Sister Carrie: A Novel
and inquire for work. It gave her an excuse, and after encountering
quite a number of them, and noting that the clock registered 12.15, she
decided that it would be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a
car and went to Lincoln Park. There was always something to see
there—the flowers, the animals, the lake—and she flattered herself that
on Monday she would be up betimes and searching. Besides, many things
might happen between now and Monday.
Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows
what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the
thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing
whip, that action—immediate action—was imperative. At other times she
would look about her and assure herself that things were not so
bad—that certainly she would come out safe and sound. At such times she
would think of Drouet’s advice about going on the stage, and saw some
chance for herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that
opportunity on the morrow.
Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made, but
she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre
buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one about the
theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was anything,
you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.
She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever,
and did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. She
only knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all things,
she did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her
intimacy with his wife.
There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera House,
which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, David A.
Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one or two
elaborate performances there and had heard of several others. She knew
nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she
instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly
strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely enough to the
showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with
framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet
box-office, but she could get no further. A noted comic opera comedian
was holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity
overawed her. She could not imagine that there would be anything in
such a lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which
might have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find heart
only to look at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. It
seemed to her as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be
foolhardy to think of applying in that quarter again.
This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked
around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of
several playhouses fixed in her mind—notably the Grand Opera House and
McVickar’s, both of which were leading in attractions—and then came
away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored
sense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her
claims upon society, such as she understood them to be.
That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and protracted
stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune of
the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave
herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet had not put in an
appearance. She had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a
dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It
was evident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered
no resource.
In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren
Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her
home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could
not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction. Nothing but
sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.
That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a
cruel thing.
Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. She
was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth
upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she
considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to
revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage
to approach.
She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.
“Manager of the company or the house?” asked the smartly dressed
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by
Carrie’s looks.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie, taken back by the question.
“You couldn’t see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,” volunteered
the young man. “He’s out of town.”
He noted her puzzled look, and then added: “What is it you wish to see
about?”
“I want to see about getting a position,” she answered.
“You’d better see the manager of the company,” he returned, “but he
isn’t here now.”
“When will he be in?” asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
information.
“Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He’s here after
two o’clock.”
Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed
after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.
“Good-looking,” he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to
himself.
One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
engagement at the Grand Opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the
manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of this
individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been
sent on from New York to fill it.
“His office is upstairs,” said a man in the box-office.
Several persons were in the manager’s office, two lounging near a
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk—the
manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she
should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of
whom—the occupants of the window—were already observing her carefully.
“I can’t do it,” the manager was saying; “it’s a rule of Mr. Frohman’s
never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!”
Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one motioned
her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been talking
went away quite crestfallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at some
papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.
“Did you see that in the ‘Herald’ this morning about Nat Goodwin,
Harris?”
“No,” said the person addressed. “What was it?”
“Made quite a curtain address at Hooley’s last night. Better look it
up.”
Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the “Herald.”
“What is it?” said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for
the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets.
Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She
realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain.
Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had
called for advice.
“Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?”
It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She was
interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the
simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as
did the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to
conceal their humour.
“I don’t know,” he answered, looking her brazenly over. “Have you ever
had any experience upon the stage?”
“A little,” answered Carrie. “I have taken part in amateur
performances.”
She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his
interest.
“Never studied for the stage?” he said, putting on an air intended as
much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.
“No, sir.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair
while she stood before him. “What makes you want to get on the stage?”
She felt abashed at the man’s daring, but could only smile in answer to
his engaging smirk, and say:
“I need to make a living.”
“Oh,” he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as
if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. “That’s a good reason,
isn’t it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what you want to do.
You ought to be in New York. There’s more chance there. You could
hardly expect to get started out here.” Carrie smiled genially,
grateful that he should condescend to advise her even so much. He
noticed the smile, and put a slightly different construction on it. He
thought he saw an easy chance for a little flirtation.
“Sit down,” he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk
and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear.
Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.
“Well, I’ll be going, Barney,” said one, breaking away and so
addressing the manager. “See you this afternoon.”
“All right,” said the manager.
The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.
“Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?” asked
the manager softly.
“Oh, no,” said Carrie. “I would take anything to begin with.”
“I see,” he said. “Do you live here in the city?”
“Yes, sir.”
The manager smiled most blandly.
“Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?” he asked, assuming a
more confidential air.
Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural
in his manner.
“No,” she said.
“That’s the way most girls begin,” he went on, “who go on the stage.
It’s a good way to get experience.”
He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive
manner.
“I didn’t know that,” said Carrie.
“It’s a difficult thing,” he went on, “but there’s always a chance, you
know.” Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and
consulted it. “I’ve an appointment at two,” he said, “and I’ve got to
go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with me? We can talk
it over there.”
“Oh, no,” said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at
once. “I have an engagement myself.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, realising that he had been a little
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. “Come in
later. I may know of something.”
“Thank you,” she answered, with some trepidation and went out.
“She was good-looking, wasn’t she?” said the manager’s companion, who
had not caught all the details of the game he had played.
“Yes, in a way,” said the other, sore to think the game had been lost.
“She’d never make an actress, though. Just another chorus girl—that’s
all.”
This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the
manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a
time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that there
was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish.
“Chicago is no place to get a start,” he said. “You ought to be in New
York.”
Still she persisted, and went to McVickar’s, where she could not find
any one. “The Old Homestead” was running there, but the person to whom
she was referred was not to be found.
These little expeditions took up her time until quite four o’clock,
when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to
continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too