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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.
"Well," he said, as he
counted it out, "that's about the last of my money. I'll have to get something pretty soon."
Carrie looked at him askance,
half-suspicious of an appeal.
"If I could only hold out a
little longer I think I could get something.
Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September."
"Is he?" said Carrie,
thinking of the short month that still remained until that time.
"Would you mind helping me
out until then?" he said appealingly. "I think I'll be all right
after that time."
"No," said Carrie,
feeling sadly handicapped by fate.
"We can get along if we
economise. I'll pay you back
all right."
"Oh, I'll help you,"
said Carrie, feeling quite hardhearted at thus forcing him to humbly appeal,
and yet her desire for the benefit of her earnings wrung a faint protest
from her.
"Why don't you take
anything, George, temporarily?" she said. "What difference does it
make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get something better."
"I will take anything,"
he said, relieved, and wincing under reproof.
"I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here."
"Oh, you needn't do
that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "But there must be
other things."
"I'll get something!"
he said, assuming determination.
Then he went back to his paper.
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