Sister Carrie: A Novel
it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her
own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and
sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.
“What can you do back at Columbia City?” he went on, rousing by the
words in Carrie’s mind a picture of the dull world she had left. “There
isn’t anything down there. Chicago’s the place. You can get a nice room
here and some clothes, and then you can do something.”
Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it
was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An
elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its
upholstered depths a young lady.
“What will you have if you go back?” asked Drouet. There was no subtle
undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing
at all of the things he thought worth while.
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
understanding 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.