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.” Anyone who’s described as “nice” is either boring as fuck or incredibly evil. I’m going to go with the former on this one. But perhaps Sister Carrie will bring out the latter. God willing.
“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.” Oh, hell no. Sister Carrie, if you have the slightest sense of balls, you will put a stop to this.
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.” So it goes. My hedgehog senses are tingling, and it’s telling me that the bitch won’t see a ring any time soon. And you know what? I kind of pity her. Fuck you, Dreiser, for making me side with your waif protagonist. 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 enamored of Drouet. She was more clever than he. In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. Took her long enough. What was it? The constant preening of his roll of greenbacks or his referring to her as a “conquest”? Either way, he’s what we call in the hedgehog world, “a useless dickhead.” 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 endeavoring to prove agreeable to someone 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. Here comes Sister Carrie’s next man, and a married one at that. I love a good soap opera, but let’s hope the third man doesn’t end up being the president or some shit. Homegirl can social climb, but not that fast.
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. Thank God she’s too dumb to see through him, amiright Dreiser? 1890 is practically writing the book for him. 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. Nothing says “subtle” like a plaid vest and a shiny cravat. The mother-of-pearl buttons add just the right touch of douche. 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 favor 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. This should be an improvement over the fact that she seemed to “tumble into his lap.” Perhaps one day, he may even respect her enough to stop thinking of her as property. NOT! 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.” Nice foreshadowing, Dreiser. Now if you want to return to my good graces, have both of the men castrated and forced to protect Sister Carrie as her loyal eunuchs. Now that’s some good fucking fiction.
“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