Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

of observation and that sense, so rich in every woman—intuition.

      She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of the rooms were discordantly papered. The floors were covered with matting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet. One could see that the furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together quality sold by the installment houses.

      She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began to cry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his reading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came out here. He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up in his offspring. Goddammit. Way to ruin the beefcake for me, Dreiser. You’ll never see a caring hedgehog father, let me tell you. They’re terrified of children and of hedgehog mothers, who will occasionally attack the father if he comes too close to her kin. Or as she sometimes calls it, dinner.

      “Now, now,” he said, walking. “There, there,” and there was a certain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice.

      “You’ll want to see the city first, won’t you?” said Minnie, when they were eating. “Well, we’ll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park.”

      Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to be thinking of something else.

      “Well,” she said, “I think I’ll look around tomorrow. I’ve got Friday and Saturday, and it won’t be any trouble. Which way is the business part?”

      Minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the conversation to himself.

      “It’s that way,” he said, pointing east. “That’s east.” Then he went off into the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the lay of Chicago. “You’d better look in those big manufacturing houses along Franklin Street and just the other side of the river,” he concluded. “Lots of girls work there. You could get home easy, too. It isn’t very far.”

      Carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighborhood. The latter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it, while Hanson concerned himself with the baby. Finally he jumped up and handed the child to his wife.

      “I’ve got to get up early in the morning, so I’ll go to bed,” and off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall, for the night.

      “He works way down at the stockyards,” explained Minnie, “so he’s got to get up at half-past five.”

      “What time do you get up to get breakfast?” asked Carrie.

      “At about twenty minutes of five.”

      Together they finished the labor of the day, Carrie washing the dishes while Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. Minnie’s manner was one of trained industry, and Carrie could see that it was a steady round of toil with her.

      She began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to be abandoned. He could not come here. She read from the manner of Hanson, in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the flat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of toil. I know she’s only 18 and wants to live a gangsta’s life of bitches and hos, but first she needs to calm the fuck down. I thought everyone born at this time was instilled with an acceptance that life would be nothing but babies and ebola. Not our little ingrate Carrie. If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his paper, if he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, what would they expect of her? She saw that she would first need to get work and establish herself on a paying basis before she could think of having company of any sort. Her little flirtation with Drouet seemed now an extraordinary thing.

      “No,” she said to herself, “he can’t come here.”

      She asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in the dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got out Drouet’s card and wrote him.

      “I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait until you hear from me again. My sister’s place is so small.”

      She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She wanted to make some reference to their relations upon the train, but was too timid. She concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crude way, then puzzled over the formality of signing her name, and finally decided upon the severe, winding up with a “Very truly,” which she subsequently changed to “Sincerely.” Keep in mind this was before white-out, much less the Delete key. So old Drouet could see the entire process of her shitting bricks. Back then, neurosis wasn’t cute. It usually meant you were a witch. She sealed and addressed the letter, and going in the front room, the alcove of which contained her bed, drew the one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and sat looking out upon the night and streets in silent wonder. Finally, wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for the night and went to bed.

      When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Half the fucking day is gone! That’s some serious slacking by 19th-century standards. Her sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room, sewing. She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfast for herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which way to look. The latter had changed considerably since Carrie had seen her. She was now a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of life colored by her husband’s, and fast hardening into narrower conceptions of pleasure and duty than had ever been hers in a thoroughly circumscribed youth. She had invited Carrie, not because she longed for her presence, but because the latter was dissatisfied at home, and could probably get work and pay her board here. She was pleased to see her in a way but reflected her husband’s point of view in the matter of work. Anything was good enough so long as it paid—say, five dollars a week to begin with. A shop girl was the destiny prefigured for the newcomer. Now things are taking an Eliza Doolittle turn, minus the guttersnipe accent. I’m rooting for homegirl, but we all know she’s not going to settle for being a shop girl. And yeah, someone needs to get all Henry Higgins on her uncultured ass. She would get in one of the great shops and do well enough until—well, until something happened. Neither of them knew exactly what. They did not figure on promotion. They did not exactly count on marriage. Things would go on, though, in a dim kind of way until the better thing would eventuate, and Carrie would be rewarded for coming and toiling in the city. It was under such auspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look for work.

      Before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the sphere in which her future was to lie. In 1889 Chicago had the peculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresome pilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible. Its many and growing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame, which made of it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all quarters, the hopeful and the hopeless—those who had their fortune yet to make and those whose fortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climax elsewhere. It was a city of over 500,000, with the ambition, the daring, the activity of a metropolis of a million. Its streets and houses were already scattered over an area of seventy-five square miles. Its population was not so much thriving upon established commerce as upon the industries which prepared for the arrival of others. The sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of new structures was everywhere heard. Dreiser just wanted to pop in and remind you that he does indeed have a penis. He’s going to do this from time to time. Get ready. Great industries were moving in. The huge railroad corporations which had long before recognized the prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land for transfer and shipping purposes. Streetcar lines had been extended far out into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth. The city had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regions where, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone—a pioneer of the populous ways to be. Sewers! You hear that, Upton Sinclair? Chicago was fucking fancy, so keep your muckraking to yourself and let our girl live out her pre-health code regulated dreams. There were regions open to the sweeping winds and rain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long, blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow board walks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at far intervals, eventually ending on the open prairie.

      In