Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

as a business suit. The low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates known as “cat’s-eyes.” His fingers bore several rings—one, the ever-enduring heavy seal—and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. Fun fact: The Elks were segregated until as late as 1985, and they did not accept women until the mid 1990’s. They still don’t allow atheists. The whole suit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes, highly polished, and the gray fedora hat. He was, for the order of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first glance.

      Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put down some of the most striking characteristics of his most successful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were the first essential, the things without which he was nothing. A strong physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. A mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. His method was always simple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet with a young woman once and he would approach her with an air of kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading, which would result in most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If she showed any tendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie, or if she “took up” with him at all, to call her by her first name. If he visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over the counter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusive circles, on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. If some seemingly vulnerable object appeared he was all attention—to pass the compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car, carrying her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the hope of being able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, a footstool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things which he could do. If, when she reached her destination he did not alight and attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation, he had signally failed. It’s tough being a white dude at the turn of the century. All that attending to baggage and shit. Those bitches heard of scoliosis or what?

      A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. There is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man’s apparel which somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on the way downward he will get no glance from her. There is another line at which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line the individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of her shoes.

      “Let’s see,” he went on, “I know quite a number of people in your town. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man.”

      “Oh, do you?” she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their show windows had cost her.

      At last he had a clue to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.

      “If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you relatives?”

      “I am going to visit my sister,” she explained.

      “You want to see Lincoln Park,” he said, “and Michigan Boulevard. They are putting up great buildings there. It’s a second New York—great. Poor Chicago. Playing second fiddle, even then. It’s your own fault, really. Who wants that much fucking crust on their pizza? So much to see—theatres, crowds, fine houses—oh, you’ll like that.”

      There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Again with “her fancy.” He may be referring to her psyche. Or her self-esteem. But I think Dreiser honestly thought that was the medical term for “ovaries.” Her insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected her. She realized that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth. There was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual with his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight.

      “You will be in Chicago some little time, won’t you?” he observed at one turn of the now easy conversation.

      “I don’t know,” said Carrie vaguely—a flash vision of the possibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind. Oh, god. Suddenly reminded of Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big’s first meeting. Yes, I watched that show, and no, you can’t judge me. It’s godawful, and I’ve seen every episode and both fucking movies.

      “Several weeks, anyhow,” he said, looking steadily into her eyes.

      There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He recognized the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and beauty in her. She realized that she was of interest to him from the one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the many little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion—had she ever had one—would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily. I don’t blame her. Eye contact is a bitch. That’s why I’m all about neck contact. Nothing sexual there, amiright?

      “Why do you ask?” she said.

      “Well, I’m going to be there several weeks. I’m going to study stock at our place and get new samples. I might show you ‘round.”

      “I don’t know whether you can or not. I mean I don’t know whether I can. I shall be living with my sister, and—”

      “Well, if she minds, we’ll fix that.” He took out his pencil and a little pocket notebook as if it were all settled. “What is your address there?”

      She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.

      He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. Subtle. Really subtle. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the center. That universe’s name? The Douchenozzle Nebula. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.

      He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett, Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.

      “That’s me,” he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his name. “It’s pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father’s side.” She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter from a bunch in his coat pocket. “This is the house I travel for,” he went on, pointing to a picture on it, “corner of State and Lake.” There was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected with such a place, and he made her feel that way.

      “What is your address?” he began again, fixing his pencil to write.

      She looked at his hand.

      “Carrie Meeber,” she said slowly. “Three hundred and fifty-four West Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson.”

      He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. “You’ll be at home if I come around Monday night?” he said.

      “I think so,” she answered.

      How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible