Chapter: Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had
taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left for
the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not finding
him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. She quite
forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the chance of
his being there frightened her. As day after day passed and she heard
nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed. In a little
while she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free of the gloom
with which her life had been weighed in the flat.

It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie
became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She
learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items
about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,
not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.
Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be
renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or
critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The
showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.

It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning
to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage which
has since become fervid. The newspapers, and particularly the Sunday
newspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the
faces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed
with artistic scrolls. The magazines also or at least one or two of the
newer ones--published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and
again photos of scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with
growing interest. When would a scene from her opera appear? When would
some paper think her photo worth while?

The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical pages
for some little notice. It would have accorded with her expectations if
nothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several
more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie read it with a tingling
body:


"The part of Katisha, the country maid, in 'The Wives of Abdul' at the
Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter filled by
Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus."


Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine! At last!
The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they called
her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. Had
Lola seen it?

"They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play to-morrow
night," said Carrie to her friend.

"Oh, jolly! Have they?" cried Lola, running to her. "That's all right,"
she said, looking. "You'll get more now, if you do well. I had my
picture in the 'World' once."

"Did you?" asked Carrie.

"Did I? Well, I should say," returned the little girl. "They had a frame
around it."

Carrie laughed.

"They've never published my picture."

"But they will," said Lola. "You'll see. You do better than most that
get theirs in now."

Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the
sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her--so almost
necessary.

Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that
she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She began
to think the world was taking note of her.

The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous
sum. Paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. After
giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. With four
left over from previous earnings, she had eleven. Five of this went to
pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The next week
she was even in greater feather. Now, only three dollars need be paid
for room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for food and her
own whims.

"You'd better save a little for summer," cautioned Lola. "We'll probably
close in May."

"I intend to," said Carrie.

The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has
endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.
Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable
denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty
clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her room.
Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who
belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company made her
acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these
discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with
her.

"Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight.

"Very well," said Carrie.

In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours,
she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too
self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the
common run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he
smiled most graciously.

"Got to go straight home, have you?" he said.

"Yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.

"She's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, and thereafter
his respect and ardour were increased.

She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There were
days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they
dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully dressed.
She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.

At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known
of it, and it took her breath. "Miss Carrie Madenda," it was labelled.
"One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company." At Lola's
advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had got one
there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper,
but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them
to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was interested.

The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found that a
little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction
was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there was no warm,
sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with which many
approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless
of the possible sad consequence to others. So much for the lessons of
Hurstwood and Drouet.

In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle
or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next season
it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with it. As usual,
Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home
engagement.

"They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced, after
figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and get in that."

"I'm willing," said Carrie.

They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again.
That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.

"Those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager,
"will have to sign this week."

"Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go."

"I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else."

"Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her
admirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the
season."

Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.

"We can get along," added Lola. "I always have."

Carrie did not sign.

The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had never
heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published
picture, and the programme bearing her name had some little weight with
him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to go away
from New York. They forget all about you if you do."

Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance
illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected
Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. Because
she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about
it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have
seen anything of it. At least, no more attention was paid to her than
before. At the same time there seemed very little in her part. It
consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little
Quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be
made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had
been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out.

"Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go the first
week we will cut it out."

Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her
part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the dress
rehearsal she was disconsolate.

"That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curious
effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her to frown a
little more when Sparks dances."

Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between
her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.

"Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager.

Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke.

"No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before."

Carrie looked at him in astonishment.

"I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see
how it looks."

It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so
quaint and droll it caught even the manager.

"That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I think it will
take."

Going over to Carrie, he said:

"Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'll make
the part really funny."

On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to her
part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her
in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were
riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars.

In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with
its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, grey-suited,
sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general idea was that
she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at
all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at
the other, the audience began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the
front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was
the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All
the gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital.

At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed
a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the
place came for loud applause it was only moderate. What could be the
trouble? He realised that something was up.

All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was frowning
alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and laughing.

"By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm not going to
have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that when I do my
turn or I quit."

"Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came. "That's
what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to that."

"But she ruins my work."

"No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only a little
fun on the side."

"It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand all right.
I'm not going to stand that."

"Well, wait until after the show. Wait until to-morrow. We'll see what
we can do."

The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief
feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more
it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint,
teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed while on the
stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.

The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were
long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with
recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was
repeatedly emphasised.


"Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work
ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the stage critic of the "Sun."
"It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms like good wine.
Evidently the part was not intended to take precedence, as Miss Madenda
is not often on the stage, but the audience, with the characteristic
perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. The little Quakeress was
marked for a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily
held attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed
curious."


The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish a catch
phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising: "If you
wish to be merry, see Carrie frown."

The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was concerned.
Even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the
manager.

"You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This is
delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own."

The author also sent word.

That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most
pleasant greeting for her.

"Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a little
song, which he would like you to sing next week."

"Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie.

"It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very simple,' he
says, 'and would suit you exactly.'"

"Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly.

"Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you
dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matter I
want to speak to you about."

"Certainly," replied Carrie.

In that latter place the manager produced a paper.

"Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the matter of
salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for
the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred and
fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?"

"Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.

"Supposing, then, you just sign this."

Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,
with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand
trembling from excitement she affixed her name.

"One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again alone.
She found, after all--as what millionaire has not?--that there was no
realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a
shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities.

Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read
the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first realising
who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing
over again.

"That's her, all right, I guess," he said.

Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.

"I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny,
plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its
carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its splendid
gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. She seemed
a creature afar off--like every other celebrity he had known.

"Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her."

It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.

 Carrie's settling into her new digs and wondering what Hurstwood is thinking about her departure. She goes to the theater and fears he might be there, but he's not. She remains scared for the next few days that he might show up at the theater, but he doesn't and the fear passes. Carrie has been reading "the theatrical papers," which are basically the late nineteenth century's version of celebrity-obsessed magazines like US Weekly or People. She thinks it would be awesome to open up one of these magazines and see herself mentioned someday. And then one day, she does. Okay, it's not a five-page spread or anything--just a couple of lines announcing her part as a country maid in "The Wives of Abdul"--but she's totally psyched. She's also super happy that she can spend all of the money she earns on clothes, fancy food, and pimping out her new room. Plus, thanks to her rising-star status, she's suddenly surrounded by new friends and dudes who can't wait to take her out. And then--oh my--Carrie's picture turns up in one of the theatrical papers. She's going to have to hold back the paparazzi now. But there's trouble in paradise as Carrie realizes that while she may have the equivalent of a thousand Twitter followers, she has no real companionship. The show Carrie's in is about to go on the road, but Lola convinces her that going on the road is a bad idea and that they'd be better off auditioning for another local show. They audition and get the parts. Carrie's role is pretty small, but she makes the most of it and becomes an audience favorite. This seems to backfire though: she ends up stealing the show and one of the hotshot stars of the play threatens to quit if the manager doesn't fire her. The manager likes Carrie's performance so much that he keeps her, though, and she gets more publicity in the papers. The manager is so thrilled that he gives her a song to sing in the production and a big time raise . Abruptly shifting gears, we switch over to Hurstwood, who is now living in "a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel"... which is about as bad as it sounds. He's been reading about Carrie in the paper, but you won't find him hunting her down for a piece of the action. No sir--despite his financial woes, his pride kicks in and he resolves not to bug her.

