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Sister Carrie Broché – 25 février 2010

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Chapter One


WHEN CAROLINE Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in Van Buren Street, and four dollars in money. It was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret at parting characterized her thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages now being given up. A gush of tears at her mother's farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the flour mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as the familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and the threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home were irretrievably broken.

To be sure there was always the next station, where one might descend and return. There was the great city, bound more closely by these very trains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very far away, even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours—a few hundred miles? She looked at the little slip bearing her sister's address and wondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now passing in swift review, until her swifter thoughts replaced its impression with vague conjectures of what Chicago might be.

When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forces which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a counselor at hand to whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breathe into the unguarded ear? Unrecognized for what they are, their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the simpler human perceptions.

Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but not strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of the middle American class—two generations removed from the emigrant. Books were beyond her interest—knowledge a sealed book. In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet, though small, were set flatly.

And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoiter the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and subject—the proper penitent, groveling at a woman's slipper.

"That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little resorts in Wisconsin."

"Is it?" she answered nervously.

The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had been conscious of a man behind.

She felt him observing her mass of hair. He had been fidgeting, and with natural intuition she felt a certain interest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and a certain sense of what was conventional under the circumstances, called her to forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of the individual, born of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. She answered.

He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.

"Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are swell. You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?"

"Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City. I have never been through here, though."

"And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed.

All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side of her eye. Flush, colorful cheeks, a light moustache, a gray fedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain.

"I didn't say that," she said.

"Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of mistake, "I thought you did."

Here was a type of the traveling canvasser for a manufacturing house—a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a still newer term, which had sprung into general use among Americans in 1880, and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are calculated to elicit the admiration of susceptible young women—a "masher." His suit was of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time, but since become familiar as a business suit. The low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes." His fingers bore several rings—one, the ever-enduring heavy seal—and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole suit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes, highly polished, and the gray fedora hat. He was, for the order of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first glance.

Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put down some of the most striking characteristics of his most successful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were the first essential, the things without which he was nothing. A strong physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. A mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. His method was always simple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet with a young woman once and he would approach her with an air of kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading, which would result in most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If she showed any tendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie, or if she "took up" with him at all, to call her by her first name. If he visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over the counter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusive circles, on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. If some seemingly vulnerable object appeared he was all attention—to pass the compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car, carrying her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the hope of being able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, a footstool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things which he could do. If, when she reached her destination he did not alight and attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation, he had signally failed.

A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. There is an indescribably faint line in the matter of a man's apparel which somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on the way downward he will get no glance from her. There is another line at which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line the individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of her shoes.

"Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your town. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."

"Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their show windows had cost her.
At last he had a clue to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.

"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you relatives?"

"I am going to visit my sister," she explained.

"You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard. They are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York—great. So much to see—theaters, crowds, fine houses—oh, you'll like that."

There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected her. She realized that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth. There was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual with his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight.

"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at one turn of the now easy conversation.

"I don't know," said Carrie vaguely—a flash vision of the possibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind.

"Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes.

There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He recognized the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and beauty in her. She realized that she was of interest to him from the one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the many little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion—had she ever had one—would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily.

"Why do you ask?" she said.

"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock at our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round."

"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether I can. I shall be living with my sister, and—"

"Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and a little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your address there?"

She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.

He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveler, a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the center. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.

He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett, Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.

"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father's side."

She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter from a bunch in his coat pocket.

"This is the house I travel for," he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake." There was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected with such a place, and he made her feel that way.

"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.

She looked at his hand.

"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."

He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be at home if I come around Monday night?" he said.

"I think so," she answered.

How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how his luring succeeded. She could not realize that she was drifting, until he secured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded something—he, that he had gained a victory. Already they felt that they were somehow associated. Already he took control in directing the conversation. His words were easy. Her manner was relaxed.

They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains flashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they could see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward the great city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some big smoke-stacks towering high in the air.

Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the open fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army of homes.

To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untraveled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening—that mystic period between the glare and gloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for the weary! --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Poche .

Revue de presse

Theodore Dreiser is a man who, with the passage of time, is bound to loom larger and larger in the awakening aesthetic consciousness of America. Among all of our prose writers he is one of the few men of whom it may be said that he has . . . never been a trickster. If there is a modern movement in American prose writing, a movement toward greater courage and fidelity to life in writing, Theodore Dreiser is the pioneer and the hero of the movement. --Sherwood Anderson

Such a novel as Sister Carrie stands quite outside the brief traffic of the customary stage. It leaves behind an inescapable impression of bigness, of epic sweep and dignity. It is not a mere story, not a novel in the customary American meaning of the word; it is at once a psalm of life and a criticism of life. . . . [Dreiser's] aim is not merely to tell a tale; his aim is to show the vast ebb and flow of forces which sway and condition human destiny. The thing he seeks to do is to stir, to awaken, to move. One does not arise from such a book as Sister Carrie with a smirk of satisfaction; one leaves it infinitely touched. --H. L. Mencken --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

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Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 699 pages
  • Editeur : Points (25 février 2010)
  • Collection : Points Signatures
  • Langue : Français
  • ISBN-10: 2757816756
  • ISBN-13: 978-2757816752
  • Dimensions du produit: 17,8 x 4,3 x 12 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 3.8 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (6 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 311.081 en Livres (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres)
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Première phrase
When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in Van Buren Street, and four dollars in money. Lire la première page
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6 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par zybine, amateur éclairé TOP 100 COMMENTATEURS le 27 septembre 2009
Format: Broché
Sister Carrie (1900) est le premier roman de Theodore Dreiser et s'est imposé comme un classique aux Etats-Unis où il fonde le genre réaliste (naturaliste, dirions-nous ici) auquel participeront notamment Upton Sinclair ou Sinclair Lewis. L'histoire est simple : Carrie, débarquée à Chicago de son Wisconsin natal, tombe entre les mains d'un représentant de commerce séduisant, Drouet, auquel elle ne tarde pas à préférer un patron de bar, le respectable Hurstwood. Femme entretenue, elle aspire à une carrière artistique qui se concrétisera après qu'elle ait fui à New York avec Hurstwood, qui aura, pour elle, piqué dans la caisse de ses employeurs et conclu un divorce difficile avec sa légitime.
Les critiques insistent généralement sur l'aspect social ou journalistique de Carrie, et notamment sa description de la condition ouvrière à laquelle Carrie doit, quelque temps, adhérer. En réalité, cette dimension est totalement seconde. L'apport sociologique de Carrie tient plutôt à sa remarquable appréhension des questions urbanistiques et d'architecture - ainsi qu'à sa description de la passion de l'argent et de l'ascenseur social dans les classes moyennes américaines du tournant du siècle.
Au plan plus littéraire, Carrie souffre de la comparaison avec ses modèles français (le père Goriot est d'ailleurs lourdement cité lors de la chute d'Hurstwood, Drouet a plus d'un trait commun avec Bel-Ami et Carrie est une Nana dépourvue de vulgarité et de passion). Le roman est trop long (650p), ménage peu de péripéties et offre peu de développements à ses personnages principaux que nous quittons à peu près en l'état où nous les avions découverts. Dieu merci, la déchéance du Goriot américain, Hurstwood, sa progressive plongée dans l'apathie et le déni de soi soutiennent l'intérêt de l'oeuvre.
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11 internautes sur 13 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Ioan le 7 février 2007
Format: Broché
Ce commentaire porte sur l'edition Penguin Books par Alfred Kazin, en VO (americain). Si vous etes assez bon en anglais sans plus (comme moi) vous pouvez lire (et comprendre) le bouquin dans le texte, je trouve l'ecriture abordable.

Au niveau de l'intrigue c'est a la fois original et realiste, et les personnages sont depeints plus vrais que nature. J'ai ete assez pris par le developpement. Si je ne donne pas 5 etoiles c'est que Dreiser n'a pas la force d'un Balzac ou un Dostoievski pour introduire personnages, lieux et faits, donc c'est un peu lent et uniforme. Sister Carrie est son premier roman (1900). Je le trouve mieux que son autre best seller "Une Tragedie Americaine".

Je signale que la "Norton critical edition" de Sister Carrie que vous pouvez en ce moment trouver sur amazon.fr aussi contient, outre le texte, plus d'informations et notamment des articles temoingnant de la reception du bouquin.
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Format: Broché
Cette édition a été préfacée par Douglas Kennedy, et pourtant, mais ce doit être sa Madeleine de Proust. L'écriture est lourde, compassée, lente et plate quant à l'intrigue, c'est une jeune provinciale de 18ans du Wisconsin -sans aucun talent particulier- qui veut sortir de sa condition modeste et qui part pour la ville, Chicago, et qui cherche un travail. Rapidement elle s'aperçoit que "gagner sa vie est difficile" et que sa pauvre paie ne lui permettra jamais d'entrer dans les jolies boutiques de luxe de Chicago. Pas trop farouche, très déterminée, au hasard d'une rencontre un monsieur VRP lui fait la cour et c'est ainsi qu'elle devient une femme entretenue, elle en séduit d'autres, un autre très séduisant, très beau, très très riche, qui abandonne tout femme et enfants pour la jolie et splendide et jeune Carrie et suite à des péripéties se trouve ruiné... et ce pygmalion devient moins beau, moins séduisant et la belle Carrie s'ennuie ce qu'elle veut elle c'est être "connue" "adulée" "applaudie" "vue" : elle aurait été la candidate idéale d'un reality-show. Ce genre d'histoire de femmes du 19ème qui ne travaillaient pas, n'avaient pour tout horizon que la maison, le mari, les enfants m'ennuie, ces femmes qui trainent leur langueur etc style la Dame aux Camélias, ou la fameuse Madame Bovary je n'adhère pas, la traduction est mauvaise, le dernier tiers comprend des phrases entières totalement incompréhensibles. J'ai tenté la version originale en anglais, le texte est lourd, ampoulé... Pas très sympa cette Sister Carrie, très naïve, elle finit par comprendre que l'argent ne fait pas le bonheur. La fin est d'une misérabilisme très 19ème, bien que la même chose existe encore de nos jours sur les trottoirs de NY !Lire la suite ›
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