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_ 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 arrangements 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. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXXI A PET OF GOOD FORTUNE--BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS
Read previous: CHAPTER XXIX THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL--THE BOATS OF THE SEA
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