Sister Carrie - Драйзер Теодор (читать хорошую книгу txt) 📗

“Elvers,” he shouted, “what have you got in your mouth?”

“Nothing,” said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously by.

“Well, are you talking?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again.”

At last Carrie’s turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do all that was required that brought on trouble.

She heard some one called.

“Mason,” said the voice. “Miss Mason.”

She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her a little, but she did not understand.

“You, you!” said the manager. “Can’t you hear?”

“Oh,” said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely.

“Isn’t your name Mason?” asked the manager.

“No, sir,” said Carrie, “it’s Madenda.”

“Well, what’s the matter with your feet? Can’t you dance?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.

“Why don’t you do it then? Don’t go shuffling along as if you were dead. I’ve got to have people with life in them.”

Carrie’s cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a little.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy, for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but too excited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise her evolutions as prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she could help it.

When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder he was out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful to eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from financial distress—“The sound of glory ringing in her ears.”

When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away, and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was an early irritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going to act and keep house?

“I’ll not do it,” she said, “after I get started. He can take his meals out.”

Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such a wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her salary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had her first sight of those high and mighties—the leading ladies and gentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. She was nothing—absolutely nothing at all.

At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemed to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was getting along. The regularity with which he did this smacked of some one who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had a visible means of support, this irritated her. He seemed to be depending upon her little twelve dollars.

“How are you getting along?” he would blandly inquire.

“Oh, all right,” she would reply.

“Find it easy?”

“It will be all right when I get used to it.”

His paper would then engross his thoughts.

“I got some lard,” he would add, as an afterthought. “I thought maybe you might want to make some biscuit.”

The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially in the light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave her more courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say things. Still she could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. There was something in the man’s manner of which she had always stood in awe. He seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve.

One day, after her first week’s rehearsal, what she expected came openly to the surface.

“We’ll have to be rather saving,” he said, laying down some meat he had purchased. “You won’t get any money for a week or so yet.”

“No,” said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove.

“I’ve only got the rent and thirteen dollars more,” he added.

“That’s it,” she said to herself. “I’m to use my money now.”

Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things for herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice.

“What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?” she thought. “I can’t do it. Why doesn’t he get something to do?”

The important night of the first real performance came. She did not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think of going. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small part.

The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon the bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited. Carrie was nothing.

As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from her. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter. Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about an inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the twelve.

In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of the women of alleged ability did.

“I could do better than that,” Carrie ventured to herself, in several instances. To do her justice, she was right.

After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have proved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew but few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that she was scanned closely. The flutter of an eyelash would have brought her a companion. That she did not give.

One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.

“Not going home alone, are you?” he said.

Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car. Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing else.

“Did you hear any more from the brewery?” she asked at the end of the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.

“No,” he answered, “they’re not quite ready yet. I think something will come of that, though.”

She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money, and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had long since realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand. There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he really would get something. Rent day gave him his opportunity.

“Well,” he said, as he counted it out, “that’s about the last of my money. I’ll have to get something pretty soon.”

Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal.

“If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get something. Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September.”

“Is he?” said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still remained until that time.

“Would you mind helping me out until then?” he said appealingly. “I think I’ll be all right after that time.”

“No,” said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate.

“We can get along if we economise. I’ll pay you back all right.”

“Oh, I’ll help you,” said Carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thus forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of her earnings wrung a faint protest from her.

“Why don’t you take anything, George, temporarily?” she said. “What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you’ll get something better.”

“I will take anything,” he said, relieved, and wincing under reproof. “I’d just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here.”

“Oh, you needn’t do that,” said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. “But there must be other things.”