Sister Carrie Chapter 5
CHAPTER V

A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER: THE USE OF A NAME


Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had
laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating
around having what he considered a gay time. On this particular evening
he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which occupied
a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visited the resort
of Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the imposing Federal
Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass of
plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which he lighted.
This to him represented in part high life--a fair sample of what the
whole must be.

Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He only
craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to him
a part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble walls and floor,
its profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and, above
all, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional men, seemed
to him the proper place for a successful man to go. He loved fine
clothes, good eating, and particularly the company and acquaintanceship
of successful men. When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to
him to know that Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to this same place,
or that Henry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only
a few tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction,
for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some rich
young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz of
popular commonplace conversation.
"That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of these gentlemen
among themselves, particularly among those who had not yet reached, but
hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine here lavishly
represented.

"You don't say so," would be the reply.

"Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the Grand Opera
House."

When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straighten
himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had any
vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this stirred it.
He would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some day. As it was,
he could eat where _they_ did.

His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was another
yard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon from a
Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented with a blaze
of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The floors were of
brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of rich, dark, polished
wood, which reflected the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gave
the place a very sumptuous appearance. The long bar was a blaze of
lights, polished wood-work, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancy
bottles. It was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy wines,
and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country.
At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of Fitzgerald
and Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known
man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly
under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and a
solid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes,
his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his
importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being some
one worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit the
Adams Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar.

Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewd and
clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good impression.
His managerial position was fairly important--a kind of stewardship
which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had risen by
perseverance and industry, through long years of service, from the
position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his present altitude.
He had a little office in the place, set off in polished cherry and
grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather simple
accounts of the place--supplies ordered and needed. The chief executive
and financial functions devolved upon the owners--Messrs. Fitzgerald and
Moy--and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in.

For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits
of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a
striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold,
which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and
engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a "Well, old
fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run
of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to
do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship,
which improved from the "How do you do?" addressed to the
fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attachés, who, by long
frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the "Why,
old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those noted or rich
individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was a
class, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he
could not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was
professionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying
them the deference which would win their good feeling without in the
least compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the last
place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet
remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of
good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converse
longest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time once
in a while--to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting
entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, had
his wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house on
the North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptable
individual of our great American upper class--the first grade below the
luxuriously rich.
Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy appearance
pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling salesman--and not
one of many years at that--but the firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Company
was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood knew
Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, in
company with several others, when the conversation was general. Drouet
had what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, and
could tell a good story when the occasion required. He could talk races
with Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning himself and his
experiences with women, and report the state of trade in the cities
which he visited, and so managed to make himself almost invariably
agreeable. To-night he was particularly so, since his report to the
company had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had been
satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.

"Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that
evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded.

Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the
bar.

"Oh, all right."

"I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?"

"Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip."

"Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which
half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "What
are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and
tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.

"Old Pepper," said Drouet.

"A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood.

"How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood.

"Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul."

"George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last
week."

"Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? We had
quite a time there together."

The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and
they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to
within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking
the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.

"What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him
around here in two weeks."

"Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet. "Say, he's a gouty old boy!"

"Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?"

"Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet. "He won't live much longer. Barely
comes down to the office now."

"Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood.

"Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.

"I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the other
members all there."

"No, he can't injure that any, I guess."

Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the
light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable
distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.

To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of
mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an
anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the moths,
in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Such
conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the
scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers would
choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that
politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save
formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be
justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent
these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, the
fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub
elbows, must be explained upon some grounds. It must be that a strange
bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious social
institution or it would not be.

Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by his
desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here dropped
in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, the
company, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might take it,
after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things which
they satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No evil could come
out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. The worst
effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the
material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly
splendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the
fault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind.
That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the
more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything
save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove the
element so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there would
not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which would
remain. The pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are
looked upon is proof of this assertion.

Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy
company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless,
wandering mental action which it represents--the love of light and show
and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal
stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweeping
night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering
night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of
pleasure.

"See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a
gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,
his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.

"No, where?" said Drouet.

"There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye,
"the man with the silk hat."

"Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?"

"That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist."

Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.

"Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said Drouet.

"Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, all right,"
and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.

"I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet.

"Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may be something to
it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the way," he added,
"are you going anywhere to-night?"

"'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of
the time.

"Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and he
drew out his watch.

The crowd was already thinning out considerably--some bound for the
theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all
the pleasures--for the type of man there represented, at least--the
ladies.

"Yes, I will," said Drouet.

"Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you," said
Hurstwood.

"Sure," said Drouet, elated.

"You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added Hurstwood.

"Not a thing."

"Well, come round, then."

"I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked
Drouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call on
her before I go away."

"Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.

"Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet
confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.

"Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood.

"That's right," said Drouet, going out.

Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of
places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow
lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her
unfolding fate.