Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

T >> Theodore Dreiser >> Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35

She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time
she got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she
came, he shone upon her as the morning sun.

"Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"

"Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.

"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?"

Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she
proceeded.

"Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must
get over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?"

"Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."

"I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.

She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration,
but she made him promise not to come around.

"Now, you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly.
"Just remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the
performance worth while. You do that now."

"I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.

"That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember,"
shaking an affectionate finger at her, "your best."

"I will," she answered, looking back.

The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped
along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh,
blessed are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and
are hopeful. And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and
approve.

Chapter XVIII

JUST OVER THE BORDER--A HAIL AND FAREWELL

By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made
itself apparent. He had given the word among his friends--and
they were many and influential--that here was something which
they ought to attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets
by Mr. Quincel, acting for the lodge, had been large. Small
four-line notes had appeared in all of the daily newspapers.
These he had arranged for by the aid of one of his newspaper
friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry McGarren, the managing editor.

"Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter
stood at the bar drinking before wending his belated way
homeward, "you can help the boys out, I guess."

"What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the
opulent manager.

"The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their
own good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know
what I mean--a squib or two saying that it's going to take
place."

"Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George."

At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background.
The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their
little affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked
upon as quite a star for this sort of work.

By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied
like Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured,
flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he
thought of assisting Carrie.

That little student had mastered her part to her own
satisfaction, much as she trembled for her fate when she should
once face the gathered throng, behind the glare of the
footlights. She tried to console herself with the thought that a
score of other persons, men and women, were equally tremulous
concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could not
disassociate the general danger from her own individual
liability. She feared that she would forget her lines, that she
might be unable to master the feeling which she now felt
concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wished
that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled
lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and
gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire
performance.

In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared.
That hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the
director's criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious
and determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as
Carrie at least. A loafing professional had been called in to
assume the role of Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his
kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms which attack the
spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He swashed
about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning his
past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner
that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere
matter of circumstantial evidence.

"It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected
stage voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me.
It's the spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."

Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress
not to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she
must suffer his fictitious love for the evening.

At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been
provided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up
in the morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the
evening by one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at
her part, waiting for the evening to come.

On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her
as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores,
looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched
nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully
anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a
simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of Society.

The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel
and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge,
pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the
eye-lids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery--in short, all
the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable
atmosphere of their own. Since her arrival in the city many
things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner.
This new atmosphere was more friendly. It was wholly unlike the
great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting
her only awe and distant wonder. This took her by the hand
kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for her as
if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the names
upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the
papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere
of carriages, flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here
was an open door to see all of that. She had come upon it as one
who stumbles upon a secret passage and, behold, she was in the
chamber of diamonds and delight!

As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing
the voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there,
noting Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of
preparation, seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving
about and worrying over what the result would be, she could not
help thinking what a delight this would be if it would endure;
how perfect a state, if she could only do well now, and then some
time get a place as a real actress. The thought had taken a
mighty hold upon her. It hummed in her ears as the melody of an
old song.

Outside in the little lobby another scene was begin enacted.
Without the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably
have been comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were
moderately interested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however,
had gone the rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four
boxes had been taken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were
to occupy one. This was quite a card. C. R. Walker, dry-goods
merchant and possessor of at least two hundred thousand dollars,
had taken another; a well-known coal merchant had been induced to
take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the fourth. Among
the latter was Drouet. The people who were now pouring here were
not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general sense.
They were the lights of a certain circle--the circle of small
fortunes and secret order distinctions. These gentlemen Elks
knew the standing of one another. They had regard for the
ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep
a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain
a good mercantile position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a
little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as
perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who
held an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded
friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a
figure. He was more generally known than most others in the same
circle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a
mine of influence and solid financial prosperity.

To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends
directly from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met
Drouet, who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. All
five now joined in an animated conversation concerning the
company present and the general drift of lodge affairs.

"Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper,
where the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were
laughing and talking in the open space back of the seats.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the first
individual recognised.

"Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.

"Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?"

"Yes, indeed," said the manager.

"Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the
friend.

"So it should," said the knowing manager. "I'm glad to see it."

"Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois
made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt
bosom, "how goes it with you?"

"Excellent," said the manager.

"What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer."

"Good-nature," returned the manager. "Like to see the boys, you
know."

"Wife here?"

"She couldn't come to-night. She's not well."

"Sorry to hear it--nothing serious, I hope."

"No, just feeling a little ill."

"I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you
over to St. Joe--" and here the newcomer launched off in a
trivial recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more
friends.

"Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side
politician and lodge member. "My, but I'm glad to see you again;
how are things, anyhow?"

"Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman."

"Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble."

"What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?"

"Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard,
you know."

"I didn't know that," said the manager. "Felt pretty sore, I
suppose, over his defeat."
"Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly.

Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited
began to roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a
great show of finery and much evident feeling of content and
importance.

"Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with
whom he was talking.

"That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about
forty-five.

"And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the
shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a
good show, I'll punch your head."

"You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!"

To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" the
manager replied:

"I don't know. I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his hand
graciously, "For the lodge."

"Lots of boys out, eh?"

"Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment
ago."

It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of
successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of
good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. Look
at him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up,
he was a member of an eminent group--a rounded company of five or
more whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins
bespoke the character of their success. The gentlemen who
brought their wives called him out to shake hands. Seats
clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was
evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the
ambitions of those who greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned
upon, in a way lionised. Through it all one could see the
standing of the man. It was greatness in a way, small as it was.

Chapter XIX

AN HOUR IN ELFLAND--A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD

At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the
make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the
leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon
his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising
strain. Hurstwood ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his
friend Sagar Morrison around to the box.

"Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in
a tone which no one else could hear.

On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the
opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that
Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper.
Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken
Bamberger's part were representing the principal roles in this
scene. The professional, whose name was Patton, had little to
recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present
moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was
stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The
whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely
spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and uncritical
good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that
unrest which is the agony of failure.

Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that
it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable
enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.

After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the
danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly
all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull
in the extreme, when Carrie came in.

One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that
she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage,
saying:

"And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock,"
but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was
positively painful.

"She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.

The manager made no answer.

She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.

"Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill."

It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing.
Drouet fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.

There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a
sense of impending disaster, say, sadly:

"I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb,
'Call a maid by a married name.'"

The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not
get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked
as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more
hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was
now saying her lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from
the stage at the audience. The latter held out silently, hoping
for a general change, of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on
Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He was pouring
determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for
her.

In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in
by the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted
by a conversation between the professional actor and a character
called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who
really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier,
turned messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such
defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour
intended, they were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was
back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief figure. She did not
recover. She wandered through the whole scene between herself
and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the
audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.

"She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the
remark that he was lying for once.

"Better go back and say a word to her."

Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled
around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-
keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her
next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.

"Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous.
Wake up. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What
are you afraid of?"

"I don't know," said Carrie. "I just don't seem to be able to do
it."

She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had
found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.

"Come on," said Drouet. "Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go
on out there now, and do the trick. What do you care?"

Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous
condition.

"Did I do so very bad?"

"Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you
showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night."

Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think
she could to it.

'What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been
studying.

"Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him."

"Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "Put in snap,
that's the thing. Act as if you didn't care."

"Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter.

"Oh, dear," said Carrie.

"Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet. "Come on
now, brace up. I'll watch you from right here."

"Will you?" said Carrie.

"Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid."

The prompter signalled her.

She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially
returned. She thought of Drouet looking.

"Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm
than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had
pleased the director at the rehearsal.

"She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself.

She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was
better. The audience was at least not irritated. The
improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct
observation from her. They were making very fair progress, and
now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less
trying parts at least.

Carrie came off warm and nervous.

"Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?"

"Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You
did that about a thousand per cent. better than you did the
other scene. Now go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em."

"Was it really better?"

"Better, I should say so. What comes next?"

"That ballroom scene."

"Well, you can do that all right," he said.

"I don't know," answered Carrie.

"Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out
there and do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in
the room. If you'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a
hit. Now, what'll you bet? You do it."

The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the
better of his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted
this particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it
in public. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the
occasion.

When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He
began to make her feel as if she had done very well. The old
melancholy of desire began to come back as he talked at her, and
by the time the situation rolled around she was running high in
feeling.

"I think I can do this."

"Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see."

On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation
against Laura.

Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something--she did
not know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly.

"It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "that
society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of
the Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness,
the others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but
there is something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with
a pretence, and society, which is made up of pretence, will
bitterly resent the mockery."

At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel
the bitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast
descended upon her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her
own mounting thoughts. She hardly heard anything more, save her
own rumbling blood.

"Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after
our things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished
thief enters."

"Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not
hear. Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born
of inspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and
proud, shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold,
white, helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her
scornfully.

Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The
radiating waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking
against the farthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion,
which will yet dissolve the world, was here at work.

There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,
heretofore wandering.

"Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of
Pearl.

Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They
moved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes.

Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.

"Let us go home," she said.

"No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a
penetrating quality which it had never known. "Stay with him!"

She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with
a pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He
shall not suffer long."

Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily
good. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience
as the curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He
thought now that she was beautiful. She had done something which
was above his sphere. He felt a keen delight in realising that
she was his.

"Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and
went about to the stage door.

When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His
feelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away
by the strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to
pour forth his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but
here was Drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The
latter was more fascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood. At
least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form.

"Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight. That was
simply great. I knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little
daisy!"

Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement.

"Did I do all right?"

"Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?"

There was some faint sound of clapping yet.

"I thought I got it something like--I felt it."

Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in
Drouet. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy
leaped alight in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached
himself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an
intruder. He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where
he would have to congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless,
the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked
the old subtle light to his eyes.

"I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around and
tell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful."

Carrie took the cue, and replied:

"Oh, thank you."

"I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with his
possession, "that I thought she did fine."

"Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in
which she read more than the words.

Carrie laughed luxuriantly.

"If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all
think you are a born actress."

Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's
position, and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but
she did not understand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found
that he could not talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet
every moment of his presence, he bowed himself out with the
elegance of a Faust. Outside he set his teeth with envy.

"Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He was
moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for
thinking of his wretched situation.

As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was
very much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but
Hurstwood pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage,
although Carrie was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy
preceding her entrance. He did not see what was going on,
however. He was thinking his own thoughts, and they were
wretched.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35