Harry Golden
I love the theatre and everybody connected with it, from actor to stagehand. I believe, however, that this business of "the show must go on" has been overdone a bit. Not that I doubt the truth behind this tradition. I know that performers have faced their audiences with deep sorrow in their hearts, with news of some terrible personal disaster. I rise up to applaud. But I do not applaud actors alone. I applaud people. All people. Life itself. For everybody, the show must go on. How many working men have come home from the cemetery where they had just buried a child and sat right down at their workbenches, machines, and lathes? How many housewives pitch in to get the children ready for school, do the household chores, with breaking backs, migraine, and perhaps a personal sorrow, too? The show must go on. Noy only for actors, but also for all of us. We dare not stop "the show" for a single moment.
A few days after my mother died I was behind the counter of my brother's hotel and a guest began to cold me because his laundry hadn't come back on time. For a fleeting moment, I had follishly expected the world to stand still and pay homage to my mother. I checked my mounting anger in the nick of time. "Of course," I said, "this man is blameless. He's interested in his laudary. He's interested in now, in living, in life."
I am indebted to Dr. Frank Kingdon for my interest in the poetry of Sir Rabindranath Tagore. The great Hindu poet tells us a story in exquisite poetry. His servant did not arrive on time. Like so many philosophers and poets, Tagore was helpless when it came to the less important things in life, his personal wants, his clothes, his breakfast, and tidying up the place. An hour went by and Tagore was getting angrier by the minute. He thought of all sorts of punishments for the man. Three hours later Tagore no longer thought of punishment. He'd discharge the man without any further ado. Finally the man turned up. It was midday. Without a word, the servant proceeded with his duties as though nothing had happened. He picked up the master's clothes, set to making breakfast and started cleaning up. Tagore watched this performance with mounting rage. Finally he said it: "Drop everything, and get out." The man, however, continued sweeping and, after another few moments, with quiet dignity he said: "My little girl died last night." The show must go on.Â