_ It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty
dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of
handling, had only carried them into June. Before the final
hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was
approaching.
"I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for
meat 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's
gone to."
"All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie.
"All but a hundred."
He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see
that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the
time.
"Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look
for something? You could find something."
"I have looked," he said. "You can t make people give you a
place."
She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you
will 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 thought
desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the
stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state
which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a
last resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not
get work soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again
alone.
She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her
experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right
way. There must be people who would listen to and try you--men
who 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 saw
that Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had
seen 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?" he
asked.
"No," she answered, "I was just wondering."
Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he
objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of
observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that
line. She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art
was that it involved something more pompous. If she tried to get
on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager
and become like the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he
meant by THEM. Carrie was pretty. She would get along all
right, but where would he be?
"I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot
more difficult than you think."
Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her
ability.
"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 the
big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long
while 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 on
the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had
not conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he
did not understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had
never learned that a person might be emotionally--instead of
intellectually--great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to
look back and sharply remember. He had lived with this woman too
long.
"Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of
it. It's not much of a profession for a woman."
"It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't want
me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?"
There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the
suggestion.
"Oh, let up," he answered.
The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It
didn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into
poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She
could get something and then work up. What would he say then?
She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance
on Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and
making up. Then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see the
carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It did not
matter whether she was the star or not. If she were only once
in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she
liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she
pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this
picture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its
beauty become more and more vivid.
Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing
sum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not
Carrie 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 a
hotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me
then."
"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 be
all right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again."
Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She
sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so
hopeless.
"How much money have you left?"
"Only fifty dollars."
"Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty
days until the rent will be due again."
Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the
floor.
"Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly
suggested.
"Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the
idea.
"I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he
saw her brighten up. "I can get something."
She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed
as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway.
She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a
wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The
theatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about.
She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how
to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way.
Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the
clerk 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 in
that."
"Is that a paper?" said Carrie.
"Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common
fact. "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 the
agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This
could not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of
blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and
regretting 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? I
could 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 mind
was distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the
situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-
commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her
eyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something.
"Let me look."
To recover herself she went into the front room while he
searched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was
writing upon an envelope.
"Here're three," he said.
Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another
Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and
then 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 becoming
stultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He got
up and put on his hat.
"I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling
nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.
Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was
quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into
offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had
been 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 bedroom
opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very
tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them
came 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, "where
are 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 and
shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching
eye.
"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 places
for 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 know
of anything now."
Carrie's countenance fell.
"You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable
Mrs. 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 was
writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed
her 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 could
play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on
it, 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 in
the 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 not
thought of this before.
"Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly.
Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue
the 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, and
continued accordingly.
"You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would
trouble 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 in
a week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that
we thought you could do."
"I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she
walked 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-dollar
proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me
anything," she thought. She had some jewelry--a diamond ring and
pin and several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for
those if she went to a pawnbroker.
Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be
so long seeking.
"Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news.
"I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her
gloves. "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'd
ever get you anything after you did pay them."
"Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as
if he were deciding, money in hand.
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the
managers."
Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a
little to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very
natural in such extreme states. He would do better later on. _