Sister Carrie - Theodore Dreiser (good non fiction books to read txt) 📗

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 today,” 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 someone 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 newsstands,” 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