Chapter: 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."

 Minnie and Mr. Hanson awake to find Carrie's note. They're a little shocked, but neither rushes to call out the search party. Carrie wakes up in her new place, a bit worried about what's going to happen to her now, but then Drouet comes over and invites her to breakfast and more shopping. Afterward, he takes her to see "The Mikado," an operetta. On the way there, Carrie spots one of the girls she'd worked with at the factory. This freaks her out so much that she bumps into a stranger. Carrie is all about the theater, and afterward she and Drouet stop for a bite to eat. More sparks fly between them, and love is in the air as they walk arm-in-arm back to Carrie's apartment. Jump to Minnie: She's having a nightmare about Carrie being swallowed up into a coalmine, and starts talking in her sleep, waking Sven. Fast forward a week. Drouet drops by his pal Hurstwood's office to invite him over to his house for a friendly game of euchre . Hurstwood agrees and promises to bring the booze.

