Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

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СКАЧАТЬ pangs from either quarter. One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass.

      “Cad,” said he, catching her, “I believe you’re getting vain.” I know Sister Carrie will inevitably turn into a full-blown diva, and I can’t wait, but I’m going to miss the modest little mouse. A little. She was, after all, the same girl who was once shocked by a poke in the ribs. RIP, you annoying little prude.

      “Nothing of the kind,” she returned, smiling.

      “Well, you’re mighty pretty,” he went on, slipping his arm around her. “Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I’ll take you to the show.”

      “Oh, I’ve promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition tonight,” she returned, apologetically.

      “You did, eh?” he said, studying the situation abstractedly. “I wouldn’t care to go to that myself.”

      “Well, I don’t know,” answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to break her promise in his favor.

      Just then a knock came at their door and the maidservant handed a letter in.

      “He says there’s an answer expected,” she explained.

      “It’s from Hurstwood,” said Drouet, noting the superscription as he tore it open.

      “You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me tonight,” it ran in part. “It’s my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are off.” Joe Jefferson was a popular actor of the era who made his big break by doing blackface at the ripe old age of four. You may think I’m making this shit up, but this was the 1800s. Doctors used vibrators on women to cure “hysteria.” People were still leeched. Shit was crazy.

      “Well, what do you say to this?” asked Drouet, innocently, while Carrie’s mind bubbled with favorable replies.

      “You had better decide, Charlie,” she said, reservedly.

      “I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement upstairs,” said Drouet.

      “Oh, I can,” returned Carrie without thinking.

      Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress. She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to her most

      “Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?” she asked, as she came out with several articles of apparel pending.

      “Sure,” he returned, pleasantly.

      She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was more agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. Hurstwood has already infiltrated the poor girl’s brain. She’s boarding that gravy train at any cost, and I don’t blame her. That asshole Drouet is a level one douche, and if he lived in current day, he most certainly would wear cargo pants and a leather bracelet. She arrayed herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses upstairs.

      “I say,” said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, “we are exceedingly charming this evening.” Carrie fluttered under his approving glance. If you’re “fluttering” in response to another man in front of your fake-husband, you’ve given up all pretenses by now. They might as well just do a wife-swap and get it over with.

      “Now, then,” he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.

      If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification of the old term spick and span.

      “Did you ever see Jefferson?” he questioned, as he leaned toward Carrie in the box.

      “I never did,” she returned.

      “He’s delightful, delightful,” he went on, giving the commonplace rendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he had heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was really hypnotized by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally met, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before experienced. Again with the eyes. You humans need to get your priorities in order. If you want an immediate judge of human character, focus on the tongue. If it’s healthy and robust, great. If it’s limp and purple, they probably have mite mange. She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next glance or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention.

      Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in comparison. Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven into Carrie’s mind that here was the superior man. She instinctively felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the end of the third act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly soul, but otherwise defective. It would take at least a third nipple to label someone as defective, but I like how cutthroat our little Sister Carrie has become. He sank every moment in her estimation by the strong comparison.

      “I have had such a nice time,” said Carrie, when it was all over and they were coming out.

      “Yes, indeed,” added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a battle had been fought and his defenses weakened. He was like the Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest provinces were being wrested from him. Good one, Dreiser, but considering that these days, millions of books are printed in China —including yours —it kind of falls flat. bitches!

      “Well, you have saved me a dreary evening,” returned Hurstwood. “Good-night.”

      He took Carrie’s little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one to the other.

      “I’m so tired,” said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet began to talk.

      “Well, you rest a little while I smoke,” he said, rising, and then he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as it stood.

Chapter 12

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