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.