Sister Carrie Theodore Dreiser (e reader books TXT) 📖

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 tomorrow.”

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, tomorrow,” 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 playhouse, 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 fullness 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 someone 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 someone who was waiting to