Sister Carrie 11 страница

“I don't know, ” replied the drummer. “They've been trying to get me to get some woman to take a part. ”

“I wasn't intending to go, ” said the manager easily. “I'll subscribe, of course. How are things over there? ”

“All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds. ”

“Well, ” said the manager, “I hope they make a success of it. Have another? ”

He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion.

“I think the girl is going to take a part in it, ” he said abruptly, after thinking it over.

“You don't say so! How did that happen? ”

“Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told Carrie, and she seems to want to try. ”

“Good for her, ” said the manager. “It'll be a real nice affair. Do her good, too. Has she ever had any experience? ”

“Not a bit. ”

“Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious. ”

“She's clever, though, ” said Drouet, casting off any imputation against Carrie's ability. “She picks up her part quick enough. ”

“You don't say so! ” said the manager.

“Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she didn't. ”

“We must give her a nice little send-off, ” said the manager. “I'll look after the flowers. ”

Drouet smiled at his good-nature.

“After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper. ”

“I think she'll do all right, ” said Drouet.

“I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her, ” and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compound of good-nature and shrewdness.

Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he came very near being rude— failing to remember, as he did, that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not salaried underlings.

“Now, Miss Madenda, ” he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one part uncertain as to what move to make, “you don't want to stand like that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over the intrusion of the stranger. Walk so, ” and he struck out across the Avery stage in almost drooping manner.

Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. She walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that there was something strangely lacking.

“Now, Mrs. Morgan, ” said the director to one young married woman who was to take the part of Pearl, “you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you stand here, so. Now, what is it you say? ”

“Explain, ” said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth.

“How is that—what does your text say? ”

“Explain, ” repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.

“Yes, but it also says, ” the director remarked, “that you are to look shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked. ”

“Explain! ” demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.

“No, no, that won't do! Say it this way—EXPLAIN. ”

“Explain, ” said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.

“That's better. Now go on. ”

“One night, ” resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, “father and mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms—”

“Hold on, ” said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. “Put more feeling into what you are saying. ”

Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eye lightened with resentment.

“Remember, Mrs. Morgan, ” he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying his manner, “that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires feeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted them for alms. '”

“All right, ” said Mrs. Morgan.

“Now, go on. ”

“As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse. ”

“Very good, ” interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly.

“A pickpocket! Well! ” exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines that here fell to him.

“No, no, Mr. Bamberger, ” said the director, approaching, “not that way. 'A pickpocket—well? ' so. That's the idea. ”

“Don't you think, ” said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let alone the details of expression, “that it would be better if we just went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up some points. ”

“A very good idea, Miss Madenda, ” said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the director did not heed.

“All right, ” said the latter, somewhat abashed, “it might be well to do it. ” Then brightening, with a show of authority, “Suppose we run right through, putting in as much expression as we can. ”

“Good, ” said Mr. Quincel.

“This hand, ” resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down at her book, as the lines proceeded, “my mother grasped in her own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl. ”

“Very good, ” observed the director, now hopelessly idle.

“The thief! ” exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.

“Louder, ” put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep his hands off.

“The thief! ” roared poor Bamberger.

“Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's. 'Stop, ' said my mother. 'What are you doing? '

“'Trying to steal, ' said the child.

“'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so? ' asked my father.

“'No, ' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry. '

“'Who told you to steal? ' asked my mother.

“'She—there, ' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old Judas, ' said the girl. ”

Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.

“What do you think of them? ” he asked.

“Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape, ” said the latter, with an air of strength under difficulties.

“I don't know, ” said the director. “That fellow Bamberger strikes me as being a pretty poor shift for a lover. ”

“He's all we've got, ” said Quincel, rolling up his eyes. “Harrison went back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get? ”

“I don't know, ” said the director. “I'm afraid he'll never pick up. ”

At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, “Pearl, you are joking with me. ” “Look at that now, ” said the director, whispering behind his hand. “My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like that? ”

“Do the best you can, ” said Quincel consolingly.

The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie, as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing Pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding the words of Ray, “I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late, ” and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with:

“Ray! ”

“Miss—Miss Courtland, ” Bamberger faltered weakly.

Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present. She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he were not present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon.

“Who is that woman? ” asked the director, watching Carrie in her little scene with Bamberger.

“Miss Madenda, ” said Quincel.

“I know her name, ” said the director, “but what does she do? ”

“I don't know, ” said Quincel. “She's a friend of one of our members. ”

“Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far—seems to take an interest in what she's doing. ”

“Pretty, too, isn't she? ” said Quincel.

The director strolled away without answering.

In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in the ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speak with her.

“Were you ever on the stage? ” he asked insinuatingly.

“No, ” said Carrie.

“You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience. ”

Carrie only smiled consciously.

He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting some ardent line.

Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with envious and snapping black eyes.

“She's some cheap professional, ” she gave herself the satisfaction of thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.

The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that she had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell Hurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet, too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until he should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up. The drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her little experience did not appeal to him as important. He let the conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without solicitation, and Carrie was not good at that. He took it for granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further worry. Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which was irritating. She felt his indifference keenly and longed to see Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend she had on earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the damage had been done.

She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time she got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came, he shone upon her as the morning sun.

“Well, my dear, ” he asked, “how did you come out? ”

“Well enough, ” she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.

“Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant? ”

Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she proceeded.

“Well, that's delightful, ” said Hurstwood. “I'm so glad. I must get over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal? ”

“Tuesday, ” said Carrie, “but they don't allow visitors. ”

“I imagine I could get in, ” said Hurstwood significantly.

She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but she made him promise not to come around.

“Now, you must do your best to please me, ” he said encouragingly. “Just remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the performance worth while. You do that now. ”

“I'll try, ” said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.

“That's the girl, ” said Hurstwood fondly. “Now, remember, ” shaking an affectionate finger at her, “your best. ”

“I will, ” she answered, looking back.

The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and are hopeful. And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.

Chapter XVIII

JUST OVER THE BORDER—A HAIL AND FAREWELL

By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made itself apparent. He had given the word among his friends—and they were many and influential—that here was something which they ought to attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel, acting for the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had appeared in all of the daily newspapers. These he had arranged for by the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the “Times, ” Mr. Harry McGarren, the managing editor.

“Say, Harry, ” Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood at the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, “you can help the boys out, I guess. ”

“What is it? ” said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the opulent manager.

“The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean—a squib or two saying that it's going to take place. ”

“Certainly, ” said McGarren, “I can fix that for you, George. ”

At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background. The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as quite a star for this sort of work.

By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied like Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured, flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he thought of assisting Carrie.

That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction, much as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the gathered throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to console herself with the thought that a score of other persons, men and women, were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could not disassociate the general danger from her own individual liability. She feared that she would forget her lines, that she might be unable to master the feeling which she now felt concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wished that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire performance.

In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at least. A loafing professional had been called in to assume the role of Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He swashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning his past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere matter of circumstantial evidence.

“It is so easy, ” he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage voice. “An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult. ”

Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer his fictitious love for the evening.

At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been provided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the evening to come.

On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of Society.

The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box—rouge, pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eye-lids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery—in short, all the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own. Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly. It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took her by the hand kindly, as one who says, “My dear, come in. ” It opened for her as if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the names upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of carriages, flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an open door to see all of that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon a secret passage and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds and delight!

As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what the result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a real actress. The thought had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in her ears as the melody of an old song.

Outside in the little lobby another scene was begin enacted. Without the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately interested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone the rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been taken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This was quite a card. C. R. Walker, dry-goods merchant and possessor of at least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who were now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general sense. They were the lights of a certain circle—the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions. These gentlemen Elks knew the standing of one another. They had regard for the ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain a good mercantile position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who held an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a figure. He was more generally known than most others in the same circle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of influence and solid financial prosperity.

To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends directly from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet, who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. All five now joined in an animated conversation concerning the company present and the general drift of lodge affairs.

“Who's here? ” said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and talking in the open space back of the seats.

“Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood? ” came from the first individual recognised.

“Glad to see you, ” said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.

“Looks quite an affair, doesn't it? ”

“Yes, indeed, ” said the manager.

“Custer seems to have the backing of its members, ” observed the friend.

“So it should, ” said the knowing manager. “I'm glad to see it. ”

“Well, George, ” said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom, “how goes it with you? ”

“Excellent, ” said the manager.

“What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer. ”

“Good-nature, ” returned the manager. “Like to see the boys, you know. ”

“Wife here? ”

“She couldn't come to-night. She's not well. ”

“Sorry to hear it—nothing serious, I hope. ”

“No, just feeling a little ill. ”

“I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you over to St. Joe—” and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends.

“Why, George, how are you? ” said another genial West Side politician and lodge member. “My, but I'm glad to see you again; how are things, anyhow? ”

“Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman. ”

“Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble. ”

“What do you suppose Hennessy will do now? ”

“Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you know. ”

“I didn't know that, ” said the manager. “Felt pretty sore, I suppose, over his defeat. ” “Perhaps, ” said the other, winking shrewdly.

Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began to roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great show of finery and much evident feeling of content and importance.

“Here we are, ” said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he was talking.

“That's right, ” returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five.

“And say, ” he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, “if this isn't a good show, I'll punch your head. ”

“You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show! ”

To another who inquired, “Is it something really good? ” the manager replied:

“I don't know. I don't suppose so. ” Then, lifting his hand graciously, “For the lodge. ”

“Lots of boys out, eh? ”

“Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago. ”

It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. Look at him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent group—a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success. The gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands. Seats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. Through it all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness in a way, small as it was.

Chapter XIX

AN HOUR IN ELFLAND—A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD

At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison around to the box.

“Now, we'll see how the little girl does, ” he said to Drouet, in a tone which no one else could hear.

On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part were representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional, whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure.

Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.

After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme, when Carrie came in.

One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying:

“And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock, ” but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively painful.

“She's frightened, ” whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.

The manager made no answer.

She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.

“Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill. ”

It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.

There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of impending disaster, say, sadly:

“I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call a maid by a married name. '”

The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for her.

In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a conversation between the professional actor and a character called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.

“She's too nervous, ” said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once.

“Better go back and say a word to her. ”

Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly doorkeeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.

“Say, Cad, ” he said, looking at her, “you mustn't be nervous. Wake up. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid of? ”

“I don't know, ” said Carrie. “I just don't seem to be able to do it. ”

She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.

“Come on, ” said Drouet. “Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out there now, and do the trick. What do you care? ”

Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous condition.

“Did I do so very bad? ”

“Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night. ”

Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could to it.

'What's next? ” he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying.

“Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him. ”

“Well, now you do that lively, ” said the drummer. “Put in snap, that's the thing. Act as if you didn't care. ”

“Your turn next, Miss Madenda, ” said the prompter.

“Oh, dear, ” said Carrie.

“Well, you're a chump for being afraid, ” said Drouet. “Come on now, brace up. I'll watch you from right here. ”

“Will you? ” said Carrie.

“Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid. ”

The prompter signalled her.

She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially returned. She thought of Drouet looking.

“Ray, ” she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal.

“She's easier, ” thought Hurstwood to himself.

She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less trying parts at least.

⇐ Предыдущая 11 12 13 14 151617 18 19 20 Следующая ⇒