The show must go on
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 as it concerns the acting profession. Not that I doubt the
truth behind this tradition. I know very well that performers have faced their
audiences with deep sorrow in their hearts.; with news of some terrible
personal disaster, and as in Pagliacii the clown bravely goes on with the show;
“Laugh with the sorrow that’s breaking your heart.”
I rise up to applaud. But I do not applaud actors alone. I applaud people. All
people. Life itself. Everybody goes out on “the stage” with sorrow in his
heart. For everybody, the show must go on. How many working man 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 marketing and
household chores, with breaking backs, migraine headaches, and perhaps a
personal sorrow, too? THE SHOW MUST GO ON. Not only for actors, but 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 bawled me out because his laundry hadn’t come back on
time. For a fleeting moment I had foolishly 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
laundry- 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 a story in exquisite poetry.
His servant did not come 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 madder 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 further ado, get rid
of him, turn him out.
Finally the man showed up. It was midday. Without a word the servant
proceeded with his duties as though nothing has happened. He picked up his
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.