Sister Carrie: A Novel
“Well, I’d like to go,” rejoined Carrie. “Let’s you and me go.”
Minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go—for
that point was already negatively settled with her—but upon some means
of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic.
“We’ll go some other time,” she said at last, finding no ready means of
escape.
Carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once.
“I have some money,” she said. “You go with me.” Minnie shook her head.
“He could go along,” said Carrie.
“No,” returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown the
conversation. “He wouldn’t.”
It had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and in that
time the latter’s character had developed a few shades. Naturally timid
in all things that related to her own advancement, and especially so
when without power or resource, her craving for pleasure was so strong
that it was the one stay of her nature. She would speak for that when
silent on all else.
“Ask him,” she pleaded softly.
Minnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie’s board would add. It
would pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure a little
less difficult to talk about with her husband. But if Carrie was going
to think of running around in the beginning there would be a hitch
somewhere. Unless Carrie submitted to a solemn round of industry and
saw the need of hard work without longing for play, how was her coming
to the city to profit them? These thoughts were not those of a cold,
hard nature at all. They were the serious reflections of a mind which
invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to such
surroundings as its industry could make for it.
At last she yielded enough to ask Hanson. It was a half-hearted
procedure without a shade of desire on her part.
“Carrie wants us to go to the theatre,” she said, looking in upon her
husband. Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged a mild
look, which said as plainly as anything: “This isn’t what we expected.”
“I don’t care to go,” he returned. “What does she want to see?”
“H. R. Jacob’s,” said Minnie.
He looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively.
When Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained a
still clearer feeling of their way of life. It weighed on her, but took
no definite form of opposition.
“I think I’ll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs,” she said,
after a time.
Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and went
below.
“Where has Carrie gone?” asked Hanson, coming back into the dining-room
when he heard the door close.
“She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs,” answered
Minnie. “I guess she just wants to look out a while.”
“She oughtn’t to be thinking about spending her money on theatres
already, do you think?” he said.
“She just feels a little curious, I guess,” ventured Minnie.
“Everything is so new.”
“I don’t know,” said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead
slightly wrinkled.
He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which a
young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could contemplate
such a course when she had so little, as yet, with which to do.
On Saturday Carrie went out by herself—first toward the river, which
interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which was then
lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently caused it
to be made into a boulevard. She was struck with the evidences of
wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person on the street worth
more than a hundred thousand dollars. She was glad to be out of the
flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow, humdrum place, and
that interest and joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughts now were of a more
liberal character, and she punctuated them with speculations as to the
whereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure but that he might call anyhow
Monday night, and, while she felt a little disturbed at the
possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the shade of a wish that he
would.
On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed
herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of
light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had
worn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and her necktie
was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and much wearing
impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl with the exception of
her features. These were slightly more even than common, and gave her a
sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance.
It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is used to
sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home. She gained
some inkling of the character of Hanson’s life when, half asleep, she
looked out into the dining-room at six o’clock and saw him silently
finishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he was gone, and
she, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being just old
enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. Her
spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange
and untried duties confronted her. Only the ashes of all her fine
fancies were remaining—ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a few red
embers of hope. So subdued was she by her weakening nerves, that she
ate quite in silence going over imaginary conceptions of the character
of the shoe company, the nature of the work, her employer’s attitude.
She was vaguely feeling that she would come in contact with the great
owners, that her work would be where grave, stylishly dressed men
occasionally look on.
“Well, good luck,” said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They had
agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could
do it every day—sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item
under the circumstances.
“I’ll tell you how it goes to-night,” said Carrie.
Once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either
direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the small
clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and women
generally coming out of doors and passing about the neighbourhood,
Carrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine of the morning, beneath
the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind astir, what fears, except the
most desperate, can find a harbourage? In the night, or the gloomy
chambers of the day, fears and misgivings wax strong, but out in the
sunlight there is, for a time, cessation even of the terror of death.
Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then
turned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like a
walled canon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows looked
shiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and
women, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She met
girls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her
diffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the
importance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dread
at her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, she
would not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused her
because she did not know something or other? She would be scolded,
abused, ignominiously discharged.
It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that she
came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue and entered
the elevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor there was no one
at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling. She stood,
very much frightened, awaiting some one.
Presently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recognise her.
“What is it you want?” he inquired.
Carrie’s heart sank.
“You said I should come this morning to see about work—”
“Oh,” he interrupted. “Um—yes. What is your name?”
“Carrie Meeber.”
“Yes,” said he. “You come with me.”
He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of
new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the
factory proper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking,
rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham
aprons were working. She followed him diffidently through the
clattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and
flushing slightly. They crossed to a far corner and took an elevator to
the sixth floor. Out of the array of machines and benches, Mr. Brown
signalled a foreman.
“This is the girl,” he said, and turning to Carrie, “You go with him.”
He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to a little desk
in a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre.
“You’ve never worked at anything like this before, have you?” he
questioned, rather sternly.
“No, sir,” she answered.
He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but put
down her name and then led her across to where a line of girls occupied
stools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder of one of the
girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper, by the aid
of the machine, he put his hand.
“You,” he said, “show this girl how to do what you’re doing. When you
get through, come to me.”
The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place.
“It isn’t hard to do,” she said, bending over. “You just take this so,
fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine.”
She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which was
eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man’s shoe, by
little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side of
the machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp,
snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of
the upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. After
observing a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeing that
it was fairly well done, she went away.
The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her right,
and were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw at once that an
average speed was necessary or the work would pile up on her and all
those below would be delayed. She had no time to look about, and bent
anxiously to her task. The girls at her left and right realised her
predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid her, as much as
they dared, by working slower.
At this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding relief
from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum, mechanical
movement of the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed, that the room
was not very light. It had a thick odour of fresh leather, but that did
not worry her. She felt the eyes of the other help upon her, and
troubled lest she was not working fast enough.
Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a slight
error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before her eyes
and fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heart thumped
so that she could scarcely see to go on.
“Start your machine,” he said, “start your machine. Don’t keep the line
waiting.”
This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly
breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaved
a great breath.
As the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the need of a
breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture to stir.
The stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she began to
feel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her back was
beginning to ache. She twisted and turned from one position to another
slightly different, but it did not ease her for long. She was beginning
to weary.
“Stand up, why don’t you?” said the girl at her right, without any form