Sister Carrie: A Novel
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.