Sister Carrie: A Novel
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 rôles 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