Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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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."

Chapter VIII

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."

Chapter IX

CONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX--THE EYE THAT IS GREEN

Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a
brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair
with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the
street. It had a large bay window bulging out from the second
floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-
five feet wide and ten feet deep. There was also a small rear
yard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding a
stable where he kept his horse and trap.

The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife
Julia, and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There
were besides these a maid-servant, represented from time to time
by girls of various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always
easy to please.

"George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent
salutation at the dinner table.

"All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied of
discussing the rancorous subject.

A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than
which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate,
nothing more calculated to make strong and just the natures
cradled and nourished within it. Those who have never experienced
such a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the
tear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in
lovely music. The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart
of the nation, they will never know.

Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with
this home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without
which the home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as
soothingly as the artistic perception of the occupants warranted.
There were soft rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a
grand piano, a marble carving of some unknown Venus by some
unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes gathered from
heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large furniture
houses along with everything else which goes to make the
"perfectly appointed house."

In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening
decanters and other utilities and ornaments in glass, the
arrangement of which could not be questioned. Here was something
Hurstwood knew about. He had studied the subject for years in his
business. He took no little satisfaction in telling each Mary,
shortly after she arrived, something of what the art of the thing
required. He was not garrulous by any means. On the contrary,
there was a fine reserve in his manner toward the entire domestic
economy of his life which was all that is comprehended by the
popular term, gentlemanly. He would not argue, he would not talk
freely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist. What he
could not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in him
to walk away from the impossible thing.

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