Chapter I. THE MAGNET ATTRACTING: A WAIF AMID FORCES
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 characterised 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 counsellor at
hand to whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things
breathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised 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 reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some
vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and subject—the
proper penitent, grovelling 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
fidgetting, 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, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey 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 travelling 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 grey 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 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 clew 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—theatres, 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 realised 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 recognised
the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and beauty in her. She
realised 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 traveller, 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 centre. 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 realise 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 smokestacks 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 untravelled, 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! What old illusion of
hope is not here forever repeated! Says the soul of the toiler to itself,
“I shall soon be free. I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry.
The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me. The
theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of
song—these are mine in the night.” Though all humanity be still
enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. The dullest
feel something which they may not always express or describe. It is the lifting
of the burden of toil.
Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her wonder,
so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the city and pointed
out its marvels.
“This is Northwest Chicago,” said Drouet. “This is the
Chicago River,” and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the
huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With a
puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. “Chicago is getting to
be a great town,” he went on. “It’s a wonder. You’ll
find lots to see here.”
She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of terror.
The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a great sea of life
and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but feel a little choked for
breath—a little sick as her heart beat so fast. She half closed her eyes
and tried to think it was nothing, that Columbia City was only a little way
off.
“Chicago! Chicago!” called the brakeman, slamming open the door.
They were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang of
life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her hand firmly
upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten his trousers, and
seized his clean yellow grip.
“I suppose your people will be here to meet you?” he said.
“Let me carry your grip.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’d rather you wouldn’t.
I’d rather you wouldn’t be with me when I meet my sister.”
“All right,” he said in all kindness. “I’ll be near,
though, in case she isn’t here, and take you out there safely.”
“You’re so kind,” said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such
attention in her strange situation.
“Chicago!” called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They
were under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginning
to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train moving at a
snail’s pace. The people in the car were all up and crowding about the
door.
“Well, here we are,” said Drouet, leading the way to the door.
“Good-bye, till I see you Monday.”
“Good-bye,” she answered, taking his proffered hand.
“Remember, I’ll be looking till you find your sister.”
She smiled into his eyes.
They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A lean-faced, rather
commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform and hurried forward.
“Why, Sister Carrie!” she began, and there was embrace of welcome.
Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid all the
maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the hand. No
world of light and merriment. No round of amusement. Her sister carried with
her most of the grimness of shift and toil.
“Why, how are all the folks at home?” she began; “how is
father, and mother?”
Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the gate leading
into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He was looking back. When
he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sister he turned to go, sending
back the shadow of a smile. Only Carrie saw it. She felt something lost to her
when he moved away. When he disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. With
her sister she was much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.
