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."




Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick
building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the
first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a
large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in
front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet
deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the
neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap.

The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, and
his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides
these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of various
extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.

"George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent salutation at
the dinner table.

"All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussing
the rancorous subject.

A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than
which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more
calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourished
within it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence
will not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids
at some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic chords which bind and
thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know.

Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this
home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the
home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as the
artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft rugs,
rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving of
some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes
gathered from heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large
furniture houses along with everything else which goes to make the
"perfectly appointed house."

In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters and
other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which could
not be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. He had
studied the subject for years in his business. He took no little
satisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived, something
of what the art of the thing required. He was not garrulous by any
means. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in his manner
toward the entire domestic economy of his life which was all that is
comprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He would not argue, he
would not talk freely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist.
What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in him
to walk away from the impossible thing.

There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his Jessica,
especially when he was younger and more confined in his success. Now,
however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had developed a certain amount
of reserve and independence which was not inviting to the richest form
of parental devotion. She was in the high school, and had notions of
life which were decidedly those of a patrician. She liked nice clothes
and urged for them constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individual
establishments were running in her head. She met girls at the high
school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standing
locally as partners or owners of solid businesses. These girls gave
themselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments from
whence they issued. They were the only ones of the school about whom
Jessica concerned herself.

Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already
connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He
contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was
thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some
ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, as
yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in and went
out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to his
mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, but
for the most part confining himself to those generalities with which
most conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his
desires for any one to see. He did not find any one in the house who
particularly cared to see.

Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured to
shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior
capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended
to that little conventional round of society of which she was not--but
longed to be--a member. She was not without realisation already
that this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her
daughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise
a little. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to
herself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing well
enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures should
prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small, but his
income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy was fixed.
Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal terms with
him.

The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to
all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were
of the same calibre.

"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., at the
dinner table one Friday evening.

"What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and
see how it works."

"How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.

"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy."

"Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.

"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura to Australia
now--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week."

"Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years ago they
had that basement in Madison Street."

"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring
in Robey Street."

"Just think of that!" said Jessica.

On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.

"I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.

"Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, without
rising.

"Yes," he said indifferently.

They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.
Presently the door clicked.

"I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.

The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.

"They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," she
reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."

"Are you?" said her mother.

"Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the
school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of
Portia."

"Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act."

"Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood
sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?"

"No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."

She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school,
many of whom were attracted by her beauty.

"What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "that
Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me."

"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a
student there. He hasn't anything."

The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of Blyford,
the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood was on the
third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and happened to look
out at the time.

"Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came
upstairs.

"It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.

"Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him," explained
Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.

"All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."

As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the
window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most satisfactory.

In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not
thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to
trouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and
sharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimes
by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at times by some
show of finery which supposedly made for dignity and social distinction.
The life of the resort which he managed was his life. There he spent
most of his time. When he went home evenings the house looked nice.
With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind that an
ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interested in the talk
of his son and daughter, who always looked well. The vanity of Mrs.
Hurstwood caused her to keep her person rather showily arrayed, but to
Hurstwood this was much better than plainness. There was no love lost
between them. There was no great feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion
on any subject was not startling. They did not talk enough together
to come to the argument of any one point. In the accepted and popular
phrase, she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet
a woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem
rather deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which
such an encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social
position and a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate his
home life, because it might affect his relations with his employers.
They wanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have
a dignified manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage.
Therefore he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in
the public ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,
and sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts, or those
near by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling
about conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of
it.

When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who had
money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It didn't do to
talk about those things. If it came up for discussion among such friends
as with him passed for close, he would deprecate the folly of the thing.
"It was all right to do it--all men do those things--but why wasn't he
careful? A man can't be too careful." He lost sympathy for the man that
made a mistake and was found out.

On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife
about--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not been
for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which did not
depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with considerable
curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way and men
looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and this
combination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a woman of
her home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence in the sex
was not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which would win the
confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As long as she loved
him vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that was
no longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.

During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a large
thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not to be
outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.
Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured.

"Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood one
morning.

Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before the
glass at the time.

"I thought she just bought one," he said.

"That was just something for evening wear," returned his wife
complacently.

"It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good deal
for dresses of late."

"Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of his
voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard there
before.

He was not a man who traveled much, but when he did, he had been
accustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a local
aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--a junket that
was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.

"Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was a
slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore
a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can have a good time."
His left eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "You want to come
along, George."

The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.

"I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."

"Where?" she asked, looking up.

"To Philadelphia, on business."

She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.

"I'll have to leave you behind this time."

"All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking that it
was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few more questions,
and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was a disagreeable
attachment.

On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over he
was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, and hated
thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole incident was
glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwood gave the subject
considerable thought. She drove out more, dressed better, and attended
theatres freely to make up for it.

Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home life. It
ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. With
the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and dryer--must
eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed.




In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties, the
nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration. Actions such
as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a
conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should be
good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed?

For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern naturalistic
philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of morals. There is
more in the subject than mere conformity to a law of evolution. It is
yet deeper than conformity to things of earth alone. It is more involved
than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain
wherefore some plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying;
make clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light
and rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first principles of
morals.

"Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."

"Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I have
lost?"

Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the true
answer to what is right.

In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was comfortably
established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by every wind and
gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour. Drouet had taken
three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing Union Park, on the West
Side. That was a little, green-carpeted breathing spot, than which,
to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded a vista
pleasant to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn of the
park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered. Over the
bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry wind, rose the
steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church, and far off the towers
of several others.

The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good Brussels
carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and representing
large jardinieres filled with gorgeous, impossible flowers. There was a
large pier-glass mirror between the two windows. A large, soft, green,
plush-covered couch occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs
were set about. Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of
bric-a-brac, and the tale of contents is told.

In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very becoming
designs. There was a third room for possible use as a kitchen, where
Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the
preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the like, of
which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole place was
cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers,
possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of
cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry
and natural love of order, which now developed, the place maintained an
air pleasing in the extreme.

Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of
certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with
many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned
about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been
a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw a
prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her mind, a
mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse.
Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.

"My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to her.

She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.

"You know it, don't you?" he would continue.

"Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact that
one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really did, that
she was vain enough to think so much of herself.

Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise. There
she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded, excused. It
was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last analysis. It was only an
average little conscience, a thing which represented the world, her past
environment, habit, convention, in a confused way. With it, the voice of
the people was truly the voice of God.

"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.

"Why?" she questioned.

"Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those who are
good. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at the good
girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know you have
been weak. You had not tried before you failed."

It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she
would be listening to this. It would come infrequently--when something
else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent,
when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in utterance at first,
but never wholly convincing. There was always an answer, always the
December days threatened. She was alone; she was desireful; she was
fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want made answer for her.

Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre
garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long
winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume
a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and
paper but add to the general solemnity of colour. There seems to be
something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow
thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor
artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all
refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much as the
poet, though they have not the same power of expression. The sparrow
upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary
load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of
all life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires
of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling
amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary
display within and without their establishments; if our streets were
not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying
purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of
winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which
the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are
more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insects
produced by heat, and pass without it.

In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert itself,
feebly and more feebly.

Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any
means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a
definite truth. When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of
ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away
entirely.

Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of
his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and when
he travelled took her with him. There were times when she would be
alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his
business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.

"Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come out
some day and spend the evening with us."

"Who is he?" asked Carrie doubtfully.

"Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."

"What's that?" said Carrie.

"The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place."

Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,
what her attitude would be.

"That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't know
anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now."

There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest
sensibilities.

"Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
promises he had made.

"Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal of
mine closed up."

He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow or
other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.

"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll do it."

Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to her
conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, things would be
righted. Her actions would be justified. She really was not enamoured of
Drouet. She was more clever than he. In a dim way, she was beginning to
see where he lacked. If it had not been for this, if she had not been
able to measure and judge him in a way, she would have been worse off
than she was. She would have adored him. She would have been utterly
wretched in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his
interest, of being swept away and left without an anchorage. As it
was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him
completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. She was not exactly
sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.

When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet
in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women which every
member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was not overbold.
His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those birds of
fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who
visited his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to
prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a pretty woman of any
refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest incentive. He
was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression that he wished to be of
service only--to do something which would make the lady more pleased.

Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the
candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which
Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too
assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art
of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced and
possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie he found a woman who
was all of the latter, but none of the former. He was lucky in the fact
that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were. A few years later,
with a little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had
not been able to approach Carrie at all.

"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling at
Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play."

Drouet had not thought of that.

"So we ought," he observed readily.

"Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.

"It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do very well
in a few weeks."

He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes were
particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood out with
that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The vest was of
a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round mother-of-pearl
buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of silken threads, not loud,
not inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly
as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the
material. Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a
dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not help feeling
that there was a distinction in favour of the soft leather, where all
else was so rich. She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They
were things which would naturally flow from the situation. She was used
to Drouet's appearance.

"Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood, after
a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in avoiding
everything that would suggest that he knew anything of Carrie's past. He
kept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself to those
things which did not concern individuals at all. By his manner, he put
Carrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her.
He pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.

"I don't know how to play," said Carrie.

"Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to Drouet
most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can show you."

By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There was
something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be there.
Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave him more
respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light, under
Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably.

"Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder very
deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment. "That's rather
good," he said.

"You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You take
my advice."

"Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I won't
stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp."

"No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win?"

Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The former
took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy himself.
Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.

"There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving
Carrie a chance to take a trick. "I count that clever playing for a
beginner."

The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was
as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.

He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild light in
his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and kindness.
He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it with one of
innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in
the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was doing a great
deal.

"It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something," he said
after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his
coat. "Let's play for dimes."

"All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills.

Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces.
"Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little stack.

"Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's bad."

"No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never play for more than that, you
will go to Heaven."

"Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until you see
what becomes of the money."

Drouet smiled.

"If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is."

Drouet laughed loud.

There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the
insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.

"When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet.

"On Wednesday," he replied.

"It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn't
it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.

"She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.

"You must both go with me to the theatre before you go."

"Certainly," said Drouet. "Eh, Carrie?"

"I'd like it ever so much," she replied.

Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced in
her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put
them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he
served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.

"Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his eyes,
"you must be ready at 7.30. I'll come and get you."

They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its red
lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.

"Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship, "when you
leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. It will
break up her loneliness."

"Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.

"You're so kind," observed Carrie.

"Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do as much
for me."

He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed. She
had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was equally
pleased.

"There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to their
cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too."

"He seems to be," said Carrie.

 Very early the next morning Minnie awakes to find Carrie's note. Minnie is severely upset because she knows what ill fortune might befall a young girl alone in the city. Hanson is not the least upset by Carrie's departure; he is probably glad to be rid of her. Already Carrie's life has changed significantly, for even while the Hansons are discussing her departure, she is sound asleep in a furnished room of her own in another part of the city. When Drouet calls to take her out to breakfast, she tells him that she is anxious to begin looking for work again. Drouet sweeps away her worrying by telling her not to hurry, to take her time seeing the city and getting "fixed up." The conversation turns to Carrie's new clothes and Drouet's promise to buy her more. With that, her misgivings about leaving the Hansons and her anxiety over what Drouet intends to do with her are cast aside. The couple spend their days together shopping and sightseeing. Carrie gradually begins to realize how pretty she is and begins to feel the thrill of being an attractive well-dressed woman with a gallant escort. In the evenings they visit the theater and dine in the more fashionable restaurants of the city. One evening as Carrie and Drouet are walking to the theater while the rest of the world is hurrying home from work, a pair of eyes meets Carrie's in recognition. The eyes are those of one of the factory girls with whom Carrie used to work: She is poorly dressed in shabby garments. As the two exchange glances, Carrie feels "as if some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came back." Carrie is so startled that she bumps into a pedestrian. Stopping for an after-theater snack, Carrie is not troubled by the lateness of the hour or any household law which will drag her home. The combined influence of the many occurrences of the day makes Carrie relaxed and carefree, once again a victim of the city's hypnotic powers. Drouet walks Carrie to the house where she is staying and, although it is only suggested by Dreiser, it seems safe to assume that he asks Carrie to live with him. While Carrie and Drouet stand on the doorstep, sister Minnie dreams a succession of nightmares. In her several dreams Minnie and Carrie stand together at the brink of a dark precipice and then Carrie slips away and falls out of sight. About a week later Drouet strolls into Fitzgerald and Moy's to invite his friend Hurstwood to spend an evening with him and Carrie. Hurstwood accepts warmly. He is always glad to get away from his family and home life, for there are no bonds of understanding. Although the house is fashionably and opulently appointed, it lacks warmth. His children are irresponsible and snobbish; his wife is a social climber and a bit of a shrew. The Hurstwood household, the narrator concludes, "ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and dryer must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed." Now that Carrie and Drouet have set up housekeeping, Drouet is pleased by his conquest; Carrie is at times full of somber misgivings. Drouet has rented a small furnished apartment in Ogden Place, facing Union Park. Through Carrie's "industry and natural love of order," the place is made very pleasing. Carrie's difficulties, more basic in the recent past, have now become mental ones, "and altogether so turned about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been a new and different individual." In the mirror she sees a pretty face, but when she looks within herself she sees an image composed of her own judgments and those of society that makes her experience a certain moral queasiness. Carrie wavers between these two reflections, wondering which one to embrace. Her conscience, "only an average little conscience," is shaped by the world, her own past life, habit, and convention, all welded together in a confused way. Her conscience bothers her because she failed to live with moral correctness even before she tried. Carrie is in a "winter" mood, full of silent brooding. Nevertheless the secret voice of her conscience grows more and more feeble. Drouet is together with Carrie most of the time, except for sporadic, short business trips. Drouet continually procrastinates about marriage to Carrie, telling her there is a business deal he must close before he can give himself over to thoughts of legal marriage. Carrie seeks marriage, for that would salve her conscience and justify her actions of late. Carrie herself knows that she feels no special love for Drouet, but she thinks that marriage would be insurance against losing his affection and generosity. Hurstwood arrives and deports himself with a grace and polish that the young Drouet lacks. Accustomed to pleasing men in his work, Hurstwood is even more tactful and attentive to pretty women in his desire to please them and be of service. His conservative but rich apparel further contrasts him to Drouet. Carrie compares little details, such as the dull shine of Hurstwood's black calf shoes with Drouet's shiny patent leather shoes, and she favors the soft rich leather. The three play euchre, a card game popular at the time. Hurstwood behaves so deferentially and warmly that even Drouet feels closer to him than ever before. In Carrie's presence Hurstwood replaces his everyday "shifty, clever gleam" of the eyes with geniality and kindness and innocence. Hurstwood contrives the game so that Carrie wins all the dimes that they have been playing for. He invites them to go to the theater with him before Drouet's impending trip. Hurstwood reveals his "magnanimity" by offering to visit Carrie when Drouet is out of town and Carrie and Drouet remark how kind he is. After a snack and a bottle of wine, Hurstwood leaves the young couple nearly dazed by his charm.

