The Magnet Attracting: A Waif Amid Forces
hen 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 twice and he would
straighten her necktie for her and perhaps address her by her
first name. In the great department stores he was at his ease.
If he caught the attention of some young woman while waiting for the cash boy to come back with his change, he would
find out her name, her favourite flower, where a note would
reach her, and perhaps pursue the delicate task of friendship
until it proved unpromising, when it would be relinquished.
He would do very well with more pretentious women,
though the burden of expense was a slight deterrent. Upon
entering a parlour car, for instance, he would select a chair
next to the most promising bit of femininity and soon enquire if she cared to have the shade lowered. Before the train
cleared the yards he would have the porter bring her a foot
stool. At the next lull in his conversational progress he would
find her something to read, and from then on, by dint of
compliment gently insinuated, personal narrative, exaggeration and service, he would win her tolerance, and, mayhap, regard.
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 lefthand
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 some
thing—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 a perfunctory 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.
back to Works: Sister Carrie
About 
Buy works online
