Sister Carrie (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Theodore Dreiser

  At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the place came for loud applause it was only moderate. What could be the trouble? He realised that something was up.

  All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was frowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and laughing.

  “By George, I won’t stand that!” thought the thespian. “I’m not going to have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that when I do my turn or I quit.”

  “Why, that’s all right,” said the manager, when the kick came. “That’s what she’s supposed to do. You needn’t pay any attention to that.”

  “But she ruins my work.”

  “No, she don’t,” returned the former, soothingly. “It’s only a little fun on the side.”

  “It is, eh?” exclaimed the big comedian. “She killed my hand all right. I’m not going to stand that.”

  “Well, wait until after the show. Wait until tomorrow. We’ll see what we can do.”

  The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed while on the stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.

  The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was repeatedly emphasised.

  “Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work ever seen on the Casino stage,” observed the sage critic of the “Sun.” “It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended to take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but the audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious.”

  The critic of the “Evening World,” seeking as usual to establish a catch phrase which should “go” with the town, wound up by advising: “If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown.”

  The result was miraculous so far as Carrie’s fortune was concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the manager.

  “You seem to have taken the town by storm,” he wrote. “This is delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own.”

  The author also sent word.

  That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most pleasant greeting for her.

  “Mr. Stevens,” he said, referring to the author, “is preparing a little song, which he would like you to sing next week.”

  “Oh, I can’t sing,” returned Carrie.

  “It isn’t anything difficult. ‘It’s something that is very simple,’ he says, ‘and would suit you exactly.’ ”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t mind trying,” said Carrie, archly.

  “Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you dress?” observed the manager, in addition. “There’s a little matter I want to speak to you about.”

  “Certainly,” replied Carrie.

  In that latter place the manager produced a paper.

  “Now, of course,” he said, “we want to be fair with you in the matter of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?”

  “Oh, very well,” said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.

  “Supposing, then, you just sign this.”

  Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one, with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand trembling from excitement she affixed her name.

  “One hundred and fifty a week!” she murmured, when she was again alone. She found, after all—as what millionaire has not?—that there was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities.

  Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read the dramatic item covering Carrie’s success, without at first realising who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing over again.

  “That’s her, all right, I guess,” he said.

  Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.

  “I guess she’s struck it,” he thought, a picture of the old shiny, plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. She seemed a creature afar off—like every other celebrity he had known.

  “Well, let her have it,” he said. “I won’t bother her.”

  It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  AND THIS IS NOT ELFLAND:

  WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY

  WHEN CARRIE GOT BACK on the stage, she found that over night her dressing-room had been changed.

  “You are to use this room, Miss Madenda,” said one of the stage lackeys.

  No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body were having their say.

  Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested, and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: “How friendly we have always been.” Only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him.

  Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of something—perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty—to be other than she had been. After the performances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided.

  Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to her lips—bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers—whom she did not know from Adam—having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed himself politely in.

  “You will excuse me for intruding,” he said; “but have you been thinking of changing your apartments?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” returned Carrie.

  “Well, I am connected with the Wellington—the new hotel on Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers.”

  Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid restaurant.

  “Just so,” went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of familiarity. “We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every detail—hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for every floor, elevators and all that. You know what our restaurant is.”

  Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to be a millionaire.

  �
�What are your rates?” she inquired.

  “Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day.”

  “Mercy!” interrupted Carrie. “I couldn’t pay any such rate as that.”

  “I know how you feel about it,” exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. “But just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every other hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have not thought about it, but your name is worth something to us.”

  “Oh!” ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.

  “Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A well-known actress like yourself,” and he bowed politely, while Carrie flushed, “draws attention to the hotel, and—although you may not believe it—patrons.”

  “Oh, yes,” returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious proposition in her mind.

  “Now,” continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, “I want to arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything will do for the summer—a mere figure—anything that you think you could afford to pay.”

  Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.

  “You can come to-day or to-morrow—the earlier the better—and we will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms—the very best we have.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Carrie, touched by the agent’s extreme affability. “I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what is right, however. I shouldn’t want to—”

  “You need not trouble about that at all,” interrupted Mr. Withers. “We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates.”

  The speaker paused.

  “Suppose you come and look at the rooms,” he added.

  “I’d be glad to,” said Carrie, “but I have a rehearsal this morning.”

  “I did not mean at once,” he returned. “Any time will do. Would this afternoon be inconvenient?”

  “Not at all,” said Carrie.

  Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.

  “I have a room-mate,” she added, “who will have to go wherever I do. I forgot about that.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Mr. Withers, blandly. “It is for you to say whom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself.”

  He bowed and backed toward the door.

  “At four, then, we may expect you?”

  “Yes,” said Carrie.

  “I will be there to show you,” and so Mr. Withers withdrew.

  After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola.

  “Did they really?” exclaimed the latter, thinking of the Wellington as a group of managers. “Isn’t that fine? Oh, jolly! It’s so swell. That’s where we dined that night we went with those two Cushing boys. Don’t you know?”

  “I remember,” said Carrie.

  “Oh, it’s as fine as it can be.”

  “We’d better be going up there,” observed Carrie, later in the afternoon.

  The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and bath—a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds, white, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan, footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week.

  “Oh, lovely!” exclaimed Lola, walking about.

  “It is comfortable,” said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and looking down into crowded Broadway.

  The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and incandescent lights arranged in three places.

  “Do you find these satisfactory?” observed Mr. Withers.

  “Oh, very,” answered Carrie.

  “Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door.”

  Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbelled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often dreamed of occupying.

  “I guess we’d better move right away, don’t you think so?” she observed to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.

  “Oh, by all means,” said the latter.

  The next day her trunks left for the new abode.

  Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her dressing-room door.

  Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of surprise.

  “Tell her I’ll be right out,” she said softly. Then, looking at the card, added: “Mrs. Vance.”

  “Why, you little sinner,” the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie coming toward her across the now vacant stage. “How in the world did this happen?”

  Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her friend’s manner. You would have thought that the long separation had come about accidentally.

  “I don’t know,” returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.

  “Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just like you, and I said: ‘Well, now, I will go right down there and see.’ I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?”

  “Oh, very well,” returned Carrie. “How have you been?”

  “Fine. But aren’t you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking about you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Carrie, blushing. “You know I’d be glad to see you.”

  “Well, anyhow, here you are. Can’t you come up and take dinner with me now? Where are you stopping?”

  “At the Wellington,” said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of pride in the acknowledgment.

  “Oh, are you?” exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without its proper effect.

  Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she surmised.

  “Oh, I don’t think I can,” said Carrie, “to-night. I have so little time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won’t you come and dine with me?”

  “I’d be delighted, but I can’t to-night,” said Mrs. Vance, studying Carrie’s fine appearance. The latter’s good fortune made her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other’s eyes. “I promised faithfully to be home at six.” Glancing at the small gold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: “I must be going, too. Tell me when you’re coming up, if at all.”

  “Why, any time you like,” said Carrie.

  “Well, to-morrow then. I’m living at the Chelsea now.”15

  “Moved again?” exclaimed Carrie, laughing.

  “Yes. You know I can’t stay six months in one place. I just have to move. Remember now—half-past five.”

  “I won’t forget,” said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now—perhaps better. Something in the
other’s solicitude and interest made her feel as if she were the one to condescend.

  Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly developed since Monday. What they contained she well knew. Mash notes were old affairs in their mildest form. She remembered having received her first one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as a chorus girl, she had received others—gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. They were common sport between her and Lola, who received some also. They both frequently made light of them.

  Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes did not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus one:

  I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury. There isn’t anything you could ask for that you couldn’t have. I say this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I love you and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that prompts me to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which to plead my cause?

  Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest—though never delight—than those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity—or that self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity—was not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation, being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She had not had fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not had adulation and affectionate propositions before. Now they had come. Wherefore? She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness and indifference.