Sister Carrie: A Novel
The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt ashamed
in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was
so dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket! Now
she would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She would get
stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and—until already, as in the matter
of her prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice
the purchasing power of her bills.
She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all the
world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the
fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart—out of a realisation
of her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young
man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the
nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl.
Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn
desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, “My God,
mister, I’m starving,” but he would gladly have handed out what was
considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about
it. There would have been no speculation, no philosophising. He had no
mental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. In
his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of
the lamp. Deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved
and baffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been
as helpless as Carrie—as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable,
if you will, as she.
Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because
he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as
being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb
to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming
villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief
delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine
clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could have
hornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty
shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the
thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about among men,
a veritable bundle of enthusiasm—no power worthy the name of intellect,
no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in
one strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a Shakespeare
would have said “my merry child”; old, drinking Caryoe thought him a
clever, successful businessman. In short, he was as good as his
intellect conceived.
The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the
man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul
with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the
guise of friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has
taught the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger
threatens. She has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the
untutored fear of poisons. “He keepeth His creatures whole,” was not
written of beasts alone. Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the
sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of
self-protection, strong in all such natures, was roused but feebly, if
at all, by the overtures of Drouet.
When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. By
George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that.
Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He would go around to
Fitzgerald and Moy’s and get a cigar. It made him feel light of foot as
he thought about her.
Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely
conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which
perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie
knew that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than
this point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think
of no way of explaining.
“How did you come out?” asked Minnie, referring to the day.
Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and
say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be
in the line of her feelings at least. So instead of complaining when
she felt so good, she said:
“I have the promise of something.”
“Where?”
“At the Boston Store.”
“Is it sure promised?” questioned Minnie.
“Well, I’m to find out to-morrow,” returned Carrie disliking to draw
out a lie any longer than was necessary.
Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with
her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of
Hanson’s feeling about her entire Chicago venture.
“If you shouldn’t get it—” she paused, troubled for an easy way.
“If I don’t get something pretty soon, I think I’ll go home.”
Minnie saw her chance.
“Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow.”
The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep
her any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not
blame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she
was glad she had Drouet’s money. “Yes,” she said after a few moments,
“I thought of doing that.”
She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the
antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She
knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious
city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested
its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life
out there—she almost exclaimed against the thought.
She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What
could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would
need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want
to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she explain where she
even got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy.
She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning, Drouet
would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn’t be. The
Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet
she did not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on
her getting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful.
She began to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all
so clear when she was with Drouet. Now it was all so tangled, so
hopeless—much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance
of aid in her hand which she could not use.
Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have had
another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money
back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and
hunt for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and tell him. At
this decision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress.
Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling
some relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep
away all thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a
wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing
it was to have. How plenty of it would clear away all these troubles.
In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision
to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket,
after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade
less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the
thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank.
What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so
often. It would be the same old story. She walked on and on, and
finally did go into one place, with the old result. She came out
feeling that luck was against her. It was no use.
Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great
Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about its long window
display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts, she
who was so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and
get her new things. Now for relief from distress; she thought she would
go in and see. She would look at the jackets.
There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state
in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by
desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. When Carrie
began wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this
mood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high
opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery,
where before she had hurried on. Her woman’s heart was warm with desire
for them. How would she look in this, how charming that would make her!
She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she
noted the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. If she
would only make up her mind, she could have one of those now. She
lingered in the jewelry department. She saw the earrings, the
bracelets, the pins, the chains. What would she not have given if she
could have had them all! She would look fine too, if only she had some
of these things.
The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store,
she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket
with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall.
Still she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she
would like better. She went about among the glass cases and racks where
these things were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she
thought of was the proper one. All the time she wavered in mind, now
persuading herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now
recalling to herself the actual condition. At last the noon hour was
dangerously near, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return
the money.
Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
“Hello,” he said, “where is the jacket and”—looking down—“the shoes?”
Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way,
but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.
“I came to tell you that—that I can’t take the money.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he returned. “Well, you come on with me. Let’s
go over here to Partridge’s.”
Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the
points that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to
him.
“Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven’t. Let’s go in here,” and
Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off
State Street, in Monroe.
“I mustn’t take the money,” said Carrie, after they were settled in a
cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. “I can’t wear those
things out there. They—they wouldn’t know where I got them.”
“What do you want to do,” he smiled, “go without them?”
“I think I’ll go home,” she said, wearily.
“Oh, come,” he said, “you’ve been thinking it over too long. I’ll tell
you what you do. You say you can’t wear them out there. Why don’t you
rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?”
Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be
convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path
if he could. “Why are you going home?” he asked.
“Oh, I can’t get anything here.”
“They won’t keep you?” he remarked, intuitively.
“They can’t,” said Carrie.
“I’ll tell you what you do,” he said. “You come with me. I’ll take care
of you.”
Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made