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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.
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