Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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"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.

Chapter VI

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.

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