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_ 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. _
Read next: CHAPTER II WHAT POVERTY THREATENED--OF GRANITE AND BRASS
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