Chapter XXXVII

by Theodore Dreiser

　　THE SPIRIT AWAKENS--NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATEIt would be useless to explain how in due time the last fiftydollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process ofhandling, had only carried them into June. Before the finalhundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity wasapproaching."I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure formeat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live.""It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much.""My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it'sgone to.""All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie."All but a hundred."He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to seethat she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all thetime."Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and lookfor something? You could find something.""I have looked," he said. "You can t make people give you aplace."She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think youwill do? A hundred dollars won't last long.""I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look."Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thoughtdesperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered thestage as a door through which she might enter that gilded statewhich she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as alast resource in distress. Something must be done if he did notget work soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle againalone.She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Herexperience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the rightway. There must be people who would listen to and try you--menwho would give you an opportunity.They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later,when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she sawthat Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood hadseen it, too."How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked,innocently."I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents."Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up."Regular people who get you a place?""Yes, I think so," he answered.Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention."You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" heasked."No," she answered, "I was just wondering."Without being clear, there was something in the thought which heobjected to. He did not believe any more, after three years ofobservation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in thatline. She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the artwas that it involved something more pompous. If she tried to geton the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap managerand become like the rest of them. He had a good idea of what hemeant by THEM. Carrie was pretty. She would get along allright, but where would he be?"I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lotmore difficult than you think."Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon herability."You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined."You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition,"but Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump."Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her."The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of thebig guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a longwhile to get up.""Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused.In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now,when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get onthe stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he hadnot conceived well of her mental ability. That was because hedid not understand the nature of emotional greatness. He hadnever learned that a person might be emotionally--instead ofintellectually--great. Avery Hall was too far away for him tolook back and sharply remember. He had lived with this woman toolong."Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think ofit. It's not much of a profession for a woman.""It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't wantme to do that, why don't you get work yourself?"There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to thesuggestion."Oh, let up," he answered.The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. Itdidn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged intopoverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. Shecould get something and then work up. What would he say then?She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performanceon Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room andmaking up. Then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see thecarriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It did notmatter whether she was the star or not. If she were only oncein, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes sheliked, having the money to do with, going here and there as shepleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over thispicture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made itsbeauty become more and more vivid.Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishingsum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could notCarrie 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 ahotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for methen.""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 beall right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again."Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. Shesincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked sohopeless."How much money have you left?""Only fifty dollars.""Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twentydays until the rent will be due again."Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at thefloor."Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandlysuggested."Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of theidea."I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that hesaw her brighten up. "I can get something."She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressedas neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway.She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was awonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. Thetheatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about.She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask howto find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way.Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to theclerk 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 inthat.""Is that a paper?" said Carrie."Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a commonfact. "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 theagents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. Thiscould not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number ofblocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper andregretting 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? Icould 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 mindwas distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of thesituation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along hereyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something."Let me look."To recover herself she went into the front room while hesearched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and waswriting upon an envelope."Here're three," he said.Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, anotherMarcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, andthen 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 becomingstultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He gotup and put on his hat."I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strollingnowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address wasquite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned intooffices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly hadbeen 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 bedroomopened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, verytightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After themcame 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, "whereare 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 andshrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searchingeye."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 placesfor 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 knowof anything now."Carrie's countenance fell."You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affableMrs. 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 waswriting. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowedher 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 couldplay at some local house, or had a programme with your name onit, 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 inthe 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 notthought of this before."Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly.Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continuethe 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, andcontinued accordingly."You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent wouldtrouble 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 ina week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing thatwe thought you could do.""I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, shewalked 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-dollarproposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give meanything," she thought. She had some jewelry--a diamond ring andpin and several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars forthose if she went to a pawnbroker.Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would beso long seeking."Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news."I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off hergloves. "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'dever get you anything after you did pay them.""Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, asif he were deciding, money in hand."I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of themanagers."Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked alittle to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all verynatural in such extreme states. He would do better later on.