Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing
sum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not
Carrie assist him a little until he could get something?

He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind.

"I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a
hotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me
then."

"Who is he?" asked Carrie.

"He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago."

"Oh," said Carrie.

"I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that."

"That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically.

"If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be
all right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again."

Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She
sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so
hopeless.

"How much money have you left?"

"Only fifty dollars."

"Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty
days until the rent will be due again."

Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the
floor.

"Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly
suggested.

"Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the
idea.

"I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he
saw her brighten up. "I can get something."

She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed
as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway.
She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a
wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The
theatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about.

She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how
to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way.
Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the
clerk at the box office.

"Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know.
You'll find them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in
that."

"Is that a paper?" said Carrie.

"Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common
fact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely,
seeing how pretty the inquirer was.

Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the
agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This
could not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of
blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and
regretting the waste of time.

Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"I've been trying to find some dramatic agents."

He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success.
The paper she began to scan attracted his attention.

"What have you got there?" he asked.

"The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here."

"Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I
could have told you."

"Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up.

"You never asked me," he returned.

She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind
was distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the
situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-
commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her
eyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something.

"Let me look."

To recover herself she went into the front room while he
searched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was
writing upon an envelope.

"Here're three," he said.

Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another
Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and
then moved toward the door.

"I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back.

Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame,
which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming
stultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He got
up and put on his hat.

"I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling
nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.

Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was
quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into
offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had
been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private."

As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about--
men, who said nothing and did nothing.

While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom
opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very
tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them
came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed,
and evidently good-natured. At least she was smiling.

"Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women.

"I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where
are you the first week in February?"
"Pittsburg," said the woman.

"I'll write you there."

"All right," said the other, and the two passed out.

Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and
shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching
eye.

"Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?"

"Are you Mrs. Bermudez?"

"Yes."

"Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places
for persons upon the stage?"

"Yes."

"Could you get me one?"

"Have you ever had any experience?"

"A very little," said Carrie.

"Whom did you play with?"

"Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten----"

"Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't know
of anything now."

Carrie's countenance fell.

"You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable
Mrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though."

Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office.

"What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter,
taking up the curtailed conversation.

"Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was
writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed
her to depart at her leisure.

She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr.
Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could
play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on
it, I might do something."

In the third place the individual asked:

"What sort of work do you want to do?"

"What do you mean?" said Carrie.

"Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville or in
the chorus?"

"Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie.

"Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that."
"How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not
thought of this before.

"Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly.

Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue
the inquiry.

"Could you get me a part if I paid?"

"If we didn't you'd get your money back."

"Oh," she said.

The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and
continued accordingly.

"You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would
trouble about you for less than that."

Carrie saw a light.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it."

She started to go, and then bethought herself.

"How soon would I get a place?" she asked.

"Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in
a week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that
we thought you could do."

"I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she
walked out.

The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself:

"It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage."

Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar
proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me
anything," she thought. She had some jewelry--a diamond ring and
pin and several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for
those if she went to a pawnbroker.

Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be
so long seeking.

"Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news.

"I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her
gloves. "They all want money to get you a place."

"How much?" asked Hurstwood.

"Fifty dollars."

"They don't want anything, do they?"

"Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd
ever get you anything after you did pay them."

"Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as
if he were deciding, money in hand.

"I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the
managers."

Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a
little to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very
natural in such extreme states. He would do better later on.

Chapter XXXVIII

IN ELF LAND DISPORTING--THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT

When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to
the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other
fields, employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand
in a line and look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can
swing a pick. She found there was no discrimination between one
and the other of applicants, save as regards a conventional
standard of prettiness and form. Their own opinion or knowledge
of their ability went for nothing.

"Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at
the stage entrance of the Casino.

"You can't see him now; he's busy."

"Do you know when I can see him?"

"Got an appointment with him?"

"No."

"Well, you'll have to call at his office."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?"

He gave her the number.

She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be
in. Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in
search.

The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told.
Mr. Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour
in a dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this
fact of the placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney.

"You will have to write and ask him to see you."

So she went away.

At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and
indifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered,
everything carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved.

At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway
closets, berugged and bepaneled, which causes one to feel the
greatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itself
done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant,
glorying in their fine positions.

"Ah, be very humble now--very humble indeed. Tell us what it is
you require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige
of self-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what
we can do."

This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum--the attitude, for that
matter, of every managerial office in the city. These little
proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground.

Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains.

Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search
that evening.

"I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, and
walked, and waited around."

Hurstwood only looked at her.

"I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in,"
she added, disconsolately.

Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not
seem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she
could rest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its
bitterness did not seem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was
another day.

To-morrow came, and the next, and the next.

Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once.

"Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make some
changes then."

He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good
clothes and good eating, who judged women as another would
horseflesh. Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in
even if she did not have any experience. One of the proprietors
had suggested that the chorus was a little weak on looks.

The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the
month was drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never
worried before.

"Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked
Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her
own.

"Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over
the disgrace of the insinuation.

"I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be
the first of the month again."

She looked the picture of despair.

Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes.

"He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see
if some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would
take a position as bartender, if he could get it."

It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or
two slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared.

"No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home."

Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes
and feel that even his best ones were beginning to look
commonplace. This was a bitter thought.

Carrie came in after he did.

"I went to see some of the variety managers," she said,
aimlessly. "You have to have an act. They don't want anybody
that hasn't."

"I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One
man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three
weeks."

In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make
some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's
apology to energy.

Monday Carrie went again to the Casino.

"Did I tell you to come around to day?" said the manager, looking
her over as she stood before him.

"You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed.

"Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely.

Carrie owned to ignorance.

He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was
secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman.
"Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning."

Carrie's heart bounded to her throat.

"I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her,
and turned to go.

"Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it
be?"

Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows
became pleasant.

A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all
immediate fears on that score.

"Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly.
"You'll be dropped if you're not."

Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's
idleness. She had a place--she had a place! This sang in her
ears.

In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as
she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case
became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding
work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number
of months.

"Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I
can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me."

She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did
not, in her enthusiasm, perceive.

Thus, ever, the voice of success.
Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and
indifferent, but it was a palpable sham.

"Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face.

"I have a place."

"You have?" he said, breathing a better breath.

"Yes."

"What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as
if now he might get something good also.

"In the chorus," she answered.

"Is it the Casino show you told me about?"

"Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing to-morrow."

There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was
happy. At last Hurstwood said:

"Do you know how much you'll get?"

"No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay
twelve or fourteen dollars a week."

"About that, I guess," said Hurstwood.

There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the
mere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a
shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak.

"Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with
renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground.

On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in
the line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still
redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable
for its rich, oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and
delighted her. Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she
would try to be worthy of it. It was above the common mass,
above idleness, above want, above insignificance. People came to
it in finery and carriages to see. It was ever a centre of light
and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if she could only
remain, how happy would be her days!

"What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the
drill.

"Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had
selected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda."

"Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie
thought, "you go over there."

Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company:

"Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda."

This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go,
and the rehearsal began.

Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight
resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the
attitude of the manager was much more pronounced. She had
marvelled at the insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but
the individual conducting here had the same insistence, coupled
with almost brutal roughness. As the drilling proceeded, he
seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and to increase his
lung power in proportion. It was very evident that he had a
great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the
part of these young women.

"Clark," he would call--meaning, of course, Miss Clark--"why
don't you catch step there?"

"By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on
to yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last
sounds into a vehement roar.

"Maitland! Maitland!" he called once.

A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie
trembled for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and
fear.

"Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland.

"Is there anything the matter with your ears?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know what 'column left' means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break
up the line?"

"I was just"

"Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open."

Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn.

Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke.

"Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as
if in despair. His demeanour was fierce.

"Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?"

"Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood
nervously by.

"Well, are you talking?"

"No, sir."

"Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again."

At last Carrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme
anxiety to do all that was required that brought on the trouble.

She heard some one called.

"Mason," said the voice. "Miss Mason."

She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved
her a little, but she did not understand.

"You, you!" said the manager. "Can't you hear?"

"Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely.

"Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager.

"No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda."

"Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?"

"Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.

"Why don't you do it then? Don't go shuffling along as if you
were dead. I've got to have people with life in them."

Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a
little.

"Yes, sir," she said.

It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and
energy, for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in
body, but too excited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home
and practise her evolutions as prescribed. She would not err in
any way, if she could help it.

When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder
he was out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a
mouthful to eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of
freedom from financial distress--"The sound of glory ringing in
her ears."

When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went
away, and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner.
Here was an early irritation. She would have her work and this.
Was she going to act and keep house?

"I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started. He can take
his meals out."

Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such
a wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that
her salary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she
had her first sight of those high and mighties--the leading
ladies and gentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and
deferred to. She was nothing--absolutely nothing at all.

At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He
seemed to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how
she was getting along. The regularity with which he did this
smacked of some one who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now
that she had a visible means of support, this irritated her. He
seemed to be depending upon her little twelve dollars.

"How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire.

"Oh, all right," she would reply.

"Find it easy?"

"It will be all right when I get used to it."

His paper would then engross his thoughts.

"I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "I thought
maybe you might want to make some biscuit."

The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little,
especially in the light of recent developments. Her dawning
independence gave her more courage to observe, and she felt as if
she wanted to say things. Still she could not talk to him as she
had to Drouet. There was something in the man's manner of which
she had always stood in awe. He seemed to have some invisible
strength in reserve.

One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came
openly to the surface.

"We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat
he had purchased. "You won't get any money for a week or so
yet."

"No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove.

"I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added.

"That's it," she said to herself. "I'm to use my money now."

Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things
for herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice.

"What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she
thought. "I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?"

The important night of the first real performance came. She did
not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think
of going. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small
part.

The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon
the bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited.
Carrie was nothing.

As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first
entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The
apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away
from her. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter.
Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve
were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line
about an inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the
twelve.

In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting
up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe
the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There
was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly
some of the women of alleged ability did.

"I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, in
several instances. To do her justice, she was right.

After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had
scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have
proved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she
knew but few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were
carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing,
waiting. Carrie saw that she was scanned closely. The flutter
of an eyelash would have brought her a companion. That she did
not give.

One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.

"Not going home alone, are you?" he said.

Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car.
Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for
nothing else.

"Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of
the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.

"No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. I think
something will come of that, though."

She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money,
and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood
felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He
had long since realised how good-natured she was, how much she
would stand. There was some little shame in him at the thought
of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he
really would get something. Rent day gave him his opportunity.

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