Show Boat (17 page)

True to the melodramatic tradition of her environment, she left a note for Schultzy, written in a flourishing Spencerian hand that made up, in part, for the spelling. She was gone. He need not try to follow her or find her or bring her back. She was going to star at the head of her own company and play Camille and even Juliet. He had promised her. She was good and sick and tired of this everlasting flopping up and down the rivers. She wouldn’t go back to it, no matter what. Her successor could have her wardrobe. They had bookings through Iowa, Illinois, Missouri, and Kansas. She might even get to New York. (Incredibly enough, she did actually play Juliet through the Mid-west, to audiences of the bewildered yokelry.) She was sorry to leave Cap in the lurch like this. And she would close, and begged to remain his loving Wife (this inked out but still decipherable)—begged to remain, his truly, Elly Chipley. Just below this signature the added one
of Lenore La Verne, done in tremendous sable down-strokes and shaded curlecues, especially about the L’s.

It was a crushing blow for Schultzy, who loved her. Stricken, he thought only of her happiness. “She can’t get along without me,” he groaned. Then, in a stunned way, “Juliet!” There was nothing of bitterness or rancour in his tone; only a dumb despairing wonder. “Juliet! And she couldn’t play Little Eva without making her out a slut.” He pondered this a moment. “She’s got it into her head she’s Bernhardt, or something.… Well, she’ll come back.”

“Do you mean to say you’d take her back!” Parthy demanded.

“Why, sure,” Schultzy replied, simply. “She never packed a trunk in her life, or anything. I done all those things for her. Some ways she’s a child. I guess that’s how she kept me so tight. She needed me all the time.… Well, she’ll come back.”

Captain Andy sent to Chicago for an ingénue lead. It was then, pending her arrival, that Magnolia stepped into the breach—the step being made, incidentally, over what was practically Parthy’s dead body. For at Magnolia’s calm announcement that she knew every line of the part and all the business, her mother stormed, had hysterics, and finally took to her bed (until nearly time for the rise of the curtain). The bill that night was The Parson’s Bride. Show-boat companies to this day still tell the story of what happened during that performance on the
Cotton Blossom
.

They had two rehearsals, one in the morning, another that lasted throughout the afternoon. Of the company,
Magnolia was the calmest. Captain Andy seemed to swing, by invisible pulleys, from the orchestra pit below to Parthy’s chamber above. One moment he would be sprawled in the kerosene footlights, his eyes deep in wrinkles of delight, his little brown paws scratching the mutton-chop whiskers in a frenzy of excitement.

“That’s right. That’s the stuff! Elly never give it half the——’Scuse me, Schultzy—I didn’t go for to hurt your feelings, but by golly, Nollie! I wouldn’t of believed you had it in you, not if your own mother told——” Then, self-reminded, he would cast a fearful glance over his shoulder, that shoulder would droop, he would extricate himself from the welter of footlights and music racks and prompt books in which he squatted, and scamper up the aisle. The dim outline of a female head in curl papers certainly could not have been seen peering over the top of the balcony rail as he fancied, for when he had clattered up the balcony stairs and had gently turned the knob of the bedroom door, there lay the curl-papered head on the pillow of the big bed, and from it issued hollow groans, and plastered over one cheek of it was a large moist white cloth soaked in some pungent and nostril-pricking stuff. The eyes were closed. The whole figure was shaken by shivers. Mortal agony, you would have said (had you not known Parthy), had this stricken and monumental creature in its horrid clutches.

In a whisper—“Parthy!”

A groan, hollow, heartrending, mortuary.

He entered, shut the door softly, tiptoed over to the bed, laid a comforting brown paw on the shivering
shoulder. The shoulder became convulsive, the shivers swelled to heaves. “Now, now, Parthy! What you taking on so for? God A’mighty, person’d think she’d done something to shame you instead of make you mighty proud. If you’d see her! Why, say, she’s a born actress.”

The groans now became a wail. The eyes unclosed. The figure raised itself to a sitting posture. The sopping rag rolled limply off. Parthy rocked herself to and fro. “My own daughter! An actress! That I should have lived to see this day!… Rather have … in her grave … why I ever allowed her to set foot on this filthy scow …”

“Now, Parthy, you’re just working yourself up. Matter of fact, that time Mis’ Means turned her ankle and we thought she couldn’t step on it, you was all for going on in her part, and I bet if Sophy Means hadn’t tied up her foot and gone on like a soldier she is, we’d of had you acting that night. You was rarin’ to. I watched you.”

“Me! Acting on the stage! Not that I couldn’t play better than any Sophy Means, and that’s no compliment. A poor stick if I couldn’t.” But her defence lacked conviction. Andy had surprised a secret ambition in this iron-armoured bosom.

“Now, come on! Cheer up! Ought to be proud your own daughter stepping in and saving us money like this. We’d of closed. Had to. God knows when that new baggage’ll get here, if she gets here at all. What do you think of that Chipley! Way I’ve treated that girl, if she’d been my own daughter—well!… 
How’d you like a nice little sip of whisky, Parthy? Then you come on down give Nollie a hand with her costumes. Chipley’s stuff comes up on her like ballet skirts.—Now, now, now! I didn’t say she—— Oh, my God!”

Parthy had gone off again into hysterics. “My own daughter! My little girl!”

The time for severe measures had come. Andy had not dealt with actresses for years without learning something of the weapons with which to fight hysteria.

“All right. I’ll give you something to screech for. The boys paraded this noon with a banner six feet long and red letters a foot high announcing the Appearance Extraordinaire of Magnolia the Mysterious Comedy Tragedienne in The Parson’s Bride. I made a special spiel on the corner. We got the biggest advance sale we had this season. Yessir! Doc’s downstairs raking it in with both hands and you had the least bit of gumption in you, instead of laying here whining and carrying on, you’d——”

“What’s the advance?” spake up Parthy, the box-office expert.

“Three hundred; and not anywheres near four o’clock.”

With one movement Parthy had flung aside the bedclothes and stepped out of bed revealing, rather inexplicably, a complete lower costume including shoes.

Andy was off, down the stairs, up the aisle, into the orchestra pit just in time to hear Magnolia say, “Schultzy,
please!
Don’t throw me the line like that, I know it. I didn’t stop because I was stuck.”

“What’d you stop for, then, and look like you’d seen spooks!”

“I stopped a-purpose. She sees her husband that she hates and that she thought was dead for years come sneaking in, and she wouldn’t start right in to talk. She’d just stand there, kind of frozen and stiff, staring at him.”

“All right, if you know so much about directing go ahead and di——”

She ran to him, threw her arms about him, hugged him, all contrition. “Oh, Schultzy, don’t be mad. I didn’t go to boss. I just wanted to act it like I felt. And I’m awfully sorry about Elly and everything. I’ll do as you say, only I just can’t help thinking, Schultzy dear, that she’d stand there, staring kind of silly, almost.”

“You’re right. I guess my mind ain’t on my work. I ought to know how right you are. I got that letter Elly left for me, I just stood there gawping with my mouth open, and never said a word for I don’t know how long—— Oh, my God!”

“There, there, Schultzy.”

By a tremendous effort (the mechanics of which were not entirely concealed) Schultzy, the man, gave way to Harold Westbrook, the artist.

“You’re right, Magnolia. That’ll get ’em. You standing there like that, stunned and pale.”

“How’ll I get pale, Schultzy?”

“You’ll feel pale inside and the audience’ll think you are.” (The whole art of acting unconsciously expressed by Schultzy.) “Then Frank here has his
sneery speech—
so
and so and
so
and so and
so
and so—and thought you’d marry the parson, huh? And then you open up with your big scene—
so
and so and
so
and so and
so
and so——”

Outwardly calm, Magnolia took only a cup of coffee at dinner, and Parthy, for once, did not press her to eat. That mournful matron, though still occasionally shaken by a convulsive shudder, managed her usual heartening repast and actually spent the time from four to seven lengthening Elly’s frocks for Magnolia and taking them in to fit the girl’s slight frame.

Schultzy made her up, and rather overdid it so that, as the deserted wife and school teacher and, later, as the Parson’s prospective bride, she looked a pass between a healthy Camille and Cleopatra just before she applied the asp. In fact, in their effort to bridge the gap left by Elly’s sudden flight, the entire company overdid everything and thus brought about the cataclysmic moment which is theatrical show-boat history.

Magnolia, so sure of her lines during rehearsal, forgot them a score of times during the performance and, had it not been for Schultzy, who threw them to her unerringly and swiftly, would have made a dismal failure of this, her first stage appearance. They were playing Vidallia, always a good show-boat town. The house was filled from the balcony boxes to the last row downstairs near the door, from which point very little could be seen and practically nothing heard. Something of the undercurrent of excitement which pervaded the
Cotton Blossom
troupe seemed to seep through the audience; or perhaps even an audience so
unsophisticated as this could not but sense the unusual in this performance. Every one of the troupe—Schultzy, Mis’ Means, Mr. Means, Frank, Ralph, the Soapers (Character Team that had succeeded Julie and Steve)—all were trembling for Magnolia. And because they were fearful for her they threw themselves frantically into their parts. Magnolia, taking her cue (literally as well as figuratively) from them, did likewise. As ingénue lead, her part was that of a young school mistress earning her livelihood in a little town. Deserted some years before by her worthless husband, she learns now of his death. The town parson has long been in love with her, and she with him. Now they can marry. The wedding gown is finished. The guests are invited.

This is her last day as school teacher. She is alone in the empty schoolroom. Farewell, dear pupils. Farewell, dear schoolroom, blackboard, erasers, water-bucket, desk, etc. She picks up her key. But what is this evil face in the doorway! Who is this drunken, leering tramp, grisly in rags, repulsive—— My God! You! My husband!

(Never was villain so black and diabolical as Frank. Never was heroine so lovely and frail and trembling and helpless and white—as per Schultzy’s directions. As for Schultzy himself, the heroic parson, very heavily made up and pure yet brave withal, it was a poor stick of a maiden who wouldn’t have contrived to get into some sort of distressing circumstance just for the joy of being got out of it by this godly yet godlike young cleric.)

Frank, then: “I reckon you thought I was dead.
Well, I’m about the livest corpse you ever saw.” A diabolical laugh. “Too damn bad you won’t be able to wear that new wedding dress.”

Pleadings, agony, despair.

Now his true villainy comes out. A thousand dollars, then, and quick, or you don’t walk down the aisle to the music of no wedding march.

“I haven’t got it.”

“No! Where’s the money you been saving all these years?”

“I haven’t a thousand dollars. I swear it.”

“So!” Seizes her. Drags her across the room. Screams. His hand stifles them.

Unfortunately, in their very desire to help Magnolia, they all exaggerated their villainy, their heroism, their business. Being a trifle uncertain of her lines, Magnolia, too, sought to cover her deficiencies by stressing her emotional scenes. When terror was required her face was distorted with it. Her screams of fright were real screams of mortal fear. Her writhings would have wrung pity from a fiend. Frank bared his teeth, chortled like a maniac. He wound his fingers in her long black hair and rather justified her outcry. In contrast, Schultzy’s nobility and purity stood out as crudely and unmistakably as white against black. Nuances were not for show-boat audiences.

So then, screams, protestations, snarls, ha-ha’s, pleadings, agony, cruelty, anguish.

Something—intuition—or perhaps a sound from the left upper box made Frank, the villain, glance up. There, leaning over the box rail, his face a mask of
hatred, his eyes glinting, sat a huge hairy backwoodsman. And in his hand glittered the barrel of a businesslike gun. He was taking careful aim. Drama had come late into the life of this literal mind. He had, in the course of a quick-shooting rough-and-tumble career, often seen the brutal male mishandling beauty in distress. His code was simple. One second more and he would act on it.

Frank’s hand released his struggling victim. Gentleness and love overspread his features, dispelling their villainy. To Magnolia’s staring and open-mouthed amazement he made a gesture of abnegation. “Well, Marge, I ain’t got nothin’ more to say if you and the parson want to get married.” After which astounding utterance he slunk rapidly off, leaving the field to what was perhaps the most abject huddle of heroism that every graced a show-boat stage.

The curtain came down. The audience, intuitively glancing toward the upper box, ducked, screamed, or swore. The band struck up. The backwoodsman, a little bewildered but still truculent, subsided somewhat. A trifle mystified, but labouring under the impression that this was, perhaps, the ordinary routine of the theatre, the audience heard Schultzy, in front of the curtain, explaining that the villain was taken suddenly ill; that the concert would now be given free of charge; that each and every man, woman, and child was invited to retain his seat. The backwoodsman, rather sheepish now, took a huge bite of Honest Scrap and looked about him belligerently. Out came Mr. Means to do his comic Chinaman. Order reigned on
one side of the footlights at least, though behind the heaving Venetian lagoon was a company saved from collapse only by a quite human uncertainty as to whether tears or laughter would best express their state of mind.