Barter Theatre
Screen 1 of 3"Why in Heaven's Name Did They Send You?"
"Mr. Porterfield, my name is Chester Travelstead. I have just arrived from New York. Mrs. McKee and Mr. Sax sent me. I expect one of them has already called you about my joining the Barter Theatre Company."
Bob Porterfield seemed stunned. "Joining the company!" he exclaimed. "Why in heaven's name did they send you? We don't need you. We cannot take on anyone else. Our complement is full." He was obviously exasperated.
"But they said. .," I began, but was abruptly interrupted. "I don't care what they said. I am in charge of this company, and I say we don't need you!"
An awkward silence followed. We were both embarrassed, neither of us knowing quite what to say. This break in our conversation gave me a moment to observe this man. Although he was still seated in his desk chair, I could tell he was a big man -- not fat but tall and strongly built. His full shock of wavy brown hair tumbled down over one eye as he looked at me almost angrily. He was strikingly handsome, with high cheek bones and piercing black eyes that were still squinted in disbelief that I was there upon the assumption I could join his company.
But in a few moments when he realized this situation was not of my doing, he gradually relaxed and then smiled at me sympathetically. It was a broad and contagious smile, prompting me to respond with one of my own -- perhaps a bit weak and not as broad as his, but still a smile. The ice was broken. Both of us breathed more easily.
What this man did and said next gave me the first indication of what later I learned to be true: he was innately a kind and caring person. In an ingratiating tone of voice and while smiling directly at me, he quietly spoke. "Please put your suitcase there in the corner, Mr. Travelstead (he even pronounced my name correctly), hang your raincoat on that hall tree, and have a seat by the window. You must be very tired after such a long trip. I assume you came by bus." I nodded in response and sat down, while he told me that just two weeks before he had made that same trip by Greyhound.
The view I had from the window of his modest office was beautiful. In front of this colonial-style brick building with white stone columns was an expansive and gently-rolling lawn of luscious bluegrass, serving as a soft carpet for several huge oaks and maples, all in full leaf. I just sat there quietly for a moment and enjoyed this peaceful scene before me.
"These surroundings are very restful," I observed as he rose from his desk and came closer to the window, where he could look over my shoulder at the front yard and entrance sign which read "Barter Theatre" in bold letters at the top and "Formerly Martha Washington College" immediately below. In an obvious effort to put me more at ease -- and perhaps also to compensate for his initial irritation --Mr. Porterfield began to speak somewhat wistfully. "Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it? Quite a relief from the hustle and bustle of Times Square." Then while standing tall and erect directly behind me he related briefly the woes of what until recently had been Martha Washington College. It had been forced to close its doors, he said, just a few months earlier, because of dire financial troubles brought on by the Great Depression.
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