Sister Carrie Chapter 7 by Theodore Dreiser Lyrics
CHAPTER VII
THE LURE OF THE MATERIAL: BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF
The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and
comprehended. When each individual realises for himself that this thing
primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due--that it
should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped
privilege--many of our social, religious, and political troubles will
have permanently passed. As for Carrie, her understanding of the moral
significance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. The
old definition: "Money: something everybody else has and I must get,"
would have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she
now held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt
that she was immensely better off for the having of them. It was
something that was power in itself. One of her order of mind would have
been content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of
money, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that
in some cases it could have no value. Even then she would have had no
conception of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,
undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the
inability to use it.
The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt ashamed
in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so
dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket! Now she
would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She would get stockings,
too, and a skirt, and, and--until already, as in the matter of her
prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice the
purchasing power of her bills.
She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all the
world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the
fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart--out of a realisation
of her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young
man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the
nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl.
Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn
desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My God,
mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what was
considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about
it. There would have been no speculation, no philosophising. He had no
mental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. In
his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the
lamp. Deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and
baffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as
helpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if
you will, as she.
Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because
he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as
being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb
to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming
villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief
delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes
as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could have
hornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty
shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the
thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about among men, a
veritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of intellect,
no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in
one strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a Shakespeare
would have said "my merry child;" old, drinking Caryoe thought him a
clever, successful business man. In short, he was as good as his
intellect conceived.
The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the
man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul with
ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of
friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught
the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens.
She has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored
fear of poisons. "He keepeth His creatures whole," was not written of
beasts alone. Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its
unwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of self-protection, strong in
all such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of
Drouet.
When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. By
George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that.
Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He would go around to
Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him feel light of foot as
he thought about her.
Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely
conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which
perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie knew
that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than this
point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think of no
way of explaining.
"How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day.
Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and
say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be
in the line of her feelings at least. So instead of complaining when she
felt so good, she said:
"I have the promise of something."
"Where?"
"At the Boston Store."
"Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie.
"Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie, disliking to draw
out a lie any longer than was necessary.
Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with
her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of
Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.
"If you shouldn't get it--" she paused, troubled for an easy way.
"If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home."
Minnie saw her chance.
"Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow."
The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep her
any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not blame
Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she was
glad she had Drouet's money.
"Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that."
She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the
antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She
knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious
city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested
its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life
out there--she almost exclaimed against the thought.
She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What
could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would
need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want
to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she explain where she
even got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy.
She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning, Drouet
would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't be. The
Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet she
did not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on her
getting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful. She
began to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all so
clear when she was with Drouet. Now it was all so tangled, so
hopeless--much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance
of aid in her hand which she could not use.
Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have had
another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money
back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and hunt
for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and tell him. At this
decision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress.
Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some
relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep away
all thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a
wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing
it was to have. How plenty of it would clear away all these troubles.
In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision
to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket,
after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade
less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the
thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank.
What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so
often. It would be the same old story. She walked on and on, and finally
did go into one place, with the old result. She came out feeling that
luck was against her. It was no use.
Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great
Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long window
display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts, she who
was so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and get
her new things. Now for relief from distress; she thought she would go
in and see. She would look at the jackets.
There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state in
which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by
desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. When Carrie
began wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this
mood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high
opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery,
where before she had hurried on. Her woman's heart was warm with desire
for them. How would she look in this, how charming that would make her!
She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted
the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. If she would
only make up her mind, she could have one of those now. She lingered in
the jewelry department. She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins,
the chains. What would she not have given if she could have had them
all! She would look fine too, if only she had some of these things.
The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store,
she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with
large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. Still
she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would like
better. She went about among the glass cases and racks where these
things were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she thought of
was the proper one. All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading
herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to
herself the actual condition. At last the noon hour was dangerously
near, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return the money.
Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
"Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the shoes?"
Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way,
but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.
"I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me. Let's
go over here to Partridge's."
Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the points
that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him.
"Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here," and
Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off
State Street, in Monroe.
"I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled in a
cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear those
things out there. They--they wouldn't know where I got them."
"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell
you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you
rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?"
Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be
convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if
he could.
"Why are you going home?" he asked.
"Oh, I can't get anything here."
"They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.
"They can't," said Carrie.
"I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take care
of you."
Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it
sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her own
spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and
sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.
"What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by the
words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. "There
isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room
here and some clothes, and then you can do something."
Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was,
the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An elegant
coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its
upholstered depths a young lady.
"What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no subtle
undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing at
all of the things he thought worth while.
Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could do. They
would be expecting her to go home this week.
Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.
"Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it. I'll
loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can get
yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you."
Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt more
than ever the helplessness of her case.
"If I could only get something to do," she said.
"Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if you go
away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get you a
nice room? I won't bother you--you needn't be afraid. Then, when you get
fixed up, maybe you could get something."
He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She
was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no doubt of that. She seemed
to have some power back of her actions. She was not like the common run
of store-girls. She wasn't silly.
In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he--more taste. It was a
finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and
loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head
unconsciously in a dainty way.
"Do you think I could get something?" she asked.
"Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'll help
you."
She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.
"Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go over here to Partridge's and
you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room for you.
You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show to-night."
Carrie shook her head.
"Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You don't need
to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there."
She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.
"Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said.
Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of new
things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the
influence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme
proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like the
one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand it
seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by
accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the
improvement. She looked quite smart.
"That's the thing," he said.
Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as
she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.
"That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it."
"It's nine dollars," said Carrie.
"That's all right--take it," said Drouet.
She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked
if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back
and the purchase was closed.
From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was fitted for
shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, said,
"Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of
returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair
of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings.
"To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt."
In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper
she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing
hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since she had not
done these, there was a way out.
Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed
Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister." He
carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the
selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will be here
in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased.
When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He talked in
the same general way as if they were out in the street. Carrie left her
things.
"Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?"
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to leave them so."
He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm
afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked
with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the
flat.
"Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you get along."
She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her about a
little and then help her get something. He really imagined that he
would. He would be out on the road and she could be working.
"Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get
whatever you want and come away."
She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come
out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at
half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her
determination was hardened.
"So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story of the
Boston Store.
Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she answered.
"I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie.
Carrie said nothing.
When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He washed
in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a
little nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable, and the
feeling that she was not welcome here was strong.
"Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.
"No."
He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have
her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that was all.
Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring.
Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to
know that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson
particularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became
of her.
After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb
her, and wrote a little note.
"Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going to stay in
Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be all
right."
In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped
Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said:
"I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could scarcely
prevent her voice from trembling.
Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.
"Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said.
"Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this."
She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little bedroom,
wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under Minnie's
hair-brush.
When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and wondered what
they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her deed affected
her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up the lighted
step, and then affected to stroll up the street. When she reached the
corner she quickened her pace.
As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.
"Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked.
"Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more."
He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to
poke his finger at it.
Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.
"Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him.
"Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car."
THE LURE OF THE MATERIAL: BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF
The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and
comprehended. When each individual realises for himself that this thing
primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due--that it
should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped
privilege--many of our social, religious, and political troubles will
have permanently passed. As for Carrie, her understanding of the moral
significance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. The
old definition: "Money: something everybody else has and I must get,"
would have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she
now held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt
that she was immensely better off for the having of them. It was
something that was power in itself. One of her order of mind would have
been content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of
money, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that
in some cases it could have no value. Even then she would have had no
conception of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,
undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the
inability to use it.
The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt ashamed
in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so
dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket! Now she
would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She would get stockings,
too, and a skirt, and, and--until already, as in the matter of her
prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice the
purchasing power of her bills.
She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all the
world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the
fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart--out of a realisation
of her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young
man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the
nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl.
Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn
desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My God,
mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what was
considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about
it. There would have been no speculation, no philosophising. He had no
mental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. In
his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the
lamp. Deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and
baffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as
helpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if
you will, as she.
Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because
he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as
being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb
to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming
villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief
delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes
as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could have
hornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty
shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the
thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about among men, a
veritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of intellect,
no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in
one strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a Shakespeare
would have said "my merry child;" old, drinking Caryoe thought him a
clever, successful business man. In short, he was as good as his
intellect conceived.
The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the
man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul with
ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of
friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught
the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens.
She has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored
fear of poisons. "He keepeth His creatures whole," was not written of
beasts alone. Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its
unwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of self-protection, strong in
all such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of
Drouet.
When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. By
George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that.
Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He would go around to
Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him feel light of foot as
he thought about her.
Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely
conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which
perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie knew
that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than this
point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think of no
way of explaining.
"How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day.
Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and
say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be
in the line of her feelings at least. So instead of complaining when she
felt so good, she said:
"I have the promise of something."
"Where?"
"At the Boston Store."
"Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie.
"Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie, disliking to draw
out a lie any longer than was necessary.
Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with
her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of
Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.
"If you shouldn't get it--" she paused, troubled for an easy way.
"If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home."
Minnie saw her chance.
"Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow."
The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep her
any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not blame
Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she was
glad she had Drouet's money.
"Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that."
She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the
antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She
knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious
city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested
its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life
out there--she almost exclaimed against the thought.
She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What
could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would
need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want
to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she explain where she
even got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy.
She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning, Drouet
would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't be. The
Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet she
did not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on her
getting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful. She
began to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all so
clear when she was with Drouet. Now it was all so tangled, so
hopeless--much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance
of aid in her hand which she could not use.
Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have had
another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money
back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and hunt
for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and tell him. At this
decision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress.
Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some
relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep away
all thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a
wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing
it was to have. How plenty of it would clear away all these troubles.
In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision
to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket,
after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade
less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the
thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank.
What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so
often. It would be the same old story. She walked on and on, and finally
did go into one place, with the old result. She came out feeling that
luck was against her. It was no use.
Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great
Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long window
display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts, she who
was so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and get
her new things. Now for relief from distress; she thought she would go
in and see. She would look at the jackets.
There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state in
which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by
desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. When Carrie
began wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this
mood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high
opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery,
where before she had hurried on. Her woman's heart was warm with desire
for them. How would she look in this, how charming that would make her!
She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted
the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. If she would
only make up her mind, she could have one of those now. She lingered in
the jewelry department. She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins,
the chains. What would she not have given if she could have had them
all! She would look fine too, if only she had some of these things.
The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store,
she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with
large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. Still
she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would like
better. She went about among the glass cases and racks where these
things were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she thought of
was the proper one. All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading
herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to
herself the actual condition. At last the noon hour was dangerously
near, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return the money.
Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
"Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the shoes?"
Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way,
but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.
"I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me. Let's
go over here to Partridge's."
Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the points
that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him.
"Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here," and
Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off
State Street, in Monroe.
"I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled in a
cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear those
things out there. They--they wouldn't know where I got them."
"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell
you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you
rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?"
Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be
convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if
he could.
"Why are you going home?" he asked.
"Oh, I can't get anything here."
"They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.
"They can't," said Carrie.
"I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take care
of you."
Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it
sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her own
spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and
sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.
"What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by the
words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. "There
isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room
here and some clothes, and then you can do something."
Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was,
the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An elegant
coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its
upholstered depths a young lady.
"What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no subtle
undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing at
all of the things he thought worth while.
Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could do. They
would be expecting her to go home this week.
Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.
"Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it. I'll
loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can get
yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you."
Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt more
than ever the helplessness of her case.
"If I could only get something to do," she said.
"Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if you go
away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get you a
nice room? I won't bother you--you needn't be afraid. Then, when you get
fixed up, maybe you could get something."
He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She
was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no doubt of that. She seemed
to have some power back of her actions. She was not like the common run
of store-girls. She wasn't silly.
In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he--more taste. It was a
finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and
loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head
unconsciously in a dainty way.
"Do you think I could get something?" she asked.
"Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'll help
you."
She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.
"Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go over here to Partridge's and
you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room for you.
You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show to-night."
Carrie shook her head.
"Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You don't need
to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there."
She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.
"Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said.
Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of new
things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the
influence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme
proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like the
one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand it
seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by
accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the
improvement. She looked quite smart.
"That's the thing," he said.
Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as
she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.
"That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it."
"It's nine dollars," said Carrie.
"That's all right--take it," said Drouet.
She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked
if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back
and the purchase was closed.
From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was fitted for
shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, said,
"Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of
returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair
of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings.
"To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt."
In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper
she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing
hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since she had not
done these, there was a way out.
Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed
Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister." He
carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the
selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will be here
in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased.
When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He talked in
the same general way as if they were out in the street. Carrie left her
things.
"Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?"
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to leave them so."
He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm
afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked
with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the
flat.
"Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you get along."
She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her about a
little and then help her get something. He really imagined that he
would. He would be out on the road and she could be working.
"Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get
whatever you want and come away."
She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come
out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at
half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her
determination was hardened.
"So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story of the
Boston Store.
Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she answered.
"I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie.
Carrie said nothing.
When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He washed
in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a
little nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable, and the
feeling that she was not welcome here was strong.
"Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.
"No."
He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have
her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that was all.
Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring.
Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to
know that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson
particularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became
of her.
After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb
her, and wrote a little note.
"Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going to stay in
Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be all
right."
In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped
Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said:
"I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could scarcely
prevent her voice from trembling.
Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.
"Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said.
"Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this."
She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little bedroom,
wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under Minnie's
hair-brush.
When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and wondered what
they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her deed affected
her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up the lighted
step, and then affected to stroll up the street. When she reached the
corner she quickened her pace.
As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.
"Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked.
"Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more."
He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to
poke his finger at it.
Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.
"Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him.
"Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car."