Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his
Jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his
success. Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had
developed a certain amount of reserve and independence which was
not inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in
the high school, and had notions of life which were decidedly
those of a patrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for them
constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individual
establishments were running in her head. She met girls at the
high school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had
standing locally as partners or owners of solid businesses.
These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the thriving
domestic establishments from whence they issued. They were the
only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself.

Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already
connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm.
He contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family,
but was thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate.
He had some ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure
that had not, as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they
were. He came in and went out, pursuing his own plans and
fancies, addressing a few words to his mother occasionally,
relating some little incident to his father, but for the most
part confining himself to those generalities with which most
conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his desires
for any one to see. He did not find any one in the house who
particularly cared to see.

Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured to
shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of
superior capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge
of life extended to that little conventional round of society of
which she was not--but longed to be--a member. She was not
without realisation already that this thing was impossible, so
far as she was concerned. For her daughter, she hoped better
things. Through Jessica she might rise a little. Through
George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to herself the
privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing well
enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures
should prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather
small, but his income was pleasing and his position with
Fitzgerald and Moy was fixed. Both those gentlemen were on
pleasant and rather informal terms with him.

The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be
apparent to all. It worked out in a thousand little
conversations, all of which were of the same calibre.

"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., at
the dinner table one Friday evening.

"What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come
up and see how it works."

"How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.

"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy."

"Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.

"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura to
Australia now--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last
week."

"Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years
ago they had that basement in Madison Street."

"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next
spring in Robey Street."

"Just think of that!" said Jessica.

On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.

"I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.

"Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood,
without rising.

"Yes," he said indifferently.

They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.
Presently the door clicked.

"I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.

The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.

"They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs,"
she reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."

"Are you?" said her mother.

"Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest
girls in the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going
to take the part of Portia."

"Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she
can act."

"Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs.
Hurstwood sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?"

"No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."

She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the
school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty.

"What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening;
"that Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me."

"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a
student there. He hasn't anything."

The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of
Blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs.
Hurstwood was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair
reading, and happened to look out at the time.

"Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came
upstairs.

"It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.

"Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,"
explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.

"All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."

As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of
the window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most
satisfactory.

In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not
thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature
to trouble for something better, unless the better was
immediately and sharply contrasted. As it was, he received and
gave, irritated sometimes by the little displays of selfish
indifference, pleased at times by some show of finery which
supposedly made for dignity and social distinction. The life of
the resort which he managed was his life. There he spent most of
his time. When he went home evenings the house looked nice.
With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind
that an ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interested
in the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked well. The
vanity of Mrs. Hurstwood caused her to keep her person rather
showily arrayed, but to Hurstwood this was much better than
plainness. There was no love lost between them. There was no
great feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion on any subject was
not startling. They did not talk enough together to come to the
argument of any one point. In the accepted and popular phrase,
she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet
a woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his
wife seem rather deficient by contrast, but the temporary
dissatisfaction which such an encounter might arouse would be
counterbalanced by his social position and a certain matter of
policy. He could not complicate his home life, because it might
affect his relations with his employers. They wanted no
scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a dignified
manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Therefore
he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the
public ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,
and sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts, or
those near by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days
strolling about conventional places doing conventional things.
He knew the need of it.

When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew,
who had money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head.
It didn't do to talk about those things. If it came up for
discussion among such friends as with him passed for close, he
would deprecate the folly of the thing. "It was all right to do
it--all men do those things--but why wasn't he careful? A man
can't be too careful." He lost sympathy for the man that made a
mistake and was found out.

On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife
about--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not
been for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which
did not depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with
considerable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in
a way and men looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to
flattery, and this combination, he knew quite well, might produce
a tragedy in a woman of her home position. Owing to his order of
mind, his confidence in the sex was not great. His wife never
possessed the virtues which would win the confidence and
admiration of a man of his nature. As long as she loved him
vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that
was no longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.

During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a
large thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood,
not to be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her
apparel. Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he
murmured.

"Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood
one morning.

Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests
before the glass at the time.

"I thought she just bought one," he said.

"That was just something for evening wear," returned his wife
complacently.

"It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good
deal for dresses of late."

"Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of
his voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard
there before.

He was not a man who traveled much, but when he did, he had been
accustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a local
aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--a
junket that was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.

"Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face
was a slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He
always wore a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can
have a good time." His left eye moved with just the semblance of
a wink. "You want to come along, George."

The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.

"I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."

"Where?" she asked, looking up.

"To Philadelphia, on business."

She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.

"I'll have to leave you behind this time."

"All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking
that it was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few
more questions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that
she was a disagreeable attachment.

On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over
he was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator,
and hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The
whole incident was glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs.
Hurstwood gave the subject considerable thought. She drove out
more, dressed better, and attended theatres freely to make up for
it.

Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home
life. It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional
opinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer
and dryer--must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and
destroyed.

Chapter X

THE COUNSEL OF WINTER--FORTUNE'S AMBASSADOR CALLS

In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties,
the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration.
Actions such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society
possesses a conventional standard whereby it judges all things.
All men should be good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain,
hast thou failed?

For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern
naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of
morals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a
law of evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of
earth alone. It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive.
Answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some
plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying; make
clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light
and rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first principles
of morals.

"Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."

"Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I
have lost?"

Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the
true answer to what is right.

In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was
comfortably established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by
every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon
harbour. Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden
Place, facing Union Park, on the West Side. That was a little,
green-carpeted breathing spot, than which, to-day, there is
nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded a vista pleasant
to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn of the
park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered.
Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry
wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church,
and far off the towers of several others.

The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good
Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades,
and representing large jardinieres filled with gorgeous,
impossible flowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between
the two windows. A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch
occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs were set about.
Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac,
and the tale of contents is told.

In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very
becoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as a
kitchen, where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas
stove for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh
rarebits, and the like, of which he was exceedingly fond; and,
lastly, a bath. The whole place was cosey, in that it was
lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers, possessing also a
small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of cheerful
warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry
and natural love of order, which now developed, the place
maintained an air pleasing in the extreme.

Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free
of certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her,
laden with many new ones which were of a mental order, and
altogether so turned about in all of her earthly relationships
that she might well have been a new and different individual.
She looked into her glass and saw a prettier Carrie than she had
seen before; she looked into her mind, a mirror prepared of her
own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse. Between these two
images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.

"My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to
her.

She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.

"You know it, don't you?" he would continue.

"Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact
that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she
really did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself.

Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise.
There she heard a different voice, with which she argued,
pleaded, excused. It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its
last analysis. It was only an average little conscience, a thing
which represented the world, her past environment, habit,
convention, in a confused way. With it, the voice of the people
was truly the voice of God.

"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.

"Why?" she questioned.

"Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those
who are good. How would they scorn to do what you have done.
Look at the good girls; how will they draw away from such as you
when they know you have been weak. You had not tried before you
failed."

It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that
she would be listening to this. It would come infrequently--when
something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not
too apparent, when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear
in utterance at first, but never wholly convincing. There was
always an answer, always the December days threatened. She was
alone; she was desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind.
The voice of want made answer for her.

Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that
sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours
during the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky
and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless
trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general
solemnity of colour. There seems to be something in the chill
breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares
productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor
that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all
refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much
as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.
The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse
tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter.
It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate. If
it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of
profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the
various merchants failed to make the customary display within and
without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with
signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we
would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays
upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun
withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are
more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are
insects produced by heat, and pass without it.

In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert
itself, feebly and more feebly.

Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by
any means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm
hold upon a definite truth. When she could not find her way out
of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject
created, she would turn away entirely.

Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for
one of his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money
upon her, and when he travelled took her with him. There were
times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he
made the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she
saw a great deal of him.

"Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come
out some day and spend the evening with us."

"Who is he?" asked Carrie. doubtfully.

"Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."

"What's that?" said Carrie.

"The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place."

Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told
him, what her attitude would be.

"That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't
know anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now."

There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the
keenest sensibilities.

"Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
promises he had made.

"Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal
of mine closed up."

He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that
somehow or other it interfered with his free moral, personal
actions.

"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll
do it."

Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to
her conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances,
things would be righted. Her actions would be justified.
She really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than
he. In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. If
it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and
judge him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was.
She would have adored him. She would have been utterly wretched
in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his interest,
of being swept away and left without an anchorage. As it was,
she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him
completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. She was not
exactly sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.

When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than
Drouet in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to
women which every member of the sex appreciates. He was not
overawed, he was not overbold. His great charm was
attentiveness. Schooled in winning those birds of fine feather
among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who visited
his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to
prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a pretty woman
of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest
incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression
that he wished to be of service only--to do something which would
make the lady more pleased.

Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth
the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish
which Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy
life, too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite
schooled in the art of love. He failed dismally where the woman
was slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the
case of Carrie he found a woman who was all of the latter, but
none of the former. He was lucky in the fact that opportunity
tumbled into his lap, as it were. A few years later, with a
little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had
not been able to approach Carrie at all.

"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling
at Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could
play."

Drouet had not thought of that.

"So we ought," he observed readily.

"Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.

"It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do
very well in a few weeks."

He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His
clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat
lapels stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth
possesses. The vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a
double row of round mother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a
shiny combination of silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous.
What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as that which
Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the material.
Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a
dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not help
feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft
leather, where all else was so rich. She noticed these things
almost unconsciously. They were things which would naturally
flow from the situation. She was used to Drouet's appearance.

"Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood,
after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in
avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of
Carrie's past. He kept away from personalities altogether, and
confined himself to those things which did not concern
individuals at all. By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease,
and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her. He
pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.

"I don't know how to play," said Carrie.

"Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to
Drouet most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can
show you."

By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice.
There was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased
to be there. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before.
It gave him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a
new light, under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened
considerably.

"Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder
very deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment.
"That's rather good," he said.

"You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband.
You take my advice."

"Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I
won't stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp."

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