Sister Carrie: A Novel
and clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good
impression. His managerial position was fairly important—a kind of
stewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had
risen by perseverance and industry, through long years of service, from
the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his present
altitude. He had a little office in the place, set off in polished
cherry and grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather
simple accounts of the place—supplies ordered and needed. The chief
executive and financial functions devolved upon the owners—Messrs.
Fitzgerald and Moy—and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken
in.
For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits
of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a
striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold,
which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and
engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a “Well,
old fellow,” hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the
general run of successful characters about town, and it was part of his
success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and
friendship, which improved from the “How do you do?” addressed to the
fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches, who, by long
frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the “Why,
old man, how are you?” which he addressed to those noted or rich
individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was a
class, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he
could not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was
professionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying
them the deference which would win their good feeling without in the
least compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the
last place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor
yet remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of
good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converse
longest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time
once in a while—to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting
entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, had
his wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house on
the North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptable
individual of our great American upper class—the first grade below the
luxuriously rich.
Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter’s genial nature and dressy
appearance pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling
salesman—and not one of many years at that—but the firm of Bartlett,
Caryoe & Company was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood
well. Hurstwood knew Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and
then with him, in company with several others, when the conversation
was general. Drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderate
sense of humour, and could tell a good story when the occasion
required. He could talk races with Hurstwood, tell interesting
incidents concerning himself and his experiences with women, and report
the state of trade in the cities which he visited, and so managed to
make himself almost invariably agreeable. To-night he was particularly
so, since his report to the company had been favourably commented upon,
his new samples had been satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked
out for the next six weeks.
“Why, hello, Charlie, old man,” said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that
evening about eight o’clock. “How goes it?” The room was crowded.
Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the
bar.
“Oh, all right.”
“I haven’t seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?”
“Friday,” said Drouet. “Had a fine trip.”
“Glad of it,” said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which
half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. “What
are you going to take?” he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and
tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.
“Old Pepper,” said Drouet.
“A little of the same for me,” put in Hurstwood.
“How long are you in town this time?” inquired Hurstwood.
“Only until Wednesday. I’m going up to St. Paul.”
“George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee
last week.”
“Yes, I saw George,” returned Drouet. “Great old boy, isn’t he? We had
quite a time there together.”
The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and
they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to
within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking
the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
“What’s become of Caryoe?” remarked Hurstwood. “I haven’t seen him
around here in two weeks.”
“Laid up, they say,” exclaimed Drouet. “Say, he’s a gouty old boy!”
“Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, wads of it,” returned Drouet. “He won’t live much longer. Barely
comes down to the office now.”
“Just one boy, hasn’t he?” asked Hurstwood.
“Yes, and a swift-pacer,” laughed Drouet.
“I guess he can’t hurt the business very much, though, with the other
members all there.”
“No, he can’t injure that any, I guess.”
Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the
light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable
distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.
To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of
mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an
anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the moths,
in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Such
conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the
scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers would
choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that
politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save
formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be
justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who
frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor.
Nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to
pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds. It must be
that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a
curious social institution or it would not be.
Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by
his desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here
dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing
it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might
take it, after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the
things which they satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No
evil could come out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated
chamber. The worst effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up
in the material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a
similarly splendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be
called the fault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of
the mind. That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to
emulate the more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door
of anything save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected.
Remove the element so thoroughly and solely complained of—liquor—and
there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and
enthusiasm which would remain. The pleased eye with which our modern
restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion.
Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy
company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless,
wandering mental action which it represents—the love of light and show
and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal
stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and
sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange,
glittering night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing,
insect-infested rose of pleasure.
“See that fellow coming in there?” said Hurstwood, glancing at a
gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,
his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.
“No, where?” said Drouet.
“There,” said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye,
“the man with the silk hat.”
“Oh, yes,” said Drouet, now affecting not to see. “Who is he?”
“That’s Jules Wallace, the spiritualist.”
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
“Doesn’t look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?” said Drouet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got the money, all
right,” and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
“I don’t go much on those things, do you?” asked Drouet.
“Well, you never can tell,” said Hurstwood. “There may be something to
it. I wouldn’t bother about it myself, though. By the way,” he added,
“are you going anywhere to-night?”
“‘The Hole in the Ground,’” said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce
of the time.
“Well, you’d better be going. It’s half after eight already,” and he
drew out his watch.
The crowd was already thinning out considerably—some bound for the
theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all
the pleasures—for the type of man there represented, at least—the
ladies.
“Yes, I will,” said Drouet.
“Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,” said
Hurstwood.
“Sure,” said Drouet, elated.
“You haven’t anything on hand for the night, have you?” added
Hurstwood.
“Not a thing.”
“Well, come round, then.”
“I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday,” remarked
Drouet, by way of parting. “By George, that’s so, I must go and call on
her before I go away.”
“Oh, never mind her,” Hurstwood remarked.
“Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you,” went on Drouet
confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.
“Twelve o’clock,” said Hurstwood.
“That’s right,” said Drouet, going out.
Thus was Carrie’s name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of
places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow
lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her
unfolding fate.
Chapter VI. THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN: A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY
At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. The
fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different,
increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the good
spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report. Hanson
supposed that Carrie would be satisfied.
“Well,” he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes,
and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, “how did you make
out?”
“Oh,” said Carrie, “it’s pretty hard. I don’t like it.”
There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she
was both weary and disappointed.
“What sort of work is it?” he asked, lingering a moment as he turned
upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
“Running a machine,” answered Carrie.
It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the
side of the flat’s success. He was irritated a shade because it could
not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be pleased.
Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie
arrived. The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing
now that Carrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one relief