_ Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe,
untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is
still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer
wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet
wholly guided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests.
We see him aligned by nature with the forces of life--he is born
into their keeping and without thought he is protected. We see
man far removed from the lairs of the jungles, his innate
instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his free-
will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and
afford him perfect guidance.
He is becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and
desires; he is still too weak to always prevail against them. As
a beast, the forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he
has not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In
this intermediate stage he wavers--neither drawn in harmony with
nature by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into
harmony by his own free-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind,
moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his will and now
by his instincts, erring with one, only to retrieve by the other,
falling by one, only to rise by the other--a creature of
incalculable variability. We have the consolation of knowing
that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that
cannot fail. He will not forever balance thus between good and
evil. When this jangle of free-will instinct shall have been
adjusted, when perfect under standing has given the former the
power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer vary.
The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and
unwavering to the distinct pole of truth.
In Carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--
instinct and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for
the mastery. She followed whither her craving led. She was as
yet more drawn than she drew.
When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled
wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning,
sorrow, or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of
that?"
"What?" said Hanson.
"Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else."
Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually
displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his
thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his
tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a
horse.
"Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly
aroused.
"I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she
has gone and done it."
Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.
"Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done."
"Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before
him, "what can you do?"
Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the
possibilities in such cases.
"Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!"
At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5
A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather
troubled sleep in her new room, alone.
Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities
in it. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the
lap of luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of
her release, wondering whether she would get something to do,
wondering what Drouet would do. That worthy had his future fixed
for him beyond a peradventure. He could not help what he was
going to do. He could not see clearly enough to wish to do
differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old
pursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Carrie as
surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. He might
suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he
did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning. But whatever
twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you may
be sure.
The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her
chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul.
"Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out
to breakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day."
Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her
large eyes.
"I wish I could get something to do," she said.
"You'll get that all right," said Drouet. "What's the use
worrying right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I
won't hurt you."
"I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully.
"Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they
look fine. Put on your jacket."
Carrie obeyed.
"Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set
of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real
pleasure. "What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to
breakfast."
Carrie put on her hat.
"Where are the gloves?" he inquired.
"Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.
"Now, come on," he said.
Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.
It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her
much alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he
filled her hours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought
her a nice skirt and shirt waist. With his money she purchased
the little necessaries of toilet, until at last she looked quite
another maiden. The mirror convinced her of a few things which
she had long believed. She was pretty, yes, indeed! How nice
her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty. She caught her little
red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill of power.
Drouet was so good.
They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was
hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off
for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a
considerable distance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up
cold, and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky,
still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top
where it met the darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in
midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the
swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought
back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from
their front window in December days at home.
She paused and wrung her little hands.
"What's the matter?" said Drouet.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling.
He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder,
patting her arm.
"Come on," he said gently, "you're all right."
She turned to slip on her jacket.
"Better wear that boa about your throat to night."
They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The
lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden
hue. The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were
the lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind
whipped in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six
o'clock throng bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up
about the ears, hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went
fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a
spectacle of warm-blooded humanity.
Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were
looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes
were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general
make-up shabby.
Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those
who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter
looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked.
Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them. The
old dress and the old machine came back. She actually started.
Drouet didn't notice until Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.
"You must be thinking," he said.
They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased
Carrie immensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye.
She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off
lands and magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of
coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare.
"Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer
where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts
rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through
parted lips. "Let's see."
"Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a
sort of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven."
"Isn't it fine?" said Carrie.
"Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of
finery and gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she
looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips,
her eyes alight. As they were moving out he whispered down to
her, "You look lovely!" They were right where the coach-caller
was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies.
"You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet.
Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life.
They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch.
Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but
there was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever
had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits
are peculiar things. They will drive the really non-religious
mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a
devotion. The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing
which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the
brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of
the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the
still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. If
the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy
enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the
perfunctory thing. "Now, bless me," says such a mind, "I have
done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its
old, unbreakable trick once again.
Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she
had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the
lunch went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of
the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was
emanating from Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she
relaxed and heard with open ears. She was again the victim of
the city's hypnotic influence.
"Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going."
They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had
frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of
force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way
of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon
her. He touched it now as he spoke of going.
They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section
was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars,
a few open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash
Avenue they strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of
small information. He had Carrie's arm in his, and held it
closely as he explained. Once in a while, after some witticism,
he would look down, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they
came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head
now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it
genially. He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly
musing.
At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long
evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward
position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few
nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She
fancied she and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine.
She could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast
out. There was a deep pit, into which they were looking; they
could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall
disappeared in vague shadows. An old basket, used for
descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope.
"Let's get in," said Carrie.
"Oh, no," said Minnie.
"Yes, come on," said Carrie.
She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all
protest, she had swung over and was going down.
"Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back"; but Carrie was far
down now and the shadow had swallowed her completely.
She moved her arm.
Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters
she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or
something that reached far out, and at the end of this was
Carrie. They looked about, and now the thing was sinking, and
Minnie heard the low sip of the encroaching water.
"Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther
out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to
her.
"Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far
away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came
away suffering as though she had lost something. She was more
inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in life.
It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those
curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange
scenes, one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for
Carrie was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers
had let loose and she had seen her falling.
"Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson,
disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder.
"Wha--what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily.
"Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You're talking in your
sleep."
A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's,
spruce in dress and manner.
"Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office
door.
Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk.
"When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired.
"Pretty soon," said Drouet.
"Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood.
"Well, I've been busy," said Drouet.
They talked some few minutes on general topics.
"Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to
come out some evening."
"Out where?" inquired Hurstwood.
"Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling.
Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile
hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his
wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said:
"Certainly; glad to."
"We'll have a nice game of euchre."
"May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood.
"Certainly," said Drouet. "I'll introduce you." _