Theodore Dreiser

Jennie Gerhardt Theodore Dreiser

One morning, in the fall of 1880, a middle-aged woman, accompanied by a young girl of eighteen, presented herself at the clerk's desk of the principal hotel in Columbus, Ohio, and made inquiry as to whether there was anything about the place that she could do. She was of a helpless, fleshy build, with a frank, open countenance and an innocent, diffident manner. Her eyes were large and patient, and in them dwelt such a shadow of distress as only those who have looked sympathetically into the countenances of the distraught and helpless poor know anything about. Any one could see where the daughter behind her got the timidity and shamefacedness which now caused her to stand back and look indifferently away. She was a product of the fancy, the feeling, the innate affection of the untutored but poetic mind of her mother combined with the gravity and poise which were characteristic of her father. Poverty was driving them. Together they presented so appealing a picture of honest necessity that even the clerk was affected. "What is it you would like to do?" he said. "Maybe you have some cleaning or scrubbing," she replied, timidly. "I could wash the floors." The daughter, hearing the statement, turned uneasily, not because it irritated her to work, but because she hated people to guess at the poverty that made it necessary. The clerk, manlike, was affected by the evidence of beauty in distress. The innocent helplessness of the daughter made their lot seem hard indeed. "Wait a moment," he said; and, stepping into a back office, he called the head housekeeper. There was work to be done. The main staircase and parlor hall were unswept because of the absence of the regular scrub-woman. "Is that her daughter with her?" asked the housekeeper, who could see them from where she was standing.