Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser

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.”