Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and
Drouet were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the
sixth row of the parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael,
the third partner of a wholesale dry-goods house of that city.
Hurstwood did not see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as
far back as possible, leaving himself just partially visible,
when he bent forward, to those within the first six rows in
question. It was his wont to sit this way in every theatre--to
make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it would
be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.

He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct
being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him
and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity.

The next morning at breakfast his son said:

"I saw you, Governor, last night."

"Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in
the world.

"Yes," said young George.

"Who with?"

"Miss Carmichael."

Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but
could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than
a casual look into the theatre which was referred to.

"How was the play?" she inquired.

"Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing,
'Rip Van Winkle.'"

"Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed
indifference.

"Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's,
visiting here."

Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure
as this would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it
for granted that his situation called for certain social
movements in which she might not be included. But of late he had
pleaded office duty on several occasions when his wife asked for
his company to any evening entertainment. He had done so in
regard to the very evening in question only the morning before.

"I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very
carefully.

"So I was," he exclaimed. "I couldn't help the interruption, but
I made up for it afterward by working until two."

This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a
residue of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time
at which the claims of his wife could have been more
unsatisfactorily pushed. For years he had been steadily
modifying his matrimonial devotion, and found her company dull.
Now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this older luminary
paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his face away
entirely, and any call to look back was irksome.

She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything
less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their
relationship, though the spirit might be wanting.

"We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few
days later. "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr.
Phillips and his wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and
we're going to show them around a little."

After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though
the Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance
could make them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was
angry when he left the house.

"I'll put a stop to this," he thought. "I'm not going to be
bothered fooling around with visitors when I have work to do."

Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar
proposition, only it was to a matinee this time.

"My dear," he returned, "I haven't time. I'm too busy."

"You find time to go with other people, though," she replied,
with considerable irritation.

"Nothing of the kind," he answered. "I can't avoid business
relations, and that's all there is to it."

"Well, never mind," she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The
feeling of mutual antagonism was increased.

On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew
in an almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under
the stress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend,
changed effectively. She had the aptitude of the struggler who
seeks emancipation. The glow of a more showy life was not lost
upon her. She did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened
in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale's extended harangues upon the
subjects of wealth and position taught her to distinguish between
degrees of wealth.
Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was
fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and
lawns which she could not afford. On the North Side had been
erected a number of elegant mansions along what is now known as
the North Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and
granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid
out, the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon,
and the houses were thoroughly new and imposing. When the winter
season had passed and the first fine days of the early spring
appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited
Carrie. They rode first through Lincoln Park and on far out
towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving at the north
end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock. At this time of
year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of
the evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city.
Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which
seems almost watery and translucent to the eye. There was a
softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of
feeling to the flesh as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it
was a lovely day. She was ripened by it in spirit for many
suggestions. As they drove along the smooth pavement an
occasional carriage passed. She saw one stop and the footman
dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to be
leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across the
broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps
faintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now
a table, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed
to her as almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as
she had had of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back.
She imagined that across these richly carved entrance-ways, where
the globed and crystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set
with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor
unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly certain that here was
happiness. If she could but stroll up yon broad walk, cross that
rich entrance-way, which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and
sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command--oh! how
quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would the
heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting,
longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful was
whispering in her ear.

"If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly,
"how delightful it would be."

"And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy."

She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless
fox.

"I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard,
though, to take their misery in a mansion."

When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive
they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had
had, but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial
doors was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still
in her ears. What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her
window, she thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out
across the lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and
Ashland avenues. She was too wrought up to care to go down to
eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing. Some old tunes
crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank. She
longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old cottage
room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now
the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She
was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying.
Finally, it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and
forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the
lip. She hummed and hummed as the moments went by, sitting in
the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy, though she
did not perceive it, as she ever would be.

While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant
brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour
asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.

"I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thought
Carrie.

She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the
winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing
and another, principally by the strong impression he had made.
She was quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but
soon satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.

Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that
Drouet was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the
intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics
which would interest Carrie. It was surprising--the ease with
which he conducted a conversation. He was like every man who has
had the advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. He knew
that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least
effort, he fell into a train of observation which absorbed her
fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such a
degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined
himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and
pleasures. He had been here and there, he had seen this and
that. Somehow he made Carrie wish to see similar things, and all
the while kept her aware of himself. She could not shut out the
consciousness of his individuality and presence for a moment. He
would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of something, and
she was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out, with the
easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand for
emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere
which suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and
seemed to make her clever. At least, she brightened under his
influence until all her best side was exhibited. She felt that
she was more clever with him than with others. At least, he
seemed to find so much in her to applaud. There was not the
slightest touch of patronage. Drouet was full of it.

There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting
between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was
absent, that Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense
of difficulty. She was no talker. She could never arrange her
thoughts in fluent order. It was always a matter of feeling with
her, strong and deep. Each time there had been no sentence of
importance which she could relate, and as for the glances and
sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such things had never
been between her and Drouet. As a matter of fact, they could
never be. She had been dominated by distress and the
enthusiastic forces of relief which Drouet represented at an
opportune moment when she yielded to him. Now she was persuaded
by secret current feelings which Drouet had never understood.
Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of a
lover, and more. They called for no immediate decision, and
could not be answered.

People in general attach too much importance to words. They are
under the illusion that talking effects great results. As a
matter of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of
all the argument. They but dimly represent the great surging
feelings and desires which lie behind. When the distraction of
the tongue is removed, the heart listens.

In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices
of the things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of
his appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for
itself! The growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit
as a gentle hand. She did not need to tremble at all, because it
was invisible; she did not need to worry over what other people
would say--what she herself would say--because it had no
tangibility. She was being pleaded with, persuaded, led into
denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet there were no
words to prove it. Such conversation as was indulged in held the
same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain
that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident
which it is used to cover.

"Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North
Side?" asked Hurstwood.

"Why, I was just over there this afternoon--Mrs. Hale and I.
Aren't they beautiful?"

"They're very fine," he answered.

"Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively. "I wish I could live in such a
place."

"You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.

He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He
assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance
to say a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and
continued his steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the
period. She endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole
strength of a man's nature was working. He had good cause to
urge him on. He looked and looked, and the longer the situation
lasted the more difficult it became. The little shop-girl was
getting into deep water. She was letting her few supports float
away from her.

"Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that."

"I can't help it," he answered.

She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him
strength.

"You are not satisfied with life, are you?"

"No," she answered, weakly.

He saw he was the master of the situation--he felt it. He
reached over and touched her hand.

"You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up.

"I didn't intend to," he answered, easily.

She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not
terminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field
of thought with the readiest grace. Not long after he rose to
go, and she felt that he was in power.
"You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten
out in the course of time."

She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.

"We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand.

"Yes," she answered.

"Not a word, then, until I see you again."

He retained a hold on her hand.

"I can't promise," she said, doubtfully.

"You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple
way that she was touched.

"Let's not talk about it any more," she returned.

"All right," he said, brightening.

He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door
and ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar
before the mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which
she had recently bought.

"I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling
of trouble and shame. "I don't seem to do anything right."

She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose
brown waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.

"I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do."

"Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right;
that I know."

The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his
office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.

Chapter XIII

HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED--A BABEL OF TONGUES

It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and
Hurstwood in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his
appearance. He had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her.
Her leniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard. He felt that he
must succeed with her, and that speedily.

The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper
than mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had
been withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It
is probable that Carrie represented a better order of woman than
had ever attracted him before. He had had no love affair since
that which culminated in his marriage, and since then time and
the world had taught him how raw and erroneous was his original
judgment. Whenever he thought of it, he told himself that, if he
had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman. At
the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened
his respect for the sex. He maintained a cynical attitude, well
grounded on numerous experiences. Such women as he had known
were of nearly one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of
his friends were not inspiring to look upon. His own wife had
developed a cold, commonplace nature which to him was anything
but pleasing. What he knew of that under-world where grovel the
beat-men of society (and he knew a great deal) had hardened his
nature. He looked upon most women with suspicion--a single eye
to the utility of beauty and dress. He followed them with a
keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was not so dull
but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally, he did
not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He would
take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the
vicious in her presence--much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery
hall will humble himself before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll
to charity with a willing and reverent hand. But he would not
think much upon the question of why he did so.

A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless
or hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent
soul, is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own
remoteness, or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by
his discovery. It is only by a roundabout process that such men
ever do draw near such a girl. They have no method, no
understanding of how to ingratiate themselves in youthful favour,
save when they find virtue in the toils. If, unfortunately, the
fly has got caught in the net, the spider can come forth and talk
business upon its own terms. So when maidenhood has wandered
into the moil of the city, when it is brought within the circle
of the "rounder" and the roue, even though it be at the outermost
rim, they can come forth and use their alluring arts.

Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage
of fine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to
indulge in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of
the newcomer forever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and
beauty attracted him. In the mild light of Carrie's eye was
nothing of the calculation of the mistress. In the diffident
manner was nothing of the art of the courtesan. He saw at once
that a mistake had been made, that some difficult conditions had
pushed this troubled creature into his presence, and his interest
was enlisted. Here sympathy sprang to the rescue, but it was not
unmixed with selfishness. He wanted to win Carrie because he
thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were
united with Drouet's. He envied the drummer his conquest as he
had never envied any man in all the course of his experience.

Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,
mentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village,
the light of the country still in her eye. Here was neither
guile nor rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both
in her, but they were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder
and desire to be greedy. She still looked about her upon the
great maze of the city without understanding. Hurstwood felt the
bloom and the youth. He picked her as he would the fresh fruit
of a tree. He felt as fresh in her presence as one who is taken
out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of spring.

Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one
with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange
mental conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave
it up. She owed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not
seem more than yesterday that he had aided her when she was
worried and distressed. She had the kindliest feelings for him
in every way. She gave him credit for his good looks, his
generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed to recollect his
egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any binding
influence keeping her for him as against all others. In fact,
such a thought had never had any grounding, even in Drouet's
desires.

The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all
enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable
fancy. He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all,
that affection followed tenderly in his wake, that things would
endure unchangingly for his pleasure. When he missed some old
face, or found some door finally shut to him, it did not grieve
him deeply. He was too young, too successful. He would remain
thus young in spirit until he was dead.

As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings
concerning Carrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but
he was determined to make her confess an affection for him. He
thought he saw in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her
wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding passion. He wanted to
stand near her and make her lay her hand in his--he wanted to
find out what her next step would be--what the next sign of
feeling for him would be. Such anxiety and enthusiasm had not
affected him for years. He was a youth again in feeling--a
cavalier in action.

In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was
excellent. He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man
who commanded the confidence of his employers in so far as the
distribution of his time was concerned. He could take such hours
off as he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his
managerial duties successfully, whatever time he might take. His
grace, tact, and ornate appearance gave the place an air which
was most essential, while at the same time his long experience
made him a most excellent judge of its stock necessities.
Bartenders and assistants might come and go, singly or in groups,
but, so long as he was present, the host of old-time customers
would barely notice the change. He gave the place the atmosphere
to which they were used. Consequently, he arranged his hours
very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon, now an
evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelve to
witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look after
the closing details.

"You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when
you go home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never
once, in all the period of his long service, neglected to do
this. Neither of the owners had for years been in the resort
after five in the afternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully
fulfilled this request as if they had been there regularly to
observe.

On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous
visit, he made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away
longer.

"Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one
calls, I will be back between four and five."

He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which
carried him to Ogden Place in half an hour.

Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light
grey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had
out her hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about
her throat when the housemaid brought up the information that Mr.
Hurstwood wished to see her.

She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to
say that she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten
her dressing.

Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was
glad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her
presence. She was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks,
but it was more nervousness than either fear or favour. She did
not try to conjecture what the drift of the conversation would
be. She only felt that she must be careful, and that Hurstwood
had an indefinable fascination for her. Then she gave her tie
its last touch with her fingers and went below.

The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the
nerves by the thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt
that he must make a strong play on this occasion, but now that
the hour was come, and he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his
nerve failed him. He sank a little in determination, for he was
not so sure, after all, what her opinion might be.

When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him
courage. She looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the
daring of any lover. Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own.

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