People of the Whirlpool: From The Experience Book of a Commuter's WifeWright, Mabel Osgood
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People of the Whirlpool: From The Experience Book of a Commuter's Wife
Wright, Mabel Osgood
Diary fiction; Epistolary fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
It is a great deal to be surrounded by an audience all thoroughly in the
mood to be swayed by the emotion of the piece, plain people, perhaps, but
solidly honest. Directly in front sat a young couple; the girl, in a
fresh white silk waist, wore so fat and new a wedding ring upon her
ungloved hand, which the man held in a tight grip, that I surmised that
this trip into stageland was perhaps their humble wedding journey, from
which they would return to "rooms" made ready by jubilant relatives, eat
a wonderful supper, and begin life.
The next couple were not so entirely _en rapport_. The girl, who wore
a gorgeous garnet engagement ring, also very new, merely rested her
hand on her lover's coat sleeve where she could see the light play
upon the stones.
When, after the first act, in answer to hearty rounds of applause, varied
with whistles and shouts from the gallery, the characters stepped
forward, not in the unnatural string usual in more genteel play-houses,
where victor and vanquished join hands and bow, but one by one, each
being greeted by cheers, hisses, or groans, according to the part, and
when the villain appeared I found myself groaning with the rest, and
though Evan laughed, I know he understood.
After it was over, as we went out into the night, Evan headed toward
Sixth Avenue instead of homeward.
"May I ask where we are going now?" said Miss Lavinia, meekly. She had
really enjoyed the play, and I know I heard her sniff once or twice at
the proper time, though of course I pretended not to.
"Going?" echoed Evan. "Only around the corner to get three fries in a
box, with the usual pickle and cracker trimmings, there being no
restaurant close by that you would care for; then we will carry them home
and have a little supper in the pantry, if your Lucy has not locked up
the forks and taken the key to bed. If she has, we can use wooden
toothpicks."
At first Miss Lavinia seemed to feel guilty at the idea of disturbing
Lucy's immaculate pantry at such an hour; but liberty is highly
infectious. She had spent the evening out without previous intent; the
next step was to feel that her soul was her own on her return. She
unlocked the forks, Evan unpacked the upstairs ice-chest for the dog's
head bass that wise women always have when they expect visiting
Englishmen, even though they are transplanted and acclimated ones, and
she ate the oysters, still steaming from their original package, with
great satisfaction. After we had finished Miss Lavinia bravely declared
her independence of Lucy. The happy don't-care feeling produced by
broiled oysters and bass on a cold night is a perfect revelation to
people used to after-theatre suppers composed of complications, sticky
sweets, and champagne.
When we had finished I thought for a moment that she showed a desire to
conceal the invasion by washing the dishes, but she put it aside, and we
all went upstairs together.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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