坐在过去一条横马路的布赖恩特公园里，等待着。“她不会不帮我一点忙的，”他不停地对自己说。 
从６点半钟开始，他就像个影子似地在三十九街入口处的附近徘徊，总是假装成一个匆匆赶路的行人，可又生怕自己会漏掉要等的目标。现在到了紧要关头，他也有点紧张。但是，因为又饿又虚弱，他已经不大能够感觉得到痛苦了。他终于看见演员们开始到来，他那紧张的神经绷得更紧，直到他觉得似乎已经忍受不住了。 
有一次，他自以为看见嘉莉过来了，就走上前去，结果发现自己看错了人。 
“现在，她很快就会来了，”他对自己说，有点害怕见到她，但是想到她可能已经从另一个门进去了，又感到有些沮丧。他的肚子都饿疼了。 
人们一个又一个地从他身边经过，几乎全都是衣冠楚楚，神情冷漠。他看着马车驶过，绅士们伴着女士们走过。这个戏院和旅馆集中的地区就此开始了晚上的欢乐。 
突然，一辆马车驶过来，车夫跳下来打开车门。赫斯渥还没有来得及行动，两位女士已经飞快地穿过宽阔的人行道，从后台入口消失了。他认为自己看见的是嘉莉，但是来得如此突然，如此优雅，而且如此高不可攀，他就说不准了。他又等了一会儿，开始感到饿得发慌。看见后台入口的门不再打开，而且兴高采烈的观众正在到达，他便断定刚才看见的肯定是嘉莉，转身走开了。 
“天哪，”他说着，匆匆离开这条街，而那些比他幸运的人们正朝这条街上涌来。“我得吃些东西了。”就在这个时候，就在百老汇大街惯于呈现其最有趣的面貌的时候，总是有一个怪人站在二十六街和百老汇大街的拐角处--那地方也和第五大道相交。在这个时候，戏院正开始迎接观众。到处闪耀着灯光招牌，告诉人们晚上的种种娱乐活动。公共马车和私人马车嗒嗒地驶过，车灯像一双双黄色的眼睛闪闪发亮。成双成对和三五成群的人们嬉笑打闹着，无拘无束地汇入川流不息的人群之中。第五大道上有一些闲荡的人--几个有钱的人在散步，一个穿晚礼服的绅士挽着一位太太，几个俱乐部成员从一家吸烟室到另一家吸烟室去。街对面那些大旅馆亮着成百扇灯火通明的窗户，里面的咖啡室和弹子房挤满了悠闲自在、喜欢寻欢作乐的人群。四周是一片夜色，跳动着对快乐和幸福的向往--是一个大都市一心要千方百计地追求享乐的奇妙的狂热之情。 
这个怪人不过就是一个退伍军人变成的宗教狂而已。他遭受过我们这个特殊的社会制度给他的种种鞭挞和剥削，因而他断定自己心目中对上帝的责任就在于帮助他的同胞。他所选择的实施帮助的形式完全是他自己独创的。这就是要为来这个特定的地方向他提出请求的所有的无家可归的流浪汉找一个过夜的地方，尽管他也没有足够的钱为自己提供一个舒适的住处。 
他在这个轻松愉快的环境中找到了自己的位置，就站在那里，魁梧的身上披着一件带斗篷的大衣，头上戴着一顶阔软边呢帽，等待着那些通过各种渠道了解到他的慈善事业的性质的申请者。有一段时间，他会独自站在那里，像一个游手好闲的人一样注视着一个始终迷人的场面。在我们的故事发生的那天晚上，一个警察从他身边走过，行了个礼，友好地称他作“上尉”。一个以前常在那里看见他的顽童，停下来观望着。 
其他的人则觉得除了穿着之外，他没有什么不同寻常的地方，以为他无非是个自得其乐地在那里吹着口哨闲荡的陌生人。 
半个钟头过去后，某些人物开始出现了。在四周过往的人群中，不时可以看见个把闲逛的人有目的地磨蹭着挨近了他。 
一个无精打采的人走过对面的拐角，偷偷地朝他这个方向看着。另一个人则沿着第五大道来到二十六街的拐角处，打量了一下整个的情形，又蹒跚地走开了。有两三个显然是住在波威里街的角色，沿着麦迪逊广场靠第五大道的一边磨磨蹭蹭地走着，但是没敢过来。这位军人披着他那件带斗篷的大衣，在他所处的拐角十英尺的范围之内，来回走动着，漫不经心地吹着口哨。 
等到将近９点钟的时候，在此之前的喧闹声已经有所减弱，旅馆里的气氛也不再那么富有青春气息。天气也变得更冷了。四处都有稀奇古怪的人在走动，有观望的，有窥探的。他们站在一个想象的圈子外面，似乎害怕走进圈子里面--总共有十二个人。不久，因为更加感到寒冷难忍，有一个人走上前来。这个人从二十六街的阴影处出来。穿过百老汇大街，犹豫不决地绕着弯子走近了那个正在等待的人。这人的行动有些害羞或者有些胆怯，好像不到最后一刻都不打算暴露任何要停下来的想法。然后，到了军人身边，突然就停了下来。 
上尉看了一眼他，算是打了招呼，但并没有表示什么特别的欢迎。来人轻轻点了点头，像一个等待施舍的人那样咕哝了几句。对方只是指了指人行道边。 
“站到那边去，”他说。 
这一下打破了拘束。当这个军人又继续他那一本正经的短距离踱步时，其他的人就拖着脚走上前来。他们并没有招呼这位领袖，而是站到先来的那个人身边，抽着鼻子，步履蹒跚，两脚擦着地。 
“好冷，是不是？” 
“我很高兴冬天过去了。” 
“看来像是要下雨了。” 
这群乌合之众已经增加到了十个人。其中有一两个相互认识的人在交谈着。另一些人则站在几英尺之外，不想挤在这群人当中，但又不想被漏掉。他们乖戾、执拗、沉默，眼睛不知在看着什么，两脚一直动个不停。 
他们本来很快就会交谈起来，但是军人没有给他们开口的机会。他数数人数已经够了，可以开始了，就走上前来。 
“要铺位，是吗？你们都要吗？” 
这群人发出一阵杂乱的移动脚步的声音，并低声表示着同意。 
“好吧，在这里排好队。我看看我能做些什么。我自己也身无分文。”他们排成了断断续续、参差不齐的一队。这样一对比，就可以看出他们的一些主要特点来。队伍里有一个装着假腿的家伙。这些人的帽子全都耷拉在头上，这些帽子都不配放在海斯特街的地下室旧货店里。裤子全都是歪歪斜斜的，裤脚已经磨损，上衣也已破旧并且褪了色。在商店的耀眼的灯光下，起中有些人的脸显得干枯而苍白，另一些人的脸则因为生了疱疮而呈红色，面颊和眼睛下面都浮肿了。有一两个人骨瘦如柴，使人想起铁路工人来。有几个看热闹的人被这群像是在集会的人所吸引，走近前来。接着来的人越来越多，很快就聚集了一大群人，在那里你推我挤地张大眼睛望着。队伍里有人开始说话了。 
“安静！”上尉喊道，“好了，先生们，这些人无处过夜。今天晚上，他们得有个地方睡觉才行。他们不能露宿街头。我需要１毛２分钱安排一个人住宿。谁愿意给我这笔钱？”没有人回答。 
“那么，我们只能在这里等着，孩子们，等到有人愿意出钱。一个人出１毛２分钱并不很多嘛。”“给你１毛５分钱，”一个小伙子叫道，瞪大眼睛注视着前面。“我只拿得出这么多。”“很好。现在我有了１毛５分钱。出列，”上尉说着抓住一个人的肩膀，把他朝一边拉了几步路，让他一个人站在那里。 
他回到原来的位置，又开始喊叫。 
“我还剩下３分钱。这些人总得有个地方睡觉埃一共有，”他数着，“一，二，三，四，五，六，七，八，九，十，十一，十二个人。再加９分钱就可以给下一个找个铺位。请让他好好舒服地过上一夜吧。我要跟着去，亲自照料这件事。谁愿意给我９分钱？"这一回是个看热闹的中年人，递给他一枚５分的镍币。 
“现在，我有８分钱了。再有４分钱就可以给这人一个铺位。请吧，先生们。今天晚上我们进展很慢。你们都有好地方睡觉。可是这些人怎么办呢？”“给你，”一个旁观者说，把一些硬币放到他的手上。 
“这些钱，”上尉看着硬币说，“够给两个人找铺位，还多出５分钱可以给下一个，谁愿意再给我７分钱？”“我给，”一个声音说。 
这天晚上，赫斯渥沿着第六大道往南走，正巧朝东穿过二十六街，向着第三大道走去。他精神萎靡不振，疲惫不堪，肚子饿得要死。现在他该怎么去找嘉莉呢？散戏要到１１点钟。如果她是乘马车来的，一定还会乘马车回去。他只有在令人十分难堪的情况下才能拦住她。最糟糕的是，他现在又饿又累，而且至少还要熬过整整一天，因为今天夜里他已经没有勇气再去尝试了。他既没有东西吃，也没有地方睡觉。 
当他走近百老汇大街时，他注意到上尉身边聚集的那些流浪汉。但他以为这是什么街头传教士或是什么卖假药的骗子招来的人群，正准备从旁边走过去。可是，正当他穿过街道朝麦迪逊广场公园走去的时候，他看见了那队已经得到铺位的人，这支队伍从人群中伸展了出来。借着附近耀眼的灯光，他认出这是一群和他自己同类的人，是一些他在街头和寄宿处看到过的人物。这些人像他一样，身心两方面都漂泊不定，他想知道这是怎么回事，就转身往回走。 
上尉还在那里像先前一样三言两语地恳求着。当赫斯渥听到“这些人得有个铺位过夜”这句不断重复的话时，感到又是惊讶又有点宽慰。他面前站着一队还没有得到铺位的不幸的人，当他看见一个新来的人悄悄地挤上来，站到队伍的末尾时，他决定也照着做。再去奋斗有什么用呢？今天夜里他已经累了。这至少可以不费劲地解决一个困难。明天也许他会干得好一些。 
在他身后，那些铺位已经有了着落的人站的地方，显然有着一种轻松的气氛。由于不再担心无处过夜，他听到他们的谈话没什么拘束，还带着一些想交朋结友的味道。这里既有谈论的人，也有听众，话题涉及政治、宗教、政府的现状、报上的一些轰动一时的新闻以及世界各地的丑闻。粗哑的声音在使劲地讲述着稀奇古怪的事情。回答的是一些含糊杂乱的意见。 
还有一些人只是斜眼瞟着，或是像公牛那样瞪大眼睛呆望着，这些人因为太迟钝或太疲倦而没有交谈。 
站着开始叫人吃不消了。赫斯渥越等越疲惫。他觉得自己快要倒下去了，就不停地换着脚支撑着身体的重量。终于轮到了他。前面的一个人已经拿到了钱，站到幸运的成功者的队伍里去了。现在，他成了第一个，而且上尉已经在为他说情。 
“１毛２分钱，先生们。１毛２分钱就可以给这个人找个铺位。倘若他有地方可去，就不会站在这里受冻了。”有什么东西涌上了赫斯渥的喉头，他把它咽了回去。饥饿和虚弱使他变成了胆小鬼。 
“给你，”一个陌生人说，把钱递给了上尉。 
这时上尉把一只和蔼的手放在这位前经理的肩上。 
“站到那边的队伍里去吧，”他说。 
一站到那边。赫斯渥的呼吸都轻松了一些。他觉得有这么一个好人存在，这个世界仿佛并不太糟糕。对这一点，其他的人似乎也和他有同感。 
“上尉真是个了不起的人，是不？”前面的一个人说。这是个愁眉苦脸、可怜巴巴的个子矮小的人，看上去他好像总是要么受到命运的戏弄，要么得到命运的照顾。 
“是的，”赫斯渥冷漠地说。 
“嘿！后面还有很多人呢，”更前面一些的一个人说着，从队伍里探出身子朝后看着那些上尉正在为之请求的申请者。 
“是埃今天晚上肯定要超过一百人，”另一个人说。 
“看那马车里的家伙，”第三个人说。 
一辆马车停了下来。一位穿晚礼服的绅士伸出手来，递给上尉一张钞票。上尉接了钱，简单地道了谢，就转向他的队伍。 
大家都伸长了脖子，看着那白衬衫前襟上闪闪发亮的宝石，目送着马车离去。连围观的人群也肃然起敬，看得目瞪口呆。 
“这笔钱可以安排九个人过夜，”上尉说着，从他身边的队伍里，依次点出九个人。“站到那边的队伍里去。好啦，现在只有七个人了。我需要１毛２分钱。”钱来得很慢。过了一段时间，围观的人群渐渐散去，只剩下寥寥几个人。第五大道上，除了偶尔有辆公共马车或者有个步行的过路人之外，已经空空荡荡。百老汇大街上稀稀落落地还有些行人。偶尔有个陌生人路过这里，看见这一小群人，拿出一枚硬币，然后就扬长而去。 
上尉坚定不移地站在那里。他还在继续说着，说得很慢很少，但却带着自信，好像他是不会失败的。 
“请吧，我不能整夜都站在这里。这些人越来越累、越来越冷了。有谁给我４分钱。”有一阵子他干脆一句话都不说。钱到了他的手里，每够了１毛２分钱，他就点出一个人，让他站到另一支队伍里去。然后他又像先前一样来回踱着步，眼睛看着地上。 
戏院散场了。灯光招牌也看不见了。时钟敲了１１点。又过了半个钟头，他只剩下了最后两个人。 
“请吧，”他对几个好奇的旁观者叫道，“现在１毛８分钱就可以使我们都有地方过夜了。１毛８分钱，我已有了６分钱。有谁愿意给我钱。请记着，今天晚上我还得赶到布鲁克林去。在此之前，我得把这些人带走，安排他们睡下。１毛８分钱。”没有人响应。他来回踱着步，朝地上看了几分钟，偶尔轻声说道：“１毛８分钱。”看样子，这小小的一笔钱似乎比前面所有的钱都更久地耽误实现大家盼望的目标。赫斯渥因为自己是这长长的队伍中的一员，稍稍振作了一些，好不容易才忍住没有呻吟，他太虚弱了。 
最后，出现了一位太太。她戴着歌剧里戴的斗篷，穿着沙沙作响的长裙，由她的男伴陪着沿第五大道走过来。赫斯渥疲倦地呆望着，由她而想到了在新的世界里的嘉莉和他当年也这样陪伴他太太的情景。 
当他还在呆望着的时候，她回头看见了这个奇怪的人群，就叫她的男伴过来。他来了，手指间夹着一张钞票，样子优雅之极。 
“给你，”他说。 
“谢谢，”上尉说完，转向最后剩下的两个申请者。“现在我们还有些钱可以明天晚上用，”他补充说。 
说罢，他让最后两个人站到队伍里，然后自己朝队首走去，边走边数着人数。 
“一百三十七个，”他宣布说。“现在，孩子们，排好队。向右看齐。我们不会再耽搁多久了。喂，别急。”他自己站到了队首，大声喊道：“开步走。”赫斯渥跟着队伍前进。这支长长的、蜿蜒的队伍，跨过第五大道，沿着弯弯曲曲的小路穿过麦迪逊广场，往东走上二十三街，再顺着第三大道向南行进。当队伍走过时，半夜的行人和闲荡者都驻足观望。在各个拐角处聊天的警察，冷漠地注视着，向这位他们以前见过的领队点点头。他们在第三大道上行进着，像是经过了一段令人疲惫的长途跋涉，才走到了八街。那里有一家寄宿处，显然是夜里已经打了烊。不过，这里知道他们要来。 
他们站在门外的暗处，领队则在里面谈判。然后大门打开了，随着一声“喂，别急，”他们被请了进去。 
有人在前头指点房间，以免耽搁拿钥匙。赫斯渥吃力地爬上嘎嘎作响的楼梯。回头望望，看见上尉在那里注视着。他那份博爱关怀备至，他要看着最后一个人也被安顿好了才能放心。然后，他裹紧了带斗篷的大衣，慢步出门，走进夜色之中。 
“这样下去我可受不了啦，”赫斯渥说，他在指定给他的黑暗的小卧室里那张破烂的床铺上坐下来时，感到两条腿疼痛难忍。“我得吃点东西才行，否则我会饿死的。”
Chapter 46 STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS
Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was putting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. It included a familiar voice. 
"Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda." 
"You'll have to send in your card." 
"Oh, come off! Here." 
A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her dressing-room door. 
Carrie opened it. 
"Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew that was you the moment I saw you." 
Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation. 
"Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy! That's all right, shake hands." 
Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed. The same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance. 
"That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I paid him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great show. You do your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be passing tonight and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw your name on the programme, but I didn't remember it until you came on the stage. Then it struck me all at once. Say, you could have knocked me down with a feather. That's the same name you used out there in Chicago, isn't it?" 
"Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance. 
"I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been, anyhow?" 
"Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She was rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?" 
"Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now." 
"Is that so?" said Carrie. 
"Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch here." 
"How nice!" 
"Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet. 
"About three years ago," said Carrie. 
"You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it. I knew you would, though. I always said you could act -- didn't I?" 
Carrie smiled. 
"Yes, you did," she said. 
"Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve so. You're taller, aren't you?" 
"Me? Oh, a little, maybe." 
He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was set jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to avert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once and without modification. 
"Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and the like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out to dinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here." 
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an early engagement to-morrow." 
"Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want to have a good talk with you." 
"No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I don't care for a late dinner." 
"Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow." 
"Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talk some other time." 
As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed. Good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had always liked her. 
"You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of penance for error. "You can take dinner with me." 
"All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?" 
"At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then but newly erected. 
"What time?" 
"Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly. 
The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as volubly as ever. 
"They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first remark. 
"Yes; they do," said Carrie. 
Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed account of his own career. 
"I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed in one place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars." 
Carrie listened most good-naturedly. 
"Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?" 
Carrie flushed a little. 
"He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen him for some time." 
Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that Carrie had got rid of him -- as well she ought, he thought. 
"A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that," he observed. 
"Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming. 
"Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his hand. 
"No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?" 
"Why that affair in Chicago -- the time he left." 
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could it be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her? 
"Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten thousand dollars with him when he left, didn't you?" 
"What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?" 
"Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't you?" 
"Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't." 
"Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was in all the papers." 
"How much did you say he took?" said Carrie. 
"Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though." 
Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time. 
At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable. 
"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" he asked. 
Carrie smiled to think of it. 
"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he added ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and I were going to get along fine those days." 
"You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of coldness. 
"Won't you let me tell you-" 
"No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting ready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now." 
"Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of time." 
"No," said Carrie, gently. 
Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her to the elevator and, standing there, said: 
"When do I see you again?" 
"Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here all summer. Good-night!" 
The elevator door was open. 
"Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in. 
Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived, because she was now so far off. He thought himself hardly dealt with. Carrie, however, had other thoughts. 
That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the Casino, without observing him. 
The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face to face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise the shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger. 
"Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?" 
She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the money. 
"Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?" 
"I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of the hospital. For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?" 
"Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to maintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you, anyhow?" 
She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it -- a five and two twos. 
"I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a source. 
"Here," she said. "It's all I have with me." 
"All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you some day." 
Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt the strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood. 
"Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked, hardly knowing what to do. "Where are you living?" 
"Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's no use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now." 
He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries -- so much better had fate dealt with her. 
"Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't bother you any more." 
She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward the east. 
For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to wear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by her. His attentions seemed out of place. 
"I'm out," was her reply to the boy. 
So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye -- she was so quiet and reserved. 
Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. A second summer season did not seem to promise well here. 
"How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager, one afternoon. 
"It might be just the other way," said Carrie. 
"I think we'll go in June," he answered. 
In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion -- the old days had gone for good. 
"She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not believe this. 
Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him over more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, in the press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in a new play; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of amusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in. 
About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little success in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was nothing responsive between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he did not profess to understand, and refrained from comment. 
With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly. 
"She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do better than that." 
One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen interest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because at that time he had represented something which she did not have; but this she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary feeling that she was now blessed with much of which he would approve. As a matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He thought she could have done better, by far. 
"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering her interest in that form of art. 
"No," she answered; "I haven't, so far." 
He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had failed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though." 
"I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of disposition that would do well in comedy-drama." 
It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then, so clearly in his mind? 
"Why?" she asked. 
"Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your nature." 
Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal was sounding. 
"I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all concealment. 
"I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good." 
"I'm glad you liked it." 
"Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy." 
This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard work had given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her. 
"All alone?" she said. 
"I was listening to the music." 
"I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in the inventor. 
Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he sat. 
"Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening. 
"Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was called. 
"Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him. 
They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling, only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in the old days. 
"I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always makes me feel as if I wanted something -- I-" 
"Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel." 
Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly. 
"You ought not to be melancholy," he said. 
He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation which, however, accorded with their feelings. 
"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our hands over the far-off things." 
The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, as if to rest himself. 
"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He was looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large, sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment. 
"Perhaps I shall," she returned. 
"That's your field," he added. 
"Do you think so?" 
"Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of work." 
Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, loneliness deserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical. 
"It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I remember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something peculiar about your mouth. I thought you were about to cry." 
"How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heart craved. 
"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I saw it again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much this same character. It's in the depth of them, I think." 
Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused. 
"You probably are not aware of it," he added. 
She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equal to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the door to a new desire. 
She had cause to ponder over this until they met again -- several weeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it? 
"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you had a more dramatic part. I've studied it out-" 
"What is it?" said Carrie. 
"Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in your face is one that comes out in different things. You get the same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a natural expression of its longing." 
Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant. 
"The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on. "Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend upon others. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play. Sometimes nature does it in a face -- it makes the face representative of all desire. That's what has happened in your case." 
He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was something which represented the world's longing. She took it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added: 
"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this thing. It is no credit to you -- that is, I mean, you might not have had it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must do something with it." 
"What?" asked Carrie. 
"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy and such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make your powers endure." 
Carrie did not understand this last. All her comedy success was little or nothing. 
"What do you mean?" she asked. 
"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act will disappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes care of that." 
He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up. 
"I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect. 
"If I were you," he said, "I'd change." 
The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled over it in her rocking-chair for days. 
"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she eventually remarked to Lola. 
"Oh, why not?" said the latter. 
"I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play." 
"What put that idea in your head?" 
"Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so." 
Still, she did nothing -- grieving. It was a long way to this better thing -- or seemed so -- and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and longing.
嘉莉这次回纽约演出的一个晚上，当她快要换好装，准备回家的时候，听到后台门口传来一阵骚动声，其中有一个熟悉的声音。 “哦，没关系的。我要见麦登达小姐。” 
“你得先把名片递进去。” 
“哦，别挡着我。给你。” 
递过去了半块钱，然后就听到有人敲她化妆室的门。 
嘉莉开了门。 
“嘿，嘿！”杜洛埃说。“我说是吧！喂，你好吗？我一看见就知道是你。”嘉莉朝后退了一步，心想这一下会有一番最令人难堪的谈话了。 
“你不打算和我握手吗？嘿，你真是个大美人儿。没关系的，握手吧。”嘉莉笑着伸出手来，也许只是因为这个男人热情洋溢、一片好心。他虽然老了一些，但变化很校还是那样衣着华丽，还是那样身材粗壮，还是那样满面红光。 
“门口的那个家伙不让我进来，我给了他钱才进来了。我知道肯定是你，嗬，你们这出戏真棒。你的角色演得很出色。我早知道你行的。今天晚上我碰巧路过这里，就想进来看一会儿。我在节目单上看见了你的名字，但是直到你上台我才记起来。当时我蓦地大吃一惊。咳，你简直把我惊呆了。这个名字就是你在芝加哥时用的那个，是不是？”“是的，”嘉莉温和地回答，被这个男人的自信征服了。 
“我一看见你，就知道是那个名字。好啦，不管它了。你一向好吗？”“哦，很好，”嘉莉说，还在她的化妆室里磨蹭着。这场突然袭击弄得她有些晕头转向了。“你一向好吗？”“我吗？哦，很好。我现在住在这里。”“这是真的吗？”嘉莉说。 
“是的。我来这里已经六个月了。我在负责这里的分公司。”“这太好了！”“哦，你到底是什么时候上舞台的？”杜洛埃问道。 
“大约三年以前，”嘉莉说， 
“你没开玩笑吧！哎呀，真是的，我这还是第一次听说呢。” 
“不过我早知道你会上舞台的。我总是说你能演戏的，是不是？”嘉莉笑了。 
“是的，你是说过，”她说。 
“啊，你看上去真漂亮，”他说。“我从没有见过有谁变化这么大的。你长高了一些，是不是？”“我吗？喔，也许长高了一点吧。”他凝视着她的衣服，然后转向她的头发，头上很神气地戴着一顶合适的帽子，最后盯住了她的眼睛，她却竭力地避开他的目光。很显然，他是想立刻原原本本地恢复他们往日的交情。 
“那么，”见她在收拾钱包、手帕之类的东西，准备离开，他说，“我想请你和我一起出去吃饭，你愿意吗？我还有个朋友在外面等我。”“啊，不行，”嘉莉说。“今晚不行。我明天一早就要赴约。”“咳，别去赴什么约了。走吧。我可以把那个朋友甩开。我要和你好好地谈一谈。”“不，不，”嘉莉说。“我不行。你不用再说了。我也不想去吃饭。”“好吧，那我们就出去谈谈，这总可以吧。”“今晚不行，”她摇摇头说。“我们改天再谈吧。”说完这话，她发现他的脸上掠过一层若有所思的阴影，好像他正开始意识到情况已经发生了变化。善良的心地使她觉得对待一个一直都喜欢她的人应该更友好一些。 
“那你明天到旅馆来找我吧，”她说，作为悔过的表示。“你可以和我一起吃饭。”“好的，”杜洛埃说，又快活起来。“你住在哪里？”“在沃尔多夫旅馆，”她回答，指的是当时刚刚新建的时髦大旅馆。 
“什么时候？” 
“哦，３点钟来吧，”嘉莉愉快地说。 
第二天，杜洛埃来赴约了，但当嘉莉想起这个约会时并不感到特别高兴。可是看到他还像从前一样风度翩翩--是他那种人的风度，而且态度十分亲切，她对这顿饭是否会使她不愉快的疑虑就一扫而光了。他还像从前一样滔滔不绝地说着话。 
“这里的人的架子可不小，是不是？”这是他说的第一句话。 
“是的，他们的架子是很大，”嘉莉说。 
他是个典型的言必称“我”者。因此，立刻详细地谈起了他自己的事业。 
“我很快就要自己开一家公司了，”谈话中有一次他这样说。“我可以筹集到２０万块钱的资金。”嘉莉非常耐心地听着。 
“喂，”他突然说，“赫斯渥现在在哪里？”嘉莉脸红了一下。 
“我想他就在纽约吧，”她说，“我已经有些时候没有看见他了。”杜洛埃沉思了一会儿。在此之前，他一直拿不准这位前经理是不是在幕后施加影响的人物。他猜想不是，但是这样一肯定就使他放心了。他想一定是嘉莉抛弃了他，她也应该这样做。 
“一个人干出那样的事情来，总是做错了，”他说。 
“干出什么样的事情？”嘉莉说，不知道下文是什么。 
“哦，你知道的，”说着，杜洛埃挥了挥手，似乎在表示她一定知道的。 
“不，我不知道，”她回答。“你指的是什么事？”“噢，就是在芝加哥发生的那件事--在他出走的时候。”“我不明白你在说些什么，”嘉莉说。难道他会如此无礼地提起赫斯渥和她一起私奔的事吗？ 
“哎哟！”杜洛埃怀疑地说。“你知道他出走的时候拿了１万块钱，是吗？”“什么！”嘉莉说，“莫非你的意思是说他偷了钱，是吗？”“嗨，”杜洛埃说，对她的语气感到大惑不解，“你早就知道这件事了，对不对？”“哦，不知道，”嘉莉说，“我当然不知道。”“那就奇怪了，”杜洛埃说道，“他是偷了钱，你也知道的。所有的报纸都登了这事。” 
“你刚才说他拿了多少钱？”嘉莉问。 
“１万块。不过，我听说他事后把大部分的钱都寄了回去。”嘉莉茫然地看着铺着豪华地毯的地板。她开始用新的眼光看待自己被迫逃走之后这些年的生活。她现在回想起很多事情都表明了这一点。她还想到他拿钱是为了她。因此并没有什么憎恨，只是一种惋惜之情油然而生。多么可怜的家伙！ 
这些年来他一直生活在怎样的一件事情的阴影之下埃吃饭的时候，杜洛埃吃着喝着兴奋起来，心里也有了柔情，自以为他正在使嘉莉回心转意，会像过去那样心地善良地关怀他。他开始幻想着，虽然她现在十分高贵，但要重新进入她的生活并不会太难。他想，她是多么值得争取啊！她是多么漂亮、多么优雅、多么有名啊！以舞台和沃尔多夫旅馆为背景的嘉莉，是他最最想得到的人儿。 
“你还记得在阿佛莱会堂的那天晚上你有多胆怯吗？”他问。 
嘉莉想起这事，笑了一下。 
“我从来没有见过谁演得比你当时演得更好，嘉德，”他懊丧地补充说，把一只胳膊撑在桌子上。“我还以为那时候你我会相处得很好呢。”“你不应该这样说，”嘉莉说，口气开始有些冷淡了。 
“你难道不想让我告诉你--” 
“不，”她说着站起身来。“而且，现在我要准备去戏院了。”
“我不得不和你告别。现在走吧。” 
“哦，再待一会儿，”杜洛埃恳求道，“时间还早呢。”“不，”嘉莉温柔地说。 
杜洛埃极不情愿地离开了这明亮的餐桌，跟着她走了。他陪她走到电梯门口，站在那里说：“我什么时候能再见到你？”“哦，也许过些时候吧，”嘉莉说，“我整个夏天都在这里。 
再见！” 
电梯门开了。 
“再见！”杜洛埃说，目送她拖着沙沙作响的裙子走进电梯。 
然后，他伤心地沿着走廊慢慢走着。因为她现在离他是如此遥远，他往日的一切渴望全都复苏了。这地方欢快的衣服沙沙作响的声音，难免使人想起她。他觉得自己受到了冷遇。然而，嘉莉的心里却想着别的事情。 
就在那天晚上，她从等在卡西诺戏院门口的赫斯渥身边经过，却没有看见他。 
第二天晚上，她步行去戏院，和赫斯渥迎面相遇。他等在那里，比以前更加憔悴。他下定了决心要见到她，即使捎话进去也要见到她。起初她没有认出这个衣衫褴褛、皮肉松弛的人。他挨得这么近，像是一个饿极了的陌生人，把她吓了一跳。 
“嘉莉，”他低声说，“我能和你说几句话吗？”她转过身来，立刻认出了他。即使在她心中曾经潜藏着什么对他的反感的话，这时也都消失了。而且，她还记得杜洛埃说的他偷过钱的事。 
“啊唷，乔治，”她说，“你怎么啦？” 
“我生了一场病，”他回答，“我刚刚从医院出来。看在上帝的面上，给我一点钱，好吗？”“当然可以，”嘉莉说，她努力想保持镇静，连嘴唇都在颤抖。“但是你到底怎么啦？”她打开钱包，把里面的钞票全都掏了出来--２张２块的，１张５块的。 
“我生了一场病，我告诉过你了，”他没好气地说，对她的过分怜悯几乎产生了怨恨。从这样一个人那里得到怜悯，使他难受万分。 
“给，”她说。“我身边只有这么多了。” 
“好的，”他轻声回答，“我有朝一日会还给你的。”嘉莉看着他，而街上的行人都在注视着她。在众目睽睽之下她感到很难堪。赫斯渥也有同感。 
“你为什么不告诉我你究竟是怎么啦？”她问道，简直不知如何是好。“你住在哪里？”“喔，我在波威里街租了一个房间，”他回答，“在这里告诉你也没用的。我现在已经好了。”他好像有些讨厌她的好心的询问，命运待她要好得多。 
“还是进去吧，”他说，“我很感激，但是我不会再来麻烦你的。”她想回答一句，但他已经转身走开，拖着脚往东去了。 
这个幽灵般的影子在她的心头萦绕了好多天，才开始逐渐消逝了一些。杜洛埃又来拜访，但是这一次她连见都不见他。他的殷勤似乎已经不合时宜。 
“我不会客，”她回答茶房。 
她那孤僻、内向的脾气的确太特别了，使得她成了公众眼里一个引人注目的人物。她是如此的文静而矜持。 
此后不久，剧团经理部决定去伦敦演出。再在这里演一个夏季看来前景并不太好。 
“你愿意去征服伦敦吗？”一天下午，经理问她。 
“也许正好是伦敦征服了我呢？”嘉莉说。 
“我想我们将在６月里动身，”他说。 
临行匆匆，把赫斯渥给忘了。他和杜洛埃两个人都是事后才知道她已经走了。杜洛埃来拜访过一次，听到消息大叫了起来。然后，他站在门厅里，咬着胡子尖。他终于得出了结论——过去的日子已经一去不复返了。 
“她也没什么了不起的，”他说，但是在他的内心深处却不这么认为。 
赫斯渥好歹通过一些稀奇古怪的方式，熬过了一个漫长的夏季和秋季。在一家舞厅干一份看门的小差使帮他度过了一个月。更多的时候他是靠乞讨过活的，有时挨饿，有时露宿公园。还有些日子，他求助于那些特殊的慈善机构，其中的几个是他在饥饿的驱使下偶然碰上的。快到隆冬的时候，嘉莉回来了，在百老汇戏院上演一出新戏，但是他并不知道。接连几个星期，他在城里流浪着，乞讨着，而有关她的演出的灯光招牌则每晚都在那条拥挤的娱乐大街上闪闪发亮。杜洛埃倒是看见了招牌，但是却没敢进去。 
大约就在这个时候，艾姆斯回到了纽约。他在西部已经有了些小成就，现在在伍斯特街开办了一个实验室。当然，他通过万斯太太又遇见了嘉莉，但是在他们之间并不存在什么相互感应。他以为她还和赫斯渥生活在一起，直到听说情况不是这样。当时因为不知道事实真相，他不表示理解，也没有加以评论。 
他和万斯太太一起去看了新戏，并且对演出发表了自己的意见。 
“她不应该演轻松喜剧的，”他说，“我想她可以演得比这更好一些。”一天下午，他们偶然在万斯家相遇，便很亲热地谈起话来。她简直搞不懂自己为什么不再抱有那一度对他的强烈的兴趣。毫无疑问，这是因为那个时候他代表着一些她所没有的东西，但是她并不明白这一点。她的成功使她暂时觉得自己已经拥有了许多他会赞许的东西。其实，她在报纸上的那点小名气在他看来根本就是微不足道的。他认为她本可以演得更好，而且是好得多。 
“你终究没去演严肃喜剧吗？”他说，记起了她对那种艺术的爱好。 
“没有，”她回答，“我至今还没有。” 
他看她的目光是如此地奇特，因此她意识到自己是失败了。这使得她又补充说道：“不过，我是想演的。”“我倒也觉得你会这样想的，”他说，“按你的性格，如果你演严肃喜剧会很出色的。”他竟会说到性格，这可让她大吃了一惊。那么，他心里对她的了解有这么清楚吗？ 
“为什么呢？”她问。 
“哦，”他说，“据我看你的天性很富有同情心。”嘉莉笑了，有些脸红起来。他对她是这么天真、坦率，使她进一步增加了对他的友谊。往日那理想的呼唤又在她耳边响起。 
“这我就不知道了，”她回答道，可是却掩饰不住内心的喜悦。 
“我看了你们的戏，”他说，“演得很好。”“我很高兴你能喜欢。”“的确很好，他说，“就轻松喜剧而言。”因为有人打扰，当时他们就说了这些，但是后来他们又相见了。他吃完饭后正坐在一个角落里凝视着地板，这时嘉莉和另一位客人走了上来。辛苦的工作使他的脸上露出了疲惫的神色。嘉莉永远也弄不明白这张脸上有什么东西吸引她。 
“一个人吗？”她问。 
“我刚才在听音乐。” 
“我一会儿就回来，”她的伴侣说，没觉得这个发明家有什么了不起之处。 
这时他抬头望着她的脸，因为她已经站了一会儿，而他却坐着。 
“那不是一首悲伤的曲子吗？”他倾听着问。 
“啊，是很悲伤，”她回答，现在她注意到了，也听了出来。 
“请坐，”他补充说，请她坐在他身边的椅子上。 
他们静静地听了一会儿，为同一感情所感动，只是她的感情是发自内心的。像往日一样，音乐仍旧使她陶醉。 
“我不知道音乐是怎么一回事，”她心里涌起阵阵莫名起妙的渴望，这促使她先打破沉默说，“但是音乐总是使我觉得好像缺少些什么--我--”“是的，”他回答，“我知道你是怎样感觉的。”突然，他转念想到她的性格真是奇特，会如此坦率地表白自己的感触。 
“你不应该伤感的，”他说。 
他想了一会儿，然后就陷入了仿佛是陌生的观察之中。不过，这和他们的感觉倒是相一致的。 
“这个世界充满了令人向往的地位。然而，不幸的是，我们在一个时候只能占有一个地位。为那些可望而不可及的东西扼腕叹息对我们毫无好处。”音乐停止了，他站起身来，在她面前挺立着，像是要休息一下。 
“你为什么不去演些好的、有力度的严肃喜剧呢？”他说。 
现在他直视着她，仔细地打量着她的脸。她那富于同情的大眼睛和哀怨动人的嘴巴都证明他的见解是正确的，因而使他很感兴趣。 
“也许我要演的，”她回答。 
“那才是你的本行，”他补充说。 
“你是这样认为的吗？” 
“是的，”他说，“我是这样认为的。我想你也许没有意识到，但是你的眼睛和嘴巴有着某种表情使你很适合演那种戏。”受到如此认真的对待，嘉莉一阵激动。一时间，她不再觉得寂寞。她现在得到的称赞敏锐而富有分析性。 
“那种表情就在你的眼睛和嘴巴上，”他漫不经心地接着说，“我记得第一次见到你的时候，就觉得你的嘴巴很有些特别。我还以为你快要哭了呢。”“好奇怪，”嘉莉说，快乐得兴奋起来。这正是她内心里渴望的东西。 
“后来，我发现这是你天生的长相，今天晚上我又注意到了这一点。你的眼睛周围也有些阴影，使你的脸有了同样的特点。我想那是在眼睛的深处。”嘉莉直视着他的脸庞，激动万分。 
“你也许没有意识到这一点，”他补充说。 
她扭头望向别处，很高兴他能这么说，真希望不要辜负了她脸上天生的这种表情。这打开了一种新欲望的大门。 
在他们再度相见之前，她有理由反复思考这件事--几个星期或者更久。这件事使她明白，很久以来，她离当年在阿佛莱会堂后台的化妆室里以及后来的日子里满心渴望的原来的理想是越来越远了。她为什么会丧失这个理想呢？ 
“我知道为什么你能演得成功，”另一次，他说，“只要你的戏再重一些。我已经研究出来--”“研究出什么？”嘉莉问道。 
“哦，”他说，高兴得像是猜出了一条谜语。“你的面部表情是随着不同的情况而产生的。你从伤心的歌曲或者任何使你深受感动的绘画中，都会得到同样的感受。这就是世人都喜欢看的东西，因为这是欲望的自然表现。”嘉莉瞪大眼睛望着，并不确切地明白他的意思。 
“世人总是挣扎着要表现自己，”他继续说，“而大多数人都不善于表达自己的感情。他们得依赖别人。天才就是为此而生的。有人用音乐表现了他们的欲望；有人用诗歌来表现；还有人用戏剧来表现。有时候造物主用人的面孔来表现--用面孔来表现所有的欲望。你的情况就是这样。”他看着她，眼睛里充满了这件事的含义，使她也懂得了。 
至少，她懂得了她的面部表情是可以表现世人的欲望的。她认为这是件荣耀的事，因而牢记在心里，直到他又说：“这就要求你担负起一种责任。你恰好具有这种才能。这不是你的荣耀，我的意思是说，你可能没有它的。这是你没有付出代价就得来的。但是你现在既然有了这种才能，就应该用它来干出一番事业。”“干些什么呢？”嘉莉问。 
“依我看，转到戏剧方面去。你这么富有同情心，又有着这么悦耳的嗓音。要让它们对别人有用。那将使你的才能不朽。”嘉莉没听懂这最后的一句话。其余的话则是在告诉她，她演轻松喜剧的成功并没有什么大不了的，或者根本就是微不足道。 
“你说的是什么意思？”她问。 
“噢，就是这个。你的眼睛和嘴巴，还有你的天性都具有这种才能。你会失去它的，这你也知道，倘若你不运用它，活着只是为了满足自己，那么它很快就会消失。你的眼睛会失色，你的嘴巴会变样，你的表演能力会化为乌有。你也许认为它们不会消失，但是它们会的。这个造物主自会安排。”他如此热衷于提出好的意见，有时候甚至都变得热情洋溢起来，于是就说了这么一大通道理。他喜欢嘉莉身上的某种东西。他想激励她一下。 
“我知道，”她心不在焉地说，对自己的疏忽感到有点内疚。 
“如果我是你的话，”他说，“我会改行的。”这番谈话在嘉莉身上产生的效应就像是搅混了无助的水，使她徒然心乱。嘉莉坐在摇椅里，为这事苦思冥想了好几天。 
“我想我演轻松喜剧的日子不会太久了，”她终于对萝拉说。 
“哦，为什么呢？”后者问。 
“我想，”她说，“我演严肃戏剧可以演得更好一些。”“什么事情使你这么想的？”“哦，没有什么，”她回答。“我一直都有这个想法。”可是，她并不采取什么行动，只是在发愁。要想干这更好一些的事情路途还远着呢--或者看起来还很远--而她已经是在养尊处优了，因此她只有渴望而没有行动。
Chapter 47 THE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND
In the city, at that time, there were a number of charities similar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now patronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street -- a row of red brick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plain wooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement that every noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply and ask for aid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme, covering, as it did, charity so broad. Institutions and charities are so large and so numerous in New York that such things as this are not often noticed by the more comfortably situated. But to one whose mind is upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection. Unless one were looking up this matter in particular, he could have stood at Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour and never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that busy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenance and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none the less true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it became. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house, compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty eating at one time, so that a line had to be formed outside and an orderly entrance effected. This caused a daily spectacle which, however, had become so common by repetition during a number of years that now nothing was thought of it. The men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest weather -- waited for several hours before they could be admitted. No questions were asked and no service rendered. They ate and went away again, some of them returning regularly day after day the winter through. 
A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door during the entire operation and counted the admissible number. The men moved up in solemn order. There was no haste and no eagerness displayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weather this line was to be found here. Under an icy wind there was a prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of feet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as if severely nipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light proved them to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class that sit on the park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon them during the summer nights. They frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels East Side streets where poor clothes and shrunken features are not singled out as curious. They are the men who are in the lodging-house sitting-rooms during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East Side streets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played havoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed, hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were a sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, their ears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at heel and toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts, every wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a stormy shore. 
For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city, Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would come for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twenty years about three hundred men had formed in line and at the appointed time marched past the doorway, picked their loaf from a great box placed just outside, and vanished again into the night. From the beginning to the present time there had been little change in the character or number of these men. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar to those who had seen this little procession pass year after year. Two of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. There were about forty, more or less, regular callers. The remainder of the line was formed of strangers. In times of panic and unusual hardships there were seldom more than three hundred. In times of prosperity, when little is heard of the unemployed, there were seldom less. The same number, winter and summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this melancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box. 
At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was now on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it was peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about the streets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offering to the poor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he had shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes flapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned against the iron railing which protects the walls of the Ninth Regiment Armory, which fronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street, having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour to wait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but others coming up, they moved closer in order to protect their right of precedence. To this collection Hurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenue and stopped close to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who had been waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by a certain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that they were first. 
Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the line, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order had been restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed. 
"Must be pretty near noon," ventured one. 
"It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour." 
"Gee, but it's cold!" 
They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery man drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started some words upon grocery men and the cost of food in general. 
"I see meat's gone up," said one. 
"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot." 
The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more, and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated themselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. There was much jerking of heads, and looking down the line. 
"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You all go in together." 
"Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who bad been so sturdily displaced. 
"This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain't going to be no order till it comes." 
For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling, glancing, and beating their arms. 
At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared. She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one, passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout arm, and the line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of it; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, having eaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting it. 
At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he was at the midnight offering of a loaf -- waiting patiently. It had been an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch of philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in the evening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes before twelve, a great box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a portly, round-faced German took position by it, calling "Ready." The whole line at once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn and going his separate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went, plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed. 
By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him. Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and weakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and inconspicuous. Several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he thought he would end his troubles; but with a change of weather, or the arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he would wait. Each day he would find some old paper lying about and look into it, to see if there was any trace of Carrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain. Then he noticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and this ailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of the lodgings he frequented, he did not attempt to read. Bad and irregular eating was weakening every function of his body. The one recourse left him was to doze when a place offered and he could get the money to occupy it. 
He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre state of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and beggar. Police bustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers turned him out promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved him off. He found it more and more difficult to get anything from anybody. 
At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused and refused -- every one hastening from contact. 
"Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to the last one. "For God's sake, do; I'm starving." 
"Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common type himself. "You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'." 
Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tears came into his eyes. 
"That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. I had money. I'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, he started down toward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before and died; why shouldn't he? He remembered a lodging-house where there were little, close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted to do, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he remembered that he had no fifteen cents. 
On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming, clean-shaven, out of a fine barber shop. 
"Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this man boldly. 
The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing but quarters were in his pocket. 
"Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off, now." 
Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coin pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he could get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed, for the time being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get nothing but insults that death seemed worth while. 
One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the season set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the second snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by nightfall, and this he bad spent for food. At evening he found himself at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned his face Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wandering propensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged his wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was turned up about his red ears-his cracked derby hat was pulled down until it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets. 
"I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself. 
When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were already blazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright windows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants. There were coaches and crowded cable cars. 
In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things. 
"What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this." 
People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did not beg of anybody. 
Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had become, his hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He stopped stock still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly in. 
"Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any." 
Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy it had. 
"It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold." 
At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent fire, Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the Casino Company." All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked up, and then at a large, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine lithograph of Carrie, life-size. 
Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that his mind was not exactly clear. 
"That's you," he said at last, addressing her. "Wasn't good enough for you, was I? Huh!" 
He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer possible with him. 
"She's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "Let her give me some." 
He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going for and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists. Suddenly it returned. The stage door! That was it. 
He approached that entrance and went in. 
"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he went over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said. 
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said. 
"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. "Get out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist. 
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was being hustled away. "I'm all right. I-" 
The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so, Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vague sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly. 
"God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush from his worthless coat. "I -- I hired such people as you once." 
Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up -- just one fierce, angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind. 
"She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me." 
Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward and away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do. 
It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one distinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, the sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow was falling -- a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it -- six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men slouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the former thoroughfare business men and travellers were making for comfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming. There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter was reduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffled by this fast-thickening mantle. 
In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading at this time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. It was so strong, and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest, that she caught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. For the first time, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless had been her earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however, she yawned and came to the window, looking out upon the old winding procession of carriages rolling up Fifth Avenue. 
"Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola. 
"Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snows enough to go sleigh riding." 
"Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriot were still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for the people who haven't anything to-night?" 
"Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven't anything." 
Carrie smiled. 
"You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned. 
"I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anything when I was hard up." 
"Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm. 
"Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sight of some one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall, don't they?" 
"We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie, absently. 
In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was just arriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weather had driven him home early and stirred his desire for those pleasures which shut out the snow and gloom of life. A good dinner, the company of a young woman, and an evening at the theatre were the chief things for him. 
"Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of the comfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?" 
"Oh, about six and six," said the other. 
"Rotten weather, isn't it?" 
"Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sitting here thinking where I'd go to-night." 
"Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to something dead swell." 
"Who is it?" said the other. 
"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have a dandy time. I was just looking for you." 
"Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?" 
"Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes." 
"Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get a shave." 
"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward the elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever. 
On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related. 
"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor was announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and jacket. 
"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, a black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a euchre hand away from her. 
"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that fine raiment can make. 
"Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more, though." 
"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie -- it's coming up." 
Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view. 
"Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It only takes two weeks to get to Rome." 
Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It was so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man -- one whose financial state had borne her personal inspection. 
"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if it keeps up like this?" 
"Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference." 
Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a specially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away. It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her pride satisfied. 
At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building in a side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had been changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men -- a crowd which had been, and was still, gathering by degrees. 
It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on faded derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy with melted snow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were mere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go in, but shifted ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. With the minutes, increased the number. Three were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men who were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who were middle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in the thick of the collection which was as white as drained veal. There was another red as brick. Some came with thin, rounded shoulders, others with wooden legs, still others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them. There were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes. Not a normal, healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure; not a straightforward, steady glance. 
In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another. There were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red with cold. There were ears, half covered by every conceivable semblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten. In the snow they shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking in unison. 
With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It was not conversation, but a running comment directed at any one in general. It contained oaths and slang phrases. 
"By damn, I wish they'd hurry up." 
"Look at the copper watchin'." 
"Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!" 
"I wisht I was in Sing Sing." 
Now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. It was an edging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, no pleading, no threatening words. It was all sullen endurance, unlightened by either wit or good fellowship. 
A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of the men nearest the door saw it. 
"Look at the bloke ridin'." 
"He ain't so cold." 
"Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long since passed out of hearing. 
Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turned out on its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps. The cross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing, and every window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowd hung about the door, unwavering. 
"Ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice, suggestively. 
This seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and many gazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look, as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked and muttered, now a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and still the snow whirled and cut them with biting flakes. On the old hats and peaked shoulders it was piling. It gathered in little heaps and curves and no one brushed it off. In the centre of the crowd the warmth and steam melted it, and water trickled off hat rims and down noses, which the owners could not reach to scratch. On the outer rim the piles remained unmelted. Hurstwood, who could not get in the centre, stood with head lowered to the weather and bent his form. 
A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill of possibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition. At last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears. Footsteps shuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called: "Slow up there, now," and then the door opened. It was push and jam for a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward, like logs floating, and disappeared. There were wet hats and wet shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in between bleak walls. It was just six o'clock and there was supper in every hurrying pedestrian's face. And yet no supper was provided here -- nothing but beds. 
Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps to his allotted room. It was a dingy affair -- wooden, dusty, hard. A small gas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner. 
"Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door. 
Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first with his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His vest he arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid softly upon the table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down. 
It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned the gas out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After a few moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated, he turned the gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood there, hidden wholly in that kindness which is night, while the uprising fumes filled the room. When the odour reached his nostrils, he quit his attitude and fumbled for the bed. 
"What's the use?" he said weakly, as he stretched himself to rest. 
And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed life's object, or at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever attain of their original desires. She could look about on her gowns and carriage, her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as the world takes it -- those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of her success. For these she had once craved. Applause there was, and publicity -- once far off, essential things, but now grown trivial and indifferent. Beauty also -- her type of loveliness -- and yet she was lonely. In her rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged -- singing and dreaming. 
Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional nature -- the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come the men of action -- generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets and dreamers -- artists all. 
As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy, voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal. 
Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the ideal. For him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe. Ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of its distant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in travelling. So watched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing. 
And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this. Chicago dawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she had ever known, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone, clung to it. In fine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to be contented. Hence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York; Drouet, Hurstwood; the world of fashion and the world of stage -- these were but incidents. Not them, but that which they represented, she longed for. Time proved the representation false. 
Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here was Carrie, in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional; responding with desire to everything most lovely in life, yet finding herself turned as by a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured, if you will, by everything lovely, but draw not nigh unless by righteousness." Convention to say: "You shall not better your situation save by honest labour." If honest labour be unremunerative and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road which never reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the drag to follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking rather the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast the first stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, more often directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness more often allures the feeling mind unused to reason. 
Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. As when Drouet took her, she had thought: "Now am I lifted into that which is best"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the better way: "Now am I happy." But since the world goes its way past all who will not partake of its folly, she now found herself alone. Her purse was open to him whose need was greatest. In her walks on Broadway, she no longer thought of the elegance of the creatures who passed her. Had they more of that peace and beauty which glimmered afar off, then were they to be envied. 
Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood's death she was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out from the pier at Twenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, with many others, his nameless body to the Potter's Field. 
Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in their relation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable alone by the nature of her longings. Time was when both represented for her all that was most potent in earthly success. They were the personal representatives of a state most blessed to attain -- the titled ambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. It is but natural that when the world which they represented no longer allured her, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood returned in his original beauty and glory, he could not now have allured her. She had learned that in his world, as in her own present state, was not happiness. 
Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by which one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of beauty. Though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that halcyon day when she should be led forth among dreams become real. Ames had pointed out a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if accomplished, would lie others for her. It was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance of delight which tints the distant hilltops of the world. 
Oh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart! Onward, onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows. Whether it be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet landscape, or the glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of soul in some passing eye, the heart knows and makes answer, following. It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise. Know, then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content. In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel.
当时在纽约城里有不少慈善事业，性质上和那位上尉搞的差不多，赫斯渥现在就以同样不幸的方式经常光顾这些慈善机构。其中有一个是在十五街上的天主教慈惠会修道院的慈善所。这是一排红砖的家庭住宅，门前挂着一只普通木制捐款箱，箱上贴着对每天中午前来求助的所有人免费供应午餐的布告。这个简单的布告写得极不起眼，但实际上却包含着一个范围极广的慈善事业。类似这样的事业，在纽约这个有着那么大、那么多的慈善机构和事业的地方，是不大会引起那些境况比较舒适的人的注意的。但是对于一个有心于这种事情的人，这样的事业却越来越显得非常重要，值得细细观察。除非是特别留意这种事情，否则一个人可以在中午时分，在第六大道和十五街的拐角处站上好几天，也不会注意到，在这繁忙的大街上蜂拥的人群中，每隔几秒钟就会出现一个饱经风霜、步履沉重、形容憔悴、衣衫褴褛的人。然而，这却是个千真万确的事实，而且天气越冷越明显。慈善所因地方狭窄，厨房也不够用，不得不安排分批吃饭，每次只能容许二十五至三十人就餐，所以就得在外面排队并按顺序进去，这就使得每天都出现这么一个奇观，但几年来日复一日，人们对此已司空见惯，如今也就不以为奇了。这些人在严寒的天气里耐心地等待着，像牲口一样，要等几个钟头才能进去。没有人向他们提问，也没有人为他们服务。他们吃完就走，其中有些人整个冬天每天都按时来这里。 在整个布施期间，一个身材高大、慈眉善目的女人总是守在门口，清点可以进去的人数。这些人秩序井然地向前移动。 
他们并不争先，也不焦急。几乎像是一队哑巴。在最冷的天气里，也能在这里看见这支队伍。在刺骨的寒风中，他们使劲地拍手跺脚。他们的手指和脸部各处看上去似乎都有严重的冻伤。在光天花日之下仔细地看一下这些人，就可以发现他们差不多都是同一类型的人。他们属于那种在天气还可以忍受的白天坐在公园的长椅上，而在夏天的夜晚就睡在上面的人。他们常去波威里街和那些破烂不堪的东区街道，在那里褴褛的衣衫和枯槁的形容是不足为奇的。他们是在阴冷的天气里蜷缩在寄宿处的起居室里的那种人；他们是蜂拥在一些东区南部街道上更为便宜的可以过夜的地方的那种人，这些地方要到６点钟才开门。粗劣的食物，吃得不定时，而且吃起来又是狼吞虎咽，严重地损害了他们骨骼和肌肉。他们全都面色苍白、皮肉松弛，眼眶凹陷、胸脯扁平，但眼睛却闪闪发亮，而且相形之下，嘴唇红得像是在发烧。他们的头发不大梳理，耳朵缺少血色，皮鞋已经穿破，前露脚趾，后露脚跟。他们属于漂泊无助的那种人，每涌起一次人潮就冲上来一个，就像海浪把浮木冲上风暴袭击的海滩一般。 
差不多１A４个世纪以来，在纽约的另一个地方，面包铺老板弗莱施曼，对凡是在半夜里到百老汇大街和十街的拐角上他的那家饭店的门口要求救济的人，都施舍一只面包。二十年中，每天夜里都有大约三百人排好队，在指定的时间走过门口，从门外的一只大箱子里拿取面包。然后又消失在夜色之中。从开始直到现在，这些人的性质或数量都没怎么变化。那些年年在这里看到这支小队伍的人，对其中的两三个人都已经看熟了。其中有两个人十五年来几乎没有错过一次。有四十个左右是这里的常客。队伍中其余的人则是陌生人。在经济恐慌和特别困难的时期，也难得超过三百人。在很少听说有人失业的经济繁荣时期，也不大会有什么减少。不论是严冬还是酷夏，不论是狂风暴雨还是风和日丽，也不论是太平盛世还是艰难岁月，这个数量不变的人群都会在半夜里凄惨地聚集在弗莱施曼的面包箱前。 
眼下正值严冬，赫斯渥就成为上述两个慈善机构的常客。 
有一天特别寒冷，沿街乞讨实在不是滋味，于是他等到中午才去寻找给穷人的这种布施。这天上午１１点钟时，就已经有几个像他一样的人蹒跚地从第六大道走过去，他们单薄的衣衫随风飘动。他们早早就来了，想先进去。这时他们都靠在第九团军械库围墙外的铁栏杆上，这地方面对着十五街的那一段。 
因为还要等一个钟头，他们起初拘束地在距离远些的地方徘徊，但又来了其他的人，他们就走近一些，以保持他们先到的优先权。赫斯渥从西面第七大道走过来加入这支队伍，在离门很近的地方停了下来，比其他的人都更接近门口。那些先来的但是等在远处的人，这时都走拢来，而且，虽然一声不吭，但却用一种坚决的态度表明他们来得比他早。 
他发现自己的行动遭到了反对，便不快地看了看队伍，然后走出来，排到队伍的最后。等到恢复了秩序，兽性的反感也就缓和了。 
“快到中午了吧，”一个人壮起胆子说。 
“是快到了，”另一个说，“我已经等了差不多一个钟头了。”“哎呀，可是这天真冷啊！”他们焦急地盯着门看，他们全都得从那里进去。一个食品店的伙计用车拉来几篮子食物送了进去，这引起了一阵有关食品商和食评价格的议论。 
“我看到肉价涨了，”一个人说，“如果爆发战争的话，对这个国家会大有好处。”队伍在迅速扩大，已经有了五十多人。排在头上的人，他们的行动明显地表示出他们在庆幸自己可以比排在后面的人少等一些时间。常常有人伸出头来，望望后面的队伍。 
“能排多前无关紧要，只要是在最前面的二十五个人里就行，”在最前面的二十五个人里的一个说道。“大家都是一起进去的。”“哼！”赫斯渥忍不住喊了一声，他是被他们硬挤出来的。 
“这个单一税是个好办法，”另一个说，“没有它之前根本就无章可循。”大部分时间都没人说话，形容憔悴的人们挪动着双脚，张望着，拍打着自己的手臂。 
门终于打开了，出来了那位慈眉善目的修女。她只是用眼色来示意。队伍慢慢地向前移动，一个接着一个地走了进去，直到数到了二十五个。然后，她伸出一只粗壮的手臂拦住后面的人，队伍停了下来。这时台阶上还站着六个人，其中有一个就是这位前经理。他们就这样等待着，有的在谈话，有的忍不住叫苦不迭，有的则和赫斯渥一样在沉思。最后他被放了进去。因为等吃这顿饭等得太苦，吃完要走的时候，他都几乎被惹火了。 
大约两个星期之后，有一天晚上１１点钟，他在等待那半夜布施的面包，等得很耐心。这一天他很不幸，但是现在他已经能够比较达观地看待自己的命运了。即使他弄不到晚饭吃，或者深夜感到饿了，他还可以来这个地方。１２点差几分时，推出来一大箱子面包。一到１２点整，一个大腹便便的圆脸德国人就站到箱子的旁边，叫了一声“准备好”。整个队伍立刻向前移动，每个人依次拿上面包，就各走各的路了。这一次，这位前经理边走边吃，默默地拖着沉重的脚步走过夜色中的街道，回去睡觉。 
到了１月，他差不多已经断定自己这一生的游戏已经结束了。生命本来一直像是一种珍贵的东西，但是现在总是挨饿，体力衰弱，就使得人世间的可爱之处大为减少，难以察觉。 
有几次，当命运逼得他走投无路的时候，他想他要了此残生了。但是，只要天气一变，或者讨到２角５分或１角钱，他的心情就会改变，于是他又继续等待。每天他都要找些扔在地上的旧报纸，看看有没有嘉莉的什么消息。但是整个夏季和秋季都没有看到。然后，他发觉眼睛开始疼了起来，而且迅速加剧，后来他已经不敢在他常去的寄宿处的昏暗的卧室里看报了。吃得又差又没有规律，使他身体的每一个官能都在衰退。他唯一的指望就是能讨到钱去要一个铺位，好在上面打打瞌睡。 
他开始发现，由于他衣衫褴褛、身体瘦弱，人们把他当作老牌游民和乞丐看待了。警察见他就赶。饭店和寄宿处的老板一等他吃过饭、住过宿，就会立即撵他出门。行人也挥手要他走开。他发觉越来越难从任何人那里讨到任何东西。 
最后，他承认这场游戏该收场了。这是在他无数次地向行人求乞，一再遭到拒绝之后--人人都匆匆避开他。 
“求求你给我一点施舍好吗，先生？”他对最后一个人说，“看在上帝的面上给一点吧，我快要饿死了。”“哼，滚开，”这个人说，碰巧他自己也是个平民百姓。“你这家伙真没用。我什么都不会给你的。”赫斯渥把冻红的手插进衣袋里。眼睛里涌出了泪水。 
“这话不错，”他说，“我现在是没用了。我过去可是很好的。我也有过钱。我要摆脱这一切。”于是，心里想着死，他朝波威里街走去。以前曾有人开煤气自杀的，他为什么不这样做呢？他想起了一家寄宿处，那里有装着煤气喷嘴的不通风的小房间，他觉得像是为了他想做的事而预先安排好的，房钱是一天１毛５分钱。接着他想起自己连１毛５分钱也没有。 
在路上，他遇到一个神态悠闲的绅士，刚从一家上等理发店修了面出来。 
“求求你给我一点施舍好吗？”他大胆地向这个人乞讨。 
这个绅士打量了他一下，伸手想摸块１角的银币。但是他衣袋里只有２角５分的硬币。 
“给，”他说，递给赫斯渥一枚２角５分的硬币，想打发他走开。“你现在走吧。”赫斯渥继续走着，心里疑惑不定。看到这么一大个闪闪发亮的硬币，他觉得有些高兴。他想起自己肚子饿了，想起自己花上１毛５分钱就可以得个铺位。这么一想，他就暂时打消了寻死的念头。只有当他除了遭受侮辱，什么都讨不到的时候，好像才值得去死。 
仲冬的一天，最严寒的季节来临了。第一天天气阴暗，第二天就下起雪来。他一直不走运，到天黑时才讨到了１毛钱，他用这钱填了肚子。晚上他发现自己来到了主大道和六十七街的路口，在那里转了一会儿，最后转身朝着波威里街走去。 
因为上午他心血来潮地游荡了一番，所以这时感到特别疲乏。 
他拖着湿透的双脚，鞋底蹭着人行道，慢慢地走着。一件单薄的旧上衣直拉到他冻得发红的耳朵边，破烂的圆顶礼帽拉得低低的，把耳朵都给压翻了过来。他的双手插在衣袋里。 
“我这就去百老汇大街，”他对自己说。 
当他走到四十二街时，灯光招牌已经大放光彩了。许多人匆匆地赶去进餐。在每一个街角上，透过灯火通明的窗户，都可以看见豪华餐厅里那些寻欢作乐的男男女女。街上满是马车和拥挤的电车。 
他这么疲惫和饥饿，本来是不应该来这里的，对比太鲜明了。连他也不禁触景生情，深深地回想起过去的好光景来。 
“有什么用呢？”他想，“我已经全完了。我要摆脱这一切了。”人们回头目送着他，他那蹒跚的身影是如此的古怪。有几个警察一直用眼睛盯住他，以便阻止他向人乞讨。 
有一次，他漫无目的、稀里糊涂地停了下来，朝一家富丽堂皇的餐厅的窗户里看去，窗前闪耀着一块灯光招牌。透过餐厅的大玻璃窗，可以看见红色和金色的装璜、棕榈树、白餐巾以及闪光的玻璃餐具，特别还有那些悠闲的吃客。虽然他心神衰竭，但是强烈的饥饿感，使他意识到这一切的重要性。他一动不动地站住了，磨破的裤脚浸在雪水里，呆头呆脑地望着里面。 
“吃，”他咕哝着，“不错，要吃，别人都有吃的。”然后，他的声音越来越低，心里的幻想也消失了一些。 
“天真冷啊，”他说，“冷极了。” 
在百老汇大街和三十九街的拐角上，白炽灯光照耀着嘉莉的名字，显示着“嘉莉·麦登达和卡西诺剧团”的字样。整个泥泞积雪的人行道都被这片灯光照亮了。灯光很亮，因此引起赫斯渥的注意。他抬头看去，看见一块金边的大布告牌，上面有一幅嘉莉的优美画像，和真人一般大校赫斯渥盯着画像看了一会儿，吸着鼻子，耸起一只肩膀，像是有什么东西在抓他。可是，他已经精疲力尽，连脑子也不大清楚了。 
“是你呀，”他最后对着画里的她说。“我配不上你，是吗？”
“嘿！” 
他徘徊着，想清楚地想一想。但是他已经想不清楚了。 
“她已经得到了，”他语无伦次地说，心里想着金钱。“叫她给我一些。”他向边门走去。随后，他忘了去做什么，就停了下来，把手朝口袋里插得更深一些，想暖和一下手腕。突然又想起来去做什么了。后台门！就是这儿。 
他来到这个门口，走了进去。 
“干什么的？”看门人说，瞪眼看着他。见他停住了，就走过去推他。“滚出去。”他说。 
“我要见麦登达小姐，”他说。 
“你要见她，是吗？”对方说。差点被这事逗乐了。“滚出去吧，”说着又去推他。赫斯渥没有力气抵抗。 
“我要见麦登达小姐，”就在他被赶走的时候，他还想解释。“我是好人。我——”这个人又推了他最后一把，关上了门。他这么一推，赫斯渥脚下一滑，跌倒在雪地上。这使他很伤心，又恢复了一些模糊的羞耻感。他开始叫喊起来，呆头呆脑地咒骂着。 
“该死的狗！”他说，“这该死的老狗，”一边拂去他那不值钱的上衣上的雪水。“我——我曾经使唤过像你这样的人。”这时，一阵对嘉莉的强烈憎恶之感涌上他的心头——只是一阵狂怒的感觉，之后就把这事忘得一干二净。 
“她应该给我吃的，”他说，“她应该给我的。”他绝望地转身又回到百老汇大街上，踩着雪水朝前走去，一路乞讨、叫喊，迷失了思路，想起了这个就忘记了那个。就像一个脑力衰退、思想不连贯的人常有的那样。 
几天之后，那是一个严寒的傍晚，他在心里作出了自己唯一明确的决定。４点钟时，空中已是一片夜色朦胧。大雪纷飞，寒冷刺骨的雪花被疾风吹成了长长的细线。街上铺满了雪，像是铺上了六英寸厚的冰冷、柔软的地毯，它被车碾、人踩，弄成了褐色的泥浆。在百老汇大街上，人们都身穿长外套，手擎雨伞，小心翼翼地走路。在波威里街上，人们都把衣领和帽子拉到耳朵边，没精打采地从街上走过。在百老汇大街上，商人和旅客都朝舒适的旅馆赶去。在波威里街上，冒着寒冷出来办事的人，转过一家又一家幽暗的店铺，店堂的深处已经亮起了灯光。电车也早早就开了灯，车轮上的积雪降低了平常的轧轧车声。整个城市都被这场迅速加厚的大雪包裹了起来。 
这个时候，嘉莉正在沃尔多夫旅馆自己舒适的房间里，读着《高老头》，这是艾姆斯推荐给她看的。故事很动人，一经艾姆斯推荐，更引起了她的强烈兴趣，因此她几乎领会了故事全部的感人意义。她第一次意识到自己过去所读的东西，总的来说都是那么无聊而且毫无价值。可是，她看得疲倦了，就打了一个呵欠，走到窗边，看着窗外不断驶过第五大道的蜿蜒的马车队伍。 
“天气真糟，是吧？”她对萝拉说。 
“糟透了！”那个小女人说，走到她旁边。“我希望雪再下大一些，可以去坐雪橇。”“哎呀，”嘉莉说，高老头的痛苦还感染着她。“你就只想着这些。你就不可怜那些今天晚上无家可归的人吗？”“我当然可怜的，”萝拉说，“但是我能做些什么呢？我也是一无所有。”嘉莉笑了。 
“即使你有，你也不会关心的，”她说。 
“我也会关心的，”萝拉说，“可在我受穷的时候，从来没有人帮助过我。”“这不是很可怕吗？”嘉莉说，注视着漫天的风雪。 
“看那边的那个男人，”萝拉笑着说，她看见一个人跌倒了。“男人在跌倒的时候看上去多么胆怯啊，是不？”“今天晚上，我们得坐马车了。”嘉莉心不在焉地回答。 
查尔斯·杜洛埃先生刚刚走进帝国饭店的门厅，正在抖掉漂亮的长外套上面的雪。恶劣的天气把他早早地赶回了旅馆，而且激起了他的欲望，想要寻找那些能把大雪和人生的忧愁关在门外的乐趣。他主要想干的事情就是吃顿好晚饭，找个年轻女人作伴，去戏院度个良宵。 
“喂，你好，哈里！”他对一个闲坐在门厅里舒适的椅子上的人说。“你怎么样啊？”“哦，马马虎虎，”另一个说。 
“天气真糟，是不？” 
“哦，可以这么说，”另一个说，“我正坐在这里考虑今晚去哪里玩呢。”“跟我去吧，”杜洛埃说，“我可以给你介绍漂亮极了的小妾。”“是谁？”另一个问。 
“哦，这边四十街上的两个姑娘。我们可以好好乐一下。我正在找你呢。”“我们去找她们，带她们出来吃饭怎么样？”“当然可以，”杜洛埃说。“等我上楼去换一下衣服。”“那好，我就在理发室，”另一个说。“我要修个面。”“好的，”杜洛埃说，穿着双高级皮鞋。嘎吱嘎吱地朝电梯走去。这只老花蝴蝶飞起来仍旧轻盈不减当年。 
冒着这天晚上的风雪，以１小时４０英里的速度，向纽约开来的一列普尔门式卧铺客车上，还有三个相关的人物。 
“餐车第一次叫吃晚饭，”车上的一个侍者穿着雪白的围裙和短上衣，一边喊一边匆匆地穿过车厢的走道。 
“我不想打下去了。”三人中最年轻的那个黑发丽人说，她因为好运当头而显得十分傲慢，这时正把一手纸牌从面前推开。 
“我们去吃饭好吗？”她丈夫问，华丽的衣着能把人打扮得有多潇洒，他就有多潇洒。 
“哦，还早，”她回答，“不过，我不想再打牌了。”“杰西卡，”她母亲说，她的穿着也可以帮助人们研究漂亮的服装能怎样美化上了年纪的人。“把领带夹别牢——快脱出来了。”杰西卡遵命别好领带夹，顺手摸了摸她那可爱的头发，又看了一下宝石镶面的小表。她的丈夫则仔细地打量着她，因为从某观点来看，漂亮的女人即使冷淡也是迷人的。 
“好啦，我们很快就不用再忍受这种天气了，”他说，“只要两个星期就可以到达罗马。”赫斯渥太太舒适地坐在角落里，微笑着。做一个有钱的年轻人的丈母娘真是好福气--她亲自调查过他的经济状况。 
“你看船能准时开吗？”杰西卡问。“如果天气老是这样的话，行吗？”“哦，能准时开的，”她丈夫回答。“天气无关紧要。”沿着走道，走过来一个金发的银行家之子。他也是芝加哥人，他对这个傲慢的美人已经注意很久了。就是现在，他还在毫不犹豫地不时看看她，她也觉察到了。于是，她特意摆出一副无动于衷的样子，把美丽的脸庞完全转开。这根本不是出于妇道人家的稳重，这样做只是满足了她的虚荣心。 
这时候，赫斯渥正站在离波威里街很近的一条小街上一幢肮脏的四层楼房前。那最初的淡黄色的粉刷，已经被烟熏和雨淋弄得面目全非。他混在一群人中间--早已是一大群，而且还在逐渐增多。 
开始只来了两三个人，他们在关着的木门附近溜达，一边跺着脚取暖。他们戴着皱巴巴褪了色的圆顶礼帽。不合身的上衣，被融雪湿透，变得沉甸甸的，衣领都朝上翻起。裤子简直就像布袋子，裤脚已经磨破，在湿透的大鞋子上面甩来甩去。 
鞋帮已经穿坏，几乎是破烂不堪了。他们并不想就进去，只是懊丧地在旁边转悠，把两手深深地插在口袋里，斜眼看着人群和逐渐亮起的一盏盏路灯。随着时间一分一分地过去，人数也在增加。其中既有胡子灰白、眼睛凹陷的老头，也有年纪较轻但病得瘦巴巴的人，还有一些中年人。个个都是骨瘦如柴。在这厚厚的人堆里，有一张脸苍白得像是流干了血的小牛肉。另一张脸红得如同红砖。有几个曲背的，瘦削的肩膀弯成了圆形。有几个装着假腿。还有几个身材单薄得衣服直在身上晃荡。这里看到的是大耳朵、肿鼻子、厚嘴唇，特别是充血的红眼睛。在这整个人群中，就没有一张正常、健康的面孔，没有一个直立、挺拔的身躯，没有一道坦率、坚定的目光。 
风雪交加之下，他们相互挤在一起。那些露在上衣或衣袋外面的手腕都冻得发红。那些被各种像是帽子一样的东西半掩住的耳朵，看上去还是被冻僵和冻伤了。他们在雪中不停地换着脚支撑着身体的重量，一会儿这只脚，一会儿那只脚，几乎是在一起摇摆着。 
随着门口人群的扩大，传来一阵喃喃的话语声。这不是谈话，而是你一句我一句，泛泛地对任何人发表连续的评论。起中有咒骂，也有黑话。 
“真见鬼，但愿他们能快一些。” 
“看那个警察在望着这里。” 
“也许天还不够冷吧！” 
“我真希望我现在是在新新监狱里。” 
这时，刮起了一阵更刺骨的寒风，他们靠得更拢了。这是一个慢慢挨近、换脚站立、你推我挤的人群。没有人发怒，没有人哀求，也没有人说恫吓的话。大家都沉闷地忍受着，没有打趣的话或者友谊的交流来减轻这种苦难。 
一辆马车叮当驶过，车上斜倚着一个人。最靠近门口的人中有一个看见了。 
“看那个坐车的家伙。” 
“他可不觉得这么冷。” 
“唷，唷，唷！”另一个大声喊着，马车早已走远，听不见了。 
夜色渐浓。人行道上出现了一些下班赶回家去的人。工人和女店员快步走过。横穿市区的电车开始拥挤起来。煤气路灯闪着光，每一扇窗户都被灯光照得通红。这一群人还在门口徘徊不散，毫不动遥“他们难道永远都不开门了吗？”一个嘶哑的声音问，提醒了大家。 
这一问似乎又引起了大家对那关着的门的注意，于是很多人朝门的方向望去。他们像不会说话的野兽般望着门，像狗那样守在门口，发出哀鸣，紧盯着门上的把手。他们倒换着双脚，眨着眼睛，嘀咕着，有时咒骂，有时议论。可是，他们还在等待，雪花还在飞舞，刺骨的雪片还在抽打着他们。雪花在他们的旧帽子和高耸的肩膀上堆积起来。积成小堆和弓形的条条，但谁都不把它拂去。挤在人群正中间的一些人，体温和呼气把雪融化了，雪水顺着帽沿滴下来，落在鼻子上，也无法伸手去擦擦。站在外围的人身上的积雪都不融化。赫斯渥挤不进中间去，就在雪中低头站着，身子蜷成一团。 
一束灯光从门头上的气窗里透了出来。这使得观望的人群一阵激动，觉得有了希望。随之而来的是一片喃喃的反应声。终于里面响起了吱吱的门闩声，大家都竖起了耳朵。里面还传出了杂乱的脚步声，大家又低语起来。有人喊了一声：“喂，后面的慢一点，”接着门就打开了。人群一阵你推我攘，像野兽般的冷酷、沉默，这正表明他们就像野兽一样。然后他们进到里面，如同漂浮的木头一样分散而去，消失得无影无踪。 
只看见那些湿帽子和湿肩膀，一群冰冷、萎缩、不满的家伙，涌进凄凉的墙壁之间。这时才６点钟，从每个匆忙的行人脸上都可以看出他们正在赶去吃晚饭。可是这里并不供应晚饭--除了床铺，一无所有。 
赫斯渥放下１毛５分钱，拖着疲惫的脚步，慢慢地走到指定给他的房间里去。 
这是一间阴暗的房间--木地板，满屋灰尘，床铺很硬。 
一只小小的煤气喷嘴就照亮了如此可怜的一个角落。 
“哼！”他说，清了一下喉咙，把门锁上了。 
现在他开始不慌不忙地脱衣服，但是他先只脱了上衣，用它塞住门下的缝隙。他把背心也塞在那里。他那顶又湿又破的旧帽子被轻轻地放在桌上。然后，他脱掉鞋子，躺了下去。 
看样子他好像思考了一会儿，因为这时他又爬了起来，关掉了煤气灯，镇静地站在黑暗之中，谁也看不见他。过了几分钟--期间他并没有回想什么事，只是迟疑不决而已--他又打开了煤气，但是没用火柴去点。就在这个时候，他还站在那里，完全躲在仁慈的夜色之中，而此刻整个房间都已充满了放出来的煤气。当他嗅到煤气味时，又改变了主意，摸到了床边。 
“有什么用呢？”当他伸直身子躺下去安歇时，轻轻地说道。 
这时嘉莉已经达到了那初看上去像是人生的目的，或者至少是部分地达到了，如人们所能获取的最初欲望的满足。她可以四处炫耀她的服饰、马车、家具和银行存款。她也有世俗所谓的朋友--那些含笑拜倒在她的功名之下的人们。这些都是她过去曾经梦寐以求的东西。有掌声，也有名声。这些在过去遥不可及、至关重要的东西，现在却变得微不足道、无足轻重了。她还有她那种类型的美貌，可她却感到寂寞。没有事做的时候，她就坐在摇椅里低吟着，梦想着。 
世上本来就有着富于理智和富于感情的两种人--善于推理的头脑和善于感受的心灵。前者造就了活动家--将军和政治家；后者造就了诗人和梦想家-—所有的艺术家。 
就像风中的竖琴，后一类人对幻想的一呼一吸都会作出反应，用自己的喜怒哀乐表达着在追求理想中的失败与成功。 
人们还不理解梦想家，正如他们不理解理想一样。在梦想家看来，世上的法律和伦理都过于苛刻。他总是倾听着美的声音，努力要捕捉它那在远方一闪而过的翅膀。他注视着，想追上去，奔走得累坏了双脚。嘉莉就是这样注视着，追求着，一边摇着摇椅、哼着曲子。 
必须记住，这里没有理智的作用。当她第一次看见芝加哥时，她发觉这个城市有着她平生所见过的最多的可爱之处，于是，只因为受到感情的驱使，她就本能地投向它的怀抱。衣着华丽、环境优雅，人们似乎都很心满意足。因此，她就向这些东西靠近。芝加哥和纽约；杜洛埃和赫斯渥；服装世界和舞台世界--这些只是偶然的巧合而已。她所渴望的并不是它们，而是它们所代表的东西。可时间证明它们并没有真正代表她想要的东西。 
啊，这人生的纠葛！我们至今还是那么地看不清楚。这里有一个嘉莉，起初是贫穷的、单纯的、多情的。她对人生每一种最可爱的东西都会产生欲望，可是却发现自己像是被摈在了墙外。法律说：“你可以向往任何可爱的东西，但是不以正道便不得接近。”习俗说：“不凭着诚实的工作，就不能改善你的处境。”倘若诚实的工作无利可图而且难以忍受；倘若这是只会使人心灰，却永远达不到美的漫长路程；倘若追求美的努力使人疲倦得放弃了受人称赞的道路，而采取能够迅速实现梦想的但遭人鄙视的途径时，谁还会责怪她呢？往往不是恶，而是向善的愿望，引导人们误入岐途。往往不是恶，而是善，迷惑那些缺少理智、多愁善感的人。 
嘉莉身居荣华富贵之中，但并不幸福。正如在杜洛埃照顾她的时候她所想的那样，她曾经以为：“现在我已经跻身于最好的环境里了”；又正如在赫斯渥似乎给她提供了更好的前途的时候她所想的那样，她曾经以为：“现在我可是幸福了。“但是，不管你愿不愿意同流合污，世人都我行我素，因此，她现在觉得自己寂寞孤单。她对贫困无告的人总是慷慨解囊。 
她在百老汇大街上散步时，已不再留意从她身边走过的人物的翩翩风度。假如他们更多地具有在远处闪光的那份宁静和美好，那样才值得羡慕。 
杜洛埃放弃了自己的要求，不再露面了。赫斯渥的死，她根本就不知道。一只每星期从二十七街码头慢慢驶出的黑船，把他的和许多其他的无名尸体一起载到了保得坟常这两个家伙和她之间的有趣故事，就这样结束了。他们对她的生活的影响，单就她的欲望性质而言，是显而易见的。一度她曾认为他们两个都代表着人世最大的成功。他们是最美好的境界的代表人物--有头衔的幸福和宁静的使者，手里的证书闪闪发亮。一旦他们所代表的世界不能再诱惑她，迫使者的名誉扫地也是理所当然的事。即使赫斯渥以其原有的潇洒容貌和辉煌事业再次出现的话，现在他也不能令她着迷了。 
她已经知道，在他的世界里，就像在她自己眼前的处境里一样，没有幸福可言。 
她现在独自坐在那里，从她身上可以看到一个只善于感受而不善于推理的人在追求美的过程中，是怎样误入岐途的。 
虽然她的幻想常常破灭，但她还在期待着那美好的日子，到那时她的梦想就会变成现实。艾姆斯给她指出了前进的一步，但是在此基础上还要步步前进。若是要实现梦想，她还要迈出更多的步子。这将永远是对那愉快的光辉的追求，追求那照亮了世上远处山峰的光辉。 
啊，嘉莉呀，嘉莉！啊，人心盲目的追求！向前，向前，它催促着，美走到哪里，它就追到哪里。无论是静悄悄的原野上寂寞的羊铃声，还是田园乡村中美的闪耀，还是过路人眼中的灵光一现，人心都会明白，并且作出反应，追上前去。只有等到走酸了双脚，仿佛没有了希望，才会产生心痛和焦虑。那么要知道，你既不会嫌多，也不会知足的。坐在你的摇椅里，靠在你的窗户边梦想，你将独自渴望着。坐在你的摇椅里，靠在你的窗户边，你将梦想着你永远不会感受到幸福。
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