The Big Show
ON the February day appointed for the Morning Glory theatricals, the sun
shone brightly--all nature was the same, but in Manville the day seemed
different. Expectancy was in the air, and suppressed excitement in the
heads of those possessing a bit of yellow pasteboard that entitled them
to admission to the "Big Show." The men paused often at their work to
talk of the event, and the women, especially the members of the club,
forgot their families, their housework--everything except the
approaching event.
Early in the morning a half-dozen of the club-women were at the hall
superintending the unloading and disposition of a load of furniture
which had been collected from the homes of particularly enthusiastic
members. This unavoidable inconvenience, which usually accompanies other
preparations for amateur theatricals, was especially necessary in this
case in order that the barren stage might be properly dressed, and the
shabby scenery saved from loneliness. The whole club turned out in the
afternoon, and the hall and stage became a scene of bustling,
chattering confusion. As the crisis approached Miss Sawyer, as stage
directress, failed in her attempts to control the situation, and Mrs.
Tweedie, "the powerful," as she was now called by many, assumed command,
and became more dignified and dictatorial than ever.
At six o'clock the stage was set for the first scene, and some of the
ladies were nervously pacing the creaking boards, book in hand,
muttering their lines, and gesticulating ridiculously in a final
spasmodic effort. In a corner of the hall Miss Sawyer was murmuring to a
bunch of withered flowers; in an anteroom Mrs. Stout was being coached
by Mrs. Jones in the pronunciation of some difficult words, and in a
corridor Mrs. Thornton was trying to console Mrs. Darling, whose costume
had not arrived.
The doors were opened to the public at seven o'clock, with Ezra Tweedie
on guard to take tickets, and his son Tommy to distribute programmes.
Ezra was smilingly happy because it was the first time for years that he
had been permitted to do anything in public. He would have missed this
chance if Mrs. Tweedie could have arranged in any other way to keep in
touch with the box office. The public was ready when the doors were
opened, and charged unceremoniously upon Ezra, Tommy, and the lady
ushers, with pinks in their hair, all of whom had more than they could
properly do during the next hour. At eight o'clock the hall was filled
with the "best" people in Manville, and some of the worst--worst,
perhaps, only because they did not have the price of a seat in the front
rows. The last person to enter was Sam Billings, who acted as though he
did not care to have his presence known. Ezra scowled harmlessly as he
took his ticket. Sam peeked cautiously into the hall, then turned to
Ezra with a triumphant look and whispered: "Advertisin' pays, don't it?"
Twenty minutes after the time advertised for the performance to begin
the audience was suddenly hushed to a funereal stillness by Mrs.
Tweedie's two bells--she would have things shipshape, and succeeded,
barring the orchestra, which had been found to be too expensive. The
curtain was encouraged on its ascent by the strains of "My Old Kentucky
Home," played on the piano by a Miss Bean, a member of Mr. Flint's
church, who, in a spirit of fashionable recklessness in regard to her
pastor's opinion, had consented to play. Despite the music, perhaps
because of it, the curtain balked when half-way up, then stuck fast.
While the cause of the trouble was being investigated, accompanied by
the sound of hurrying footsteps and loud whispers from "behind the
scenes," Miss Bean continued to play "My Old Kentucky Home." When she
was approaching the end of the piece for the sixth time, the curtain was
yanked up sufficiently for the audience to get a two-thirds view of the
stage.
The curtain certainly acted badly, but it was a star in comparison with
the majority of the performers. It was fully three minutes after the
curtain was raised before Mrs. Stout, as the Duke in the trial scene
from the "Merchant of Venice," entered, followed by her "soot" in single
file. Ten minutes later everybody knew that those who had said that the
people of Manville would not, or could not, appreciate Shakespeare, did
not know what they were talking about.
The scene was a decided hit, and was talked about for years afterward as
the funniest thing that ever happened in Manville.
The balcony scene, from "Romeo and Juliet," which followed, performed by
Fanny Tweedie as Juliet, and Mrs. Darling, in a rainy-day skirt, as
Romeo, was more like real acting. It was enjoyed by the audience, but
not uproariously.
Then came the scene from the "Lady of Lyons" in which Pauline discovers
that she is the victim of a trick. Fanny and Mrs. Blake played well, but
Barbara's costume and her appearance caused a murmur of amazement. When
she spoke, however, the pathos of the conscience-stricken lover rang so
true that the gaping audience was instantly stilled. For the moment men
and women alike were fascinated, though not many really approved, and
for this there was little cause for wonder. Barbara's costume was new to
Manville, and a surprise even to the club-women. As Fanny Tweedie had
wished, it was "unexpected;" yet it was worn innocently and with pure
thought, although that was something difficult for the narrow-minded to
understand.
The closing feature of the entertainment was the production of Miss
Sawyer's original play, "Yellow Roses" ("First time on any stage"),
which withered and died a painless death.
The curtain fell--part way--at eleven-thirty, with the audience "all
present."
Despite the contrariness of the curtain, the lapses of memory, the long
waits, and the slowly taken cues, the people of Manville enjoyed the
"Big Show."
When the audience had gone, Mrs. Stout, with wrinkled forehead, sat at a
table counting the proceeds as best she could with some one asking every
moment, "How much did we make?" Many of the ladies looked grave and were
acting strangely. There was much whispering going on, but it ceased
suddenly when Barbara and Fanny came from the dressing-room ready to go
home.
"You're the star, Miss Wallace," called Mrs. Stout, when she saw them.
Barbara stopped before her and smiled. "And your costume," she
continued, "was just the sweetest I ever saw."
At that moment Mrs. Tweedie approached, her face showing intense anger.
"What are the receipts, Mrs. Stout?" she asked, sharply.
"I don't know yet," Mrs. Stout replied. "I was just tellin' Miss Wallace
how much I liked her costume. Did you ever see anything just like it?"
"Never!" thundered Mrs. Tweedie.
"Why, didn't you think it was pretty?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise.
"It was indecent!" hissed Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at Barbara.
Everybody was looking and listening, but, excepting Fanny, too
astonished to speak.
"Mother, how can you!" she exclaimed, indignantly, but Mrs. Tweedie
walked quickly into the dressing-room, and slammed the door.
"Well, of all the tigeresses!" gasped Mrs. Stout.
Barbara was stunned. Fanny led her from the building, and on the way
home tried to make amends for her mother's anger. But Barbara
understood--the consciousness of her mistake had come like a blow in the
face. Oh, if Will were only here, she thought. He had written that he
could not come to the performance, but had sent all sorts of good wishes
for her success. She needed him now more than she had ever needed a
friend before.
The Tweedie family, excepting Tommy, argued long and late that night
concerning Barbara and her costume. Mrs. Tweedie was the minority, but
she won, and her decision was that Barbara must quit their roof the next
day.