Sister Carrie: A Novel
At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few
minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of
clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.
“If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you
relatives?”
“I am going to visit my sister,” she explained.
“You want to see Lincoln Park,” he said, “and Michigan Boulevard. They
are putting up great buildings there. It’s a second New York—great. So
much to see—theatres, crowds, fine houses—oh, you’ll like that.”
There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her
insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected
her. She realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet
there was something promising in all the material prospect he set
forth. There was something satisfactory in the attention of this
individual with his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told
her of some popular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not
silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight.
“You will be in Chicago some little time, won’t you?” he observed at
one turn of the now easy conversation.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie vaguely—a flash vision of the possibility
of her not securing employment rising in her mind.
“Several weeks, anyhow,” he said, looking steadily into her eyes.
There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He
recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and
beauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the
one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was
simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the
many little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings.
Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion—had she ever had
one—would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“Well, I’m going to be there several weeks. I’m going to study stock at
our place and get new samples. I might show you ’round.”
“I don’t know whether you can or not. I mean I don’t know whether I
can. I shall be living with my sister, and——”
“Well, if she minds, we’ll fix that.” He took out his pencil and a
little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. “What is your
address there?”
She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.
He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was
filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks.
It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one
attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the
world, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the
shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did
things, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the
centre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.
He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,
Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.
“That’s me,” he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his
name. “It’s pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father’s
side.”
She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter
from a bunch in his coat pocket. “This is the house I travel for,” he
went on, pointing to a picture on it, “corner of State and Lake.” There
was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected
with such a place, and he made her feel that way.
“What is your address?” he began again, fixing his pencil to write.
She looked at his hand.
“Carrie Meeber,” she said slowly. “Three hundred and fifty-four West
Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson.”
He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. “You’ll be at
home if I come around Monday night?” he said.
“I think so,” she answered.
How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we
mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible
feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying little phrases,
drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how
inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to
be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how
his luring succeeded. She could not realise that she was drifting,
until he secured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded
something—he, that he had gained a victory. Already they felt that they
were somehow associated. Already he took control in directing the
conversation. His words were easy. Her manner was relaxed.
They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains
flashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they could
see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward the
great city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some big
smokestacks towering high in the air.
Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the open
fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army
of homes.
To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled,
the approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing.
Particularly if it be evening—that mystic period between the glare and
gloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition
to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for the
weary! What old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the
soul of the toiler to itself, “I shall soon be free. I shall be in the
ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lighted
chamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the halls, the
parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song—these are mine in the
night.” Though all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill
runs abroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they
may not always express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of
toil.
Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her
wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the
city and pointed out its marvels.
“This is Northwest Chicago,” said Drouet. “This is the Chicago River,”
and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the huge masted
wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With a
puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. “Chicago is getting
to be a great town,” he went on. “It’s a wonder. You’ll find lots to
see here.”
She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of
terror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a
great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but
feel a little choked for breath—a little sick as her heart beat so
fast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that
Columbia City was only a little way off.
“Chicago! Chicago!” called the brakeman, slamming open the door. They
were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang
of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her
hand firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten
his trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.
“I suppose your people will be here to meet you?” he said. “Let me
carry your grip.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’d rather you wouldn’t. I’d rather you wouldn’t
be with me when I meet my sister.”
“All right,” he said in all kindness. “I’ll be near, though, in case
she isn’t here, and take you out there safely.”
“You’re so kind,” said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such attention
in her strange situation.
“Chicago!” called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They were
under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already
beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train
moving at a snail’s pace. The people in the car were all up and
crowding about the door.
“Well, here we are,” said Drouet, leading the way to the door.
“Good-bye, till I see you Monday.”
“Good-bye,” she answered, taking his proffered hand.
“Remember, I’ll be looking till you find your sister.”
She smiled into his eyes.
They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A lean-faced,
rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform and hurried
forward.
“Why, Sister Carrie!” she began, and there was embrace of welcome.
Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid all
the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the
hand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement. Her
sister carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil.
“Why, how are all the folks at home?” she began; “how is father, and
mother?”
Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the gate
leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He was
looking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sister
he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only Carrie saw
it. She felt something lost to her when he moved away. When he
disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she was
much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.
Chapter II. WHAT POVERTY THREATENED: OF GRANITE AND BRASS
Minnie’s flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then being
called, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited by families of
labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were still coming, with the
rush of population pouring in at the rate of 50,000 a year. It was on
the third floor, the front windows looking down into the street, where,
at night, the lights of grocery stores were shining and children were
playing. To Carrie, the sound of the little bells upon the horse-cars,
as they tinkled in and out of hearing, was as pleasing as it was novel.
She gazed into the lighted street when Minnie brought her into the
front room, and wondered at the sounds, the movement, the murmur of the
vast city which stretched for miles and miles in every direction.
Mrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie the baby
and proceeded to get supper. Her husband asked a few questions and sat
down to read the evening paper. He was a silent man, American born, of
a Swede father, and now employed as a cleaner of refrigerator cars at
the stock-yards. To him the presence or absence of his wife’s sister
was a matter of indifference. Her personal appearance did not affect
him one way or the other. His one observation to the point was
concerning the chances of work in Chicago.
“It’s a big place,” he said. “You can get in somewhere in a few days.
Everybody does.”
It had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get work and
pay her board. He was of a clean, saving disposition, and had already
paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out on the West
Side. His ambition was some day to build a house on them.
In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie found
time to study the flat. She had some slight gift of observation and
that sense, so rich in every woman—intuition.
She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of the rooms
were discordantly papered. The floors were covered with matting and the
hall laid with a thin rag carpet. One could see that the furniture was
of that poor, hurriedly patched together quality sold by the instalment
houses.
She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began to
cry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his
reading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came out here.
He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up in his
offspring.