The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her. She took to him fast. He didn’t even have to buy her a jacket? Sister Carrie, you better watch your ass. This isn’t how it works in the suburbs.
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.” I’m still not sure if Dreiser is just shit at writing dialogue or Sister Carrie is supposed to be a bit of a dope when it comes to speaking.
“No,” said Drouet, “only fun. If you never play for more than that, you will go to Heaven.”
“Don’t you moralize,” 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 humor of it. A woman understanding jokes? By God, it must be obvious then.
“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. He’s starting to give off more of an uncle vibe, but Sister Carrie seems to be into that shit. After all, Drouet wooed her by claiming to be her brother. She’s obviously a big Flowers in the Attic fangirl. 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. What a sap. The bastard is practically begging to be cuckolded. Dreiser, please tell me there’s a plot twist where they all agree to be swingers together.
“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 cozy chamber. “A good friend of mine, too.”
“He seems to be,” said Carrie.
THE PERSUASION OF FASHION—FEELING GUARDS O’ER ITS OWN
Carrie was an apt student of fortune’s ways—of fortune’s superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not so afflicted; and on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed. Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. “Dear child,” said the flouncy bustle. “I give you the bonkadonk you white girls have always dreamed of. Shan’t our union be a permanent one? With me, may there always be junk in thy trunk. The voice of the so-called inanimate! Who shall translate for us the language of the stones?
“My dear,” said the lace collar she secured from Partridge’s, “I fit you beautifully; don’t give me up.” This has gone beyond a cute, girly quirk to a fucking psychological affliction. If homegirl is hearing the voice of Jesus in a petticoat, she needs some goddam help.
“Ah, such little feet,” said the leather of the soft new shoes; “how effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid.”
Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she would not give them up. “Put on the old clothes—that torn pair of shoes,” was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance?—be old-clothed and poor-appearing?—never! I have to side with Sister Carrie on this one. Who wants to go back to a shoe factory when you can sell your soul and live like Warren Buffet? True, she’s sending her gender back a couple of centuries, but a fucking shoe factory? I’d rather sleep on wood chips.
Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we desire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the circumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a habit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. In my Lifetime remake, I think I’d actually cast Beyonce as Sister Carrie. That bitch would not put up with her man ogling hoodrats in front of her. Plus the movie would have badass dance sequences. He had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge—not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw how they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper. He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him. Sister Carrie needs to keep that creep on a leash. He may be her sugar daddy but he went from giving off weird brotherly vibes to acting like a straight-up child. Once he starts begging for that adult baby shit in the bedroom, the bitch better run. He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this, their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.
“Did you see that woman who went by just now?” he said to Carrie on the first day they took a walk together. “Fine stepper, wasn’t she?”
Carrie looked, and observed