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. By now, this motherfucker is probably sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher to poor Sister Carrie. 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. Jesus fucking Christ. If there’s one thing I absolutely hate it’s descriptions of dreams. No one gives a fuck about the inner workings of your subconscious! I skip over parts like this on principle, which is probably why I finished In Search of Lost Time in an afternoon.
“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 demeanor of a gentleman, said: “Certainly; glad to.” Any time two scumbags get together, my quills start to itch. It’s like I get mites just by association.
“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.” Sister Carrie better run now. I don’t know where Dreiser is hiding the gun in this story, but it’s bound to come out soon. There’s a reason this story is set in gangster-land Chicago. I apologize. I tend to get emotionally invested in this shit.
CONVENTION’S OWN TINDER-BOX—THE EYE THAT IS GREEN
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. What is this, fucking Downton Abbey? Forget that douche Drouet. This is where the real money is at. I’m not encouraging Sister Carrie to be a homewrecker, but for the sake of the plot, this would be the good shit. 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.” You know you’re rich when you don’t know where the fuck your art came from. This was probably dug up personally by Indiana Jones, and old Hurstwood just tossed it in the foyer (pronounced to rhyme with “Kanye”) with the rest.
