“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,’ai 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.”