Chapter I

by Theodore Dreiser

　　THE MAGNET ATTRACTING--A WAIF AMID FORCESWhen Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, hertotal outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitationalligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and ayellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap ofpaper with her sister's address in Van Buren Street, and fourdollars in money. It was in August, 1889. She was eighteenyears of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions ofignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret at partingcharacterised her thoughts, it was certainly not for advantagesnow being given up. A gush of tears at her mother's farewellkiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the flourmill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as thefamiliar green environs of the village passed in review, and thethreads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home wereirretrievably broken.To be sure there was always the next station, where one mightdescend and return. There was the great city, bound more closelyby these very trains which came up daily. Columbia City was notso very far away, even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is afew hours--a few hundred miles? She looked at the little slipbearing her sister's address and wondered. She gazed at thegreen landscape, now passing in swift review, until her swifterthoughts replaced its impression with vague conjectures of whatChicago might be.When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of twothings. Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better,or she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue andbecomes worse. Of an intermediate balance, under thecircumstances, there is no possibility. The city has its cunningwiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more humantempter. There are large forces which allure with all thesoulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human.The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as thepersuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half theundoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplishedby forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar of life, avast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses inequivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to whispercautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these thingsbreathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are,their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, thenperverts the simpler human perceptions.Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionatelytermed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in itspower of observation and analysis. Self-interest with her washigh, but not strong. It was, nevertheless, her guidingcharacteristic. Warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with theinsipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figurepromising eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certainnative intelligence, she was a fair example of the middleAmerican class--two generations removed from the emigrant. Bookswere beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book. In theintuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely tossher head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. Thefeet, though small, were set flatly. And yet she was interestedin her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life,ambitious to gain in material things. A half-equipped littleknight she was, venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city anddreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, whichshould make it prey and subject--the proper penitent, grovellingat a woman's slipper."That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest littleresorts in Wisconsin.""Is it?" she answered nervously.The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time shehad been conscious of a man behind. She felt him observing hermass of hair. He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuitionshe felt a certain interest growing in that quarter. Hermaidenly reserve, and a certain sense of what was conventionalunder the circumstances, called her to forestall and deny thisfamiliarity, but the daring and magnetism of the individual, bornof past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. She answered.He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat andproceeded to make himself volubly agreeable."Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels areswell. You are not familiar with this part of the country, areyou?""Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at ColumbiaCity. 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 theside of her eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, agrey fedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, theinstincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly inher brain."I didn't say that," she said."Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed airof mistake, "I thought you did."Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturinghouse--a class which at that time was first being dubbed by theslang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of astill newer term, which had sprung into general use amongAmericans in 1880, and which concisely expressed the thought ofone whose dress or manners are calculated to elicit theadmiration of susceptible young women--a "masher." His suit wasof a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time,but since become familiar as a business suit. The low crotch ofthe vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes.From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the samepattern, fastened with large, gold plate buttons, set with thecommon yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes." His fingers boreseveral rings--one, the ever-enduring heavy seal--and from hisvest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was suspendedthe secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole suit wasrather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tanshoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for theorder of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he hadto recommend him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, inthis, her first glance.Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me putdown some of the most striking characteristics of his mostsuccessful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were thefirst essential, the things without which he was nothing. Astrong physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for thefeminine, was the next. A mind free of any consideration of theproblems or forces of the world and actuated not by greed, but aninsatiable love of variable pleasure. His method was alwayssimple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, byan intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet witha young woman once and he would approach her with an air ofkindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading, which would resultin most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If she showed anytendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie, or ifshe "took up" with him at all, to call her by her first name. Ifhe visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly overthe counter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusivecircles, on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. Ifsome seemingly vulnerable object appeared he was all attention--to pass the compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlorcar, carrying her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next herwith the hope of being able to court her to her destination.Pillows, books, a footstool, the shade lowered; all these figuredin the things which he could do. If, when she reached herdestination he did not alight and attend her baggage for her, itwas 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 whollycomprehends. There is an indescribably faint line in the matterof man's apparel which somehow divides for her those who areworth glancing at and those who are not. Once an individual haspassed this faint line on the way downward he will get no glancefrom her. There is another line at which the dress of a man willcause her to study her own. This line the individual at her elbownow 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 yourtown. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man.""Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longingstheir 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 ofsales of clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements ofthat city."If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have yourelatives?""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 NewYork--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. Herinsignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintlyaffected her. She realised that hers was not to be a round ofpleasure, and yet there was something promising in all thematerial prospect he set forth. There was something satisfactoryin the attention of this individual with his good clothes. Shecould not help smiling as he told her of some popular actress ofwhom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet attention ofthis sort had its weight."You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observedat one turn of the now easy conversation."I don't know," said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of thepossibility 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 forfascination and beauty in her. She realised that she was ofinterest to him from the one standpoint which a woman bothdelights in and fears. Her manner was simple, though for the veryreason that she had not yet learned the many little affectationswith which women conceal their true feelings. Some things shedid appeared bold. A clever companion--had she ever had one--would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes sosteadily."Why do you ask?" she said."Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to studystock 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 knowwhether I can. I shall be living with my sister, and----""Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil anda little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What isyour address there?"She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. Itwas filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll ofgreenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never beencarried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experiencedtraveller, a brisk man of the world, had never come within suchclose range before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smartnew suit, and the air with which he did things, built up for hera dim world of fortune, of which he was the centre. It disposedher 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 touchinghis name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, onmy father's side."She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out aletter from a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house Itravel for," he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner ofState and Lake." There was pride in his voice. He felt that itwas something to be connected with such a place, and he made herfeel that way."What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil towrite.She looked at his hand."Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-fourWest Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'llbe 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 thevolumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chainingtogether great inaudible feelings and purposes. Here were thesetwo, bandying little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards,and both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelingswere. Neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of themind of the other. He could not tell how his luring succeeded.She could not realise that she was drifting, until he secured heraddress. Now she felt that she had yielded something--he, thathe had gained a victory. Already they felt that they weresomehow associated. Already he took control in directing theconversation. 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, openprairie they could see lines of telegraph poles stalking acrossthe fields toward the great city. Far away were indications ofsuburban towns, some big smokestacks towering high in the air.Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in theopen fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of theapproaching army of homes.To the child, the genius with imagination, or the whollyuntravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is awonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening--that mysticperiod between the glare and gloom of the world when life ischanging from one sphere or condition to another. Ah, thepromise of the night. What does it not hold for the weary! Whatold illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the soulof the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free. I shall be inthe ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, thelighted chamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, thehalls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song--theseare mine in the night." Though all humanity be still enclosed inthe shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. Thedullest feel something which they may not always express ordescribe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affectedby her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew someinterest in the city and pointed out its marvels."This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the ChicagoRiver," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with thehuge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-postedbanks. 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 awonder. You'll find lots to see here."She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by akind 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 littlesick as her heart beat so fast. She half closed her eyes andtried to think it was nothing, that Columbia City was only alittle way off."Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door.They were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with theclatter and clang of life. She began to gather up her poorlittle grip and closed her hand firmly upon her purse. Drouetarose, kicked his legs to straighten his trousers, and seized hisclean yellow grip."I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Letme carry your grip.""Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather youwouldn't be with me when I meet my sister.""All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, incase she isn't here, and take you out there safely.""You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of suchattention in her strange situation."Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. Theywere under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps werealready beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about andthe train moving at a snail's pace. The people in the car wereall 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. Alean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on theplatform and hurried forward."Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was embrace ofwelcome.Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once.Amid all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold realitytaking her by the hand. No world of light and merriment. Noround of amusement. Her sister carried with her most of thegrimness 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, towardthe gate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stoodDrouet. He was looking back. When he saw that she saw him andwas safe with her sister he turned to go, sending back the shadowof a smile. Only Carrie saw it. She felt something lost to herwhen he moved away. When he disappeared she felt his absencethoroughly. With her sister she was much alone, a lone figure ina tossing, thoughtless sea.