Sister Carrie: A Novel
of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception,
a bright supper table, and some one to say: “Oh, well, stand it a
little while. You will get something better,” but now this was ashes.
She began to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted,
and that she was supposed to work on and say nothing. She knew that she
was to pay four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that
it would be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people.
Minnie was no companion for her sister—she was too old. Her thoughts
were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had any
pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed to do
all his mental operations without the aid of physical expression. He
was as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the other hand, had the
blood of youth and some imagination. Her day of love and the mysteries
of courtship were still ahead. She could think of things she would like
to do, of clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like
to visit. These were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was
like meeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to call
forth or respond to her feelings.
She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day,
that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these two
people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what she
would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After supper
she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was rather a
sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed
the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. She
wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with
Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot
of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there. Her face took
on the semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go
below.
“Carrie doesn’t seem to like her place very well,” said Minnie to her
husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the
dining-room a few minutes.
“She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow,” said Hanson. “Has she gone
downstairs?”
“Yes,” said Minnie.
“I’d tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks without
getting another one.”
Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.
“If I were you,” he said a little later, “I wouldn’t let her stand in
the door down there. It don’t look good.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Minnie.
The life of the streets continued for a long time to interest Carrie.
She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going
or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a very narrow
round, always winding up at points which concerned money, looks,
clothes, or enjoyment. She would have a far-off thought of Columbia
City now and then, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her
experiences of the present day, but, on the whole, the little world
about her enlisted her whole attention.
The first floor of the building, of which Hanson’s flat was the third,
was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing there,
Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of his
presence until he was quite near her.
“I’m after bread,” was all he said as he passed.
The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson really
came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would see what
Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in mind than
she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put it into
her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade of real
antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He was
suspicious.
A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie’s meditations
had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone upstairs before she
followed. She had realised with the lapse of the quarter hours that
Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a little resentful, a
little as if she had been forsaken—was not good enough. She went
upstairs, where everything was silent. Minnie was sewing by a lamp at
the table. Hanson had already turned in for the night. In her weariness
and disappointment Carrie did no more than announce that she was going
to bed.
“Yes, you’d better,” returned Minnie. “You’ve got to get up early, you
know.”
The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as Carrie
came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during breakfast, but
there was not much of interest which they could mutually discuss. As on
the previous morning, Carrie walked down town, for she began to realise
now that her four-fifty would not even allow her car fare after she
paid her board. This seemed a miserable arrangement. But the morning
light swept away the first misgivings of the day, as morning light is
ever wont to do.
At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome as the
preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on his round,
stopped by her machine.
“Where did you come from?” he inquired.
“Mr. Brown hired me,” she replied.
“Oh, he did, eh!” and then, “See that you keep things going.”
The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed
satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense “common.” Carrie had more
imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in the
matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to the
girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience.
“I’m going to quit this,” she heard her remark to her neighbour. “What
with the stipend and being up late, it’s too much for me health.”
They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and
exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She saw
that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed accordingly.
“Hello,” remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at noon.
“You’re a daisy.” He really expected to hear the common “Aw! go chase
yourself!” in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by Carrie’s
silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.
That night at the flat she was even more lonely—the dull situation was
becoming harder to endure. She could see that the Hansons seldom or
never had any company. Standing at the street door looking out, she
ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait and idle manner
attracted attention of an offensive but common sort. She was slightly
taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man of thirty, who in
passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned back, and said:
“Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?”
Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient thought
to reply: “Why, I don’t know you,” backing away as she did so.
“Oh, that don’t matter,” said the other affably.
She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her own
door quite out of breath. There was something in the man’s look which
frightened her.
During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two
nights she found herself too tired to walk home, and expended car fare.
She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. She
went to bed one night before Hanson.
Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or
maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to
continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her
acclimatization had been more gradual—less rigid. She would have done
better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more
of the city which she constantly troubled to know about.
On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella.
Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the
kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the
great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a
quarter of her small store to pay for it.
“What did you do that for, Carrie?” asked Minnie when she saw it.
“Oh, I need one,” said Carrie.
“You foolish girl.”
Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to be
a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.
On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars. Minnie
had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to
explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four
dollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of
satisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan
payments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding
clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week. She brooded over this
until she was in a state of mental rebellion.
“I’m going up the street for a walk,” she said after supper.
“Not alone, are you?” asked Hanson.
“Yes,” returned Carrie.
“I wouldn’t,” said Minnie.
“I want to see _something_,” said Carrie, and by the tone she put into
the last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased with
them.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hanson, when she went into the
front room to get her hat.
“I don’t know,” said Minnie.
“Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone.”
Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the
door. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not
please her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she
heard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial
amusements. They had been happy. On several days it rained and she used
up car fare. One night she got thoroughly soaked, going to catch the
car at Van Buren Street. All that evening she sat alone in the front
room looking out upon the street, where the lights were reflected on
the wet pavements, thinking. She had imagination enough to be moody.
On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty cents
in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed with some of
the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that they had more of
their earnings to use for themselves than she did. They had young men
of the kind whom she, since her experience with Drouet, felt above, who
took them about. She came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young
fellows of the shop. Not one of them had a show of refinement. She saw
only their workday side.
There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over
the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long,
thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the
streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the
problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter
jacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about
this, but at last she summoned the courage.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about clothes,” she said one evening
when they were together. “I need a hat.”
Minnie looked serious.
“Why don’t you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?” she
suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of Carrie’s
money would create.
“I’d like to for a week or so, if you don’t mind,” ventured Carrie.
“Could you pay two dollars?” asked Minnie.
Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and
liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring
at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson
she never knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the
air which left disagreeable impressions.
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened.