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diff --git a/15120-8.txt b/15120-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a695a33 --- /dev/null +++ b/15120-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1803 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology +by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Broadway Anthology + +Author: Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton + +Release Date: February 21, 2005 [EBook #15120] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + +The +Broadway Anthology + + +BY + +EDWARD L. BERNAYS +SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN +WALTER J. KINGSLEY +MURDOCK PEMBERTON + + +NEW YORK +DUFFIELD & COMPANY +1917 + + + + +Copyright, 1917 +BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY + + +VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY +BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK + + + + +Acknowledgment is due to the _New York Evening +Post_, _Sun_, _Times_, _Tribune_, the _Boston Transcript_ +and the _Wilmarth Publishing Company_ for their kind +permission to reprint some of the matter in this volume. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +EDWARD L. BERNAYS + +ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN +THE BARITONE +PATRIOTISM +THE PILLOW CASES +BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS +THE PRIMA DONNA +PRESS STORIES +THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT +TEARS +PHOTOGRAPHS + +SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN + +THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN DREAMS A DREAM +THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL COMEDY STAR +THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER +THE JESTER +IN A CAFE +TO A CABARET SINGER +IN THE THEATRE + +WALTER J. KINGSLEY + +LO, THE PRESS AGENT +FIRST NIGHTS +THE DRAMATIST +TYPES +GEORGE M. COHAN +DAVID BELASCO +LO, THE HEADLINER + +MURDOCK PEMBERTON + +THE SCREEN +BROADWAY--NIGHT +MATINEE +PAVLOWA +THE OLD CHORUS MAN +BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE +PRE-EMINENCE + + + + +EDWARD L. BERNAYS + + + + +ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN + +He was a burly Dutch tenor, +And I patiently trailed him in his waking and sleeping hours +That I might not lose a story,-- +But his life was commonplace and unimaginative-- +Air raids and abdications kept his activities, +(A game of bridge yesterday, a ride to Tarrytown), +Out of the papers. +I watchfully waited, +Yearning a coup that would place him on the +Musical map. +A coup, such as kissing a Marshal Joffre, +Aeroplaning over the bay, +Diving with Annette Kellerman. +Then for three days I quit the city +To get a simple contralto into the western papers. +Returning I entered my office; the phone jangled. +The burly tenor was tearfully sobbing and moaning over the wire; +Tremor and emotion choked his throat. +This was his ominous message: +A taxicab accident almost had killed him two and one half days ago; +He had escaped with his body and orchid-lined voice-- +And not a line in the mornings or evenings! +What could I do about it? +Accidents will happen. + + +THE BARITONE + +He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer. +His name had been blazoned over these United States, +And in Europe it was as well known. +Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet; +Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name. +In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago +At a festival where thousands were to foregather +To do praise to him and his voice. +Two days before he left, he came to his manager's office +With a sickly expression all over his rotund face +And a deathly gasp in his voice. +One thought he needed a doctor, +Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses. +He was ushered into the private office +To find out his trouble. +This was his lament in short; +A friend, in the hurry of the moment, +Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century +Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,-- +And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train. +So we got him tickets on another road +Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more, +And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States +And was as well known in Europe, +Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy. + + +PATRIOTISM + +The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men +Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch +For these were patriotic concerts, +Supported by the leading patriots of the town, +(Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer), +And all the musicians were getting union wages--and in the summer at that. +So they were patriotic too. +The Welsh conductor was also patriotic, +For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall, +But when the manager asked him to play a number +Designated as "Dixie," +He disposed of it shortly with the words: +"It is too trivial--that music." +And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,-- +(Because he was a Welshman).... +The audience left after the concert was over +And complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit" +By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts. + + +THE PILLOW CASES + +The train was due to arrive at eleven that night, +But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one. +The reporters of the leading dailies +Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star. +For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall, +And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon. +Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled. +What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets +Awaiting him impatiently at the station? +It's a bed he wants--any bed will do; +The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow. +But in cooking the news for the public +One a.m. is the same thing as noon day. +So they rushed the star with these questions: +"Not conscripted yet?..." +"How do you like this town?..." +"Will you give any encores tomorrow?..." +"When will the war end?..." +Ruthlessly he plowed through them, +Like a British tank at Messines. +The tenor wanted a bed, +But Lesville wanted a story.... +On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage, +Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content, +Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself. +Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage, +"Pillows and pillows and pillow...." was whispered, +"Tonight he will sleep on them." +Vulture-like swooped down the porters, +Bearing them off to the taxis. +Next morning the papers carried the story: +"Singer Transports His Own Bedding," +But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night. +The baggage held scores for the orchestra. + + +BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS + +He was the head of a large real estate firm, +And his avocation was seeking the good in a Better Industrial Relations Society. +They were going to have an exhibit in their church building, +At which it was to be proved +That giving a gold watch for an invention +That made millions for the factory owner +Was worthwhile. +But they needed a press agent +To let the world and themselves +Know that what they were doing was good. +I was chosen for the work, +But the head of the large real estate firm +Thought that half a column a day was too little +To record the fact that a cash register company +In which he owned stock +Had presented a medal to an employee who had remained with them +At the same salary for fifteen years. +So he had me fired. +And the Better Industrial Relations Exhibit was a great success. +And many of the morning and evening newspapers +Ran editorials about it. + + +THE PRIMA DONNA + +She had been interviewed at all possible times,-- +And sometimes the interviews came at impossible ones; +But it did not matter to her +As long as the stories were printed and her name was spelt correctly. +So we sent a photographer to the hotel one day +To take pictures of her in her drawing room. +He was an ungentle photographer +Who had been accustomed to take pictures of young women +Coming into the harbor on shipboard, and no photograph was complete +Without limbs being crossed or suchwise. +But she did not mind even that, +If the pictures were published the next day. +He took a great number of her in her salon, +And departed happy at the day's bagging. +A great international disturbance reduced all the white space available +And no photographs were printed the next day +Of the prima donna. +And when I met her at rehearsal, she said very shortly: +"Je vous ne parle plus" and looked at me harshly. +Was I to blame for the international situation? + + +PRESS STORIES + +Though bandsmen's notes from the street below resound, +And the voices of jubilant masses proclaim a glorious holiday, +I painstakingly pick out words on the typewriter, +By fits and starts, thinking up a story about the great Metropolitan tenor. +The typewriter keys now hold no rhythmic tingle. +But the local manager in Iowa wants the story. +He has engaged the great tenor for a date next March +When the Tuesday musicale ladies give their annual benefit for the Shriners. +He wants the concert to be such a success, +That his Iowan town will henceforth be in the foreground +Of Iowan towns, as far as music is concerned. +So he has wired in for this tale about the singer, +A story about his wife and baby, and what the baby eats per diem. +And though the call is to the street below, +Where jubilant masses proclaim the holiday, +I must finish the story about the tenor's wife and baby +To put the Iowan town in the foreground, as far as music is concerned. + + +THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT + +The Irish prize play had come back to Broadway. +Where to put the credit? On the astute manager +Who saw in it +A year of Broadway, two of stock, eternity in the movies; +Or the League of Public Spirited Women +Banded together to uplift the Drama-- +That was the question stirring dramatic circles and the public. +It had failed in its first run of three weeks at an uptown theatre +Miserably, +Despite glowing reviews in all the dailies. +But this come-back +At a Broadway theatre, with electric lights, and transient crowds +That would save it-- +Was the universal verdict. +During the first week there was a tremendous fight +Between the two factions for the +Distribution of credit, and some critics said +The League of Public Spirited Women was responsible +For bringing the play back, because they had bulletined it, +And others said it was the astute manager. +But no audience came to the play after the second week. +And it went to the storehouse. +No one fought any longer for +The distribution of credit. + + +TEARS + +Beads of perspiration on a hot summer's afternoon, +A hurry call from the Ritz, +Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour, +With twenty-four sheets and large heralds, +And a page or two in all the dailies.... +She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz, +Discussing with her husband, +Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina +Her new pet charity; +And she had called me in at this very moment, +Because she had struck a snag. +This was her charity: +She related with tears in her eyes, +What was she to do about it? +She received no response from the American public. +The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres +They were out of work--destitute-- +The theatres closed--and all the actors at the front. +But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands? +That was her query. +And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke +While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa-- +I sat and discussed the question. +And tears came to my eyes, +But my tears were wept for another reason. + + +PHOTOGRAPHS + +I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna. +They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine. +Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron; +He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair; +He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them. +I felt happy that I changed photographers. +I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate +Would bring glory and money to many. +I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises. +The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,-- +It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself; +But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed. +There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice; +It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies. +"How dare you use those terrible photographs?" +"What do you mean by insulting my beauty?" +There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,-- +I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna's voice. + + + + +SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN + + + + +THE THEATRE SCRUBWOMAN +DREAMS A DREAM + +When morning mingles with the gloom +On empty stage and twilit aisle, +She comes with rag and pan and broom +To work--and dream awhile. + +Illusion's laughter, fancy's tears, +The mimic loves of yesternight, +On empty stages of the years +Awake in the dim light. + +She cannot sweep the phantoms out-- +How sweet the sobbing violin!-- +She cannot put the ghosts to rout-- +How pale the heroine! + +Oh! valiant hero, sorely tried!-- +'Tis only dust that fills her eyes-- +But he shall have his lovely bride +And she her paradise! + +And she--the broom falls from her hands, +And is it dust that fills her eyes?-- +Shall go with him to golden lands +And find her paradise!-- + +The morning wrestles with the gloom +On silent stage and chilly aisle, +She takes her rag and pan and broom +To work--and dream awhile! + + +THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MUSICAL +COMEDY STAR + +The lady cannot sing a note, +There is a languor in her throat +Beyond all healing, +She does not act at all, it seems, +Except in early morning dreams-- +She lacks the feeling. + +Her feet are pretty, but methinks, +The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx +Could trip as lightly-- +And yet she is a regular, +Serene and well established star +Who twinkles nightly. + +And Solomon for all his stir, +Had not a single jewel on her, +Nor did his capers +Procure him even half the space +For publication of his face +In ancient papers. + +Her gowns, her furs, her limousines +Would catch the eye of stately queens +In any city-- +She cannot sing, or dance or act, +But then I have remarked the fact-- +Her feet are pretty. + + +THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE +MANAGER + +A moment since, the office boy, +Invisible as Night itself, +Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf +And tasted peace, without alloy. + +Secure from all the day's alarms, +Of boss and bell the very jinx, +He gazed immobile as the Sphinx +On pompous front and painted charms. + +Now out of interstellar space, +Beyond the sunlight and the storm, +Appears that lightning-laden form, +That toothful smile, that cryptic face. + +Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?-- +He was so hid from mortal eyes, +Perhaps he fell from paradise, +Perhaps they chased him out of hell. + +But now his heels show everywhere, +A dozen doors are opened wide, +He stands before, behind, beside, +He fills the ether and the air. + +Far quicker than a wink or beck, +Far sleeker than a juvenile, +He barely tops the giant smile +That wreathes his forehead and his neck. + +Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross! +Who wrought the shining miracle? +What magic cast the dazzling spell?-- +The star is here to see the boss! + + +THE JESTER + +All the fool's gold of the world, +All your dusty pageantries, +All your reeking praise of Self, +All your wise men's sophistries, +All that springs of golden birth, +Is not half the jester's worth! + +Who's the jester? He is one, +Who behind the scenes hath been, +Caught Life with his make-up off, +Found him but a harlequin +Cast to play a tragic part-- +And the two laughed, heart to heart! + + +IN A CAFÈ + +Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth, +Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester's mask on Truth; +And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die, +But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!" + +She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love, +And I said: "Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?" +And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die, +But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!" + + +TO A CABARET SINGER + +Painted little singer of a painted song, +Painted little butterfly of a painted day, +The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses, +The cold of your caresses, +I'll tell you what they say-- +"The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away, +The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses, +The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay." + +Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream, +Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray, +'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses) +'Tis not your sham sad poses +That tell your hollow day-- +The glass is at _my_ lips, but the wine is far away, +The music's in _my_ throat, but my soul no song discloses, +The laughter's on _my_ tongue, but my heart is clay. + + +IN THE THEATRE + +Weep not, fair lady, for the false, +The fickle love's rememberance, +What though another claim the waltz-- +The curtain soon will close the dance. + +Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet, +Wild moment of thy vanished bliss; +The longest scene as Time is fleet-- +The curtain soon will close the kiss. + +And thou, too vain, too flattered mime, +Drink deep the pleasures of thy day, +No ruin is too mean for Time-- +The curtain soon will close the play. + + + + +WALTER J. KINGSLEY + + + + +LO, THE PRESS AGENT + +By many names men call me-- +Press agent, publicity promoter, faker; +Ofttimes the short and simple liar. +Charles A. Dana told me +I was a buccaneer +On the high seas of journalism. +Many a newspaper business manager +Has charged me +With selling his space +Over his head. +Every one loves me +When I get his name into print-- +For this is an age of publicity +And he who bloweth not his own horn +The same shall not be blown. +I have sired, nursed and reared +Many reputations. +Few men or women have I found +Scornful of praise or blame +In the press. +The folk of the stage +Live on publicity, +Yet to the world they pretend to dislike it, +Though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it, +Ofttimes do that for it +Which must make the God Notoriety +Grin at the weakness of mortals. +I hold a terrible power +And sometimes my own moderation +Amazes me, +For I can abase as well as elevate, +Tear down as well as build up. +I know all the ways of fair speaking +And can lead my favorites +To fame and golden rewards. +There are a thousand channels +Through which press agency can exploit +Its star or its movement +Never obvious but like the submarine +Submersible beneath the sea +Of publicity. +But I know, too, of the ways +That undo in Manhattan. +There are bacilli of rumor +That slip through the finest of filters +And defy the remedial serums +Of angry denial. +Pin a laugh to your tale +When stalking your enemy +And not your exile nor your death +Will stay the guffaws of merriment +As the story flies +Through the Wicked Forties +And on to the "Road." +Laughter gives the rumor strong wings. +Truly the press agent, +Who knows his psychology, +Likewise his New York +In all of its ramifications, +And has a nimble wit, +Can play fast and loose +With the lives of many. +Nevertheless he has no great reward, +And most in the theatre +Draw fatter returns than he. +Yet is he called upon to make the show, +To save the show, +But never is he given credit +Comparable to that which falls +Upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer +Who mugs, mimes, or hoofs in a hit. +Yet is the press agent happy; +He loves his work; +It has excitement and intrigue; +And to further the cause of beautiful women, +To discover the wonderful girls of the theatre, +And lead them in progress triumphal +Till their names outface the jealous night, +On Broadway, in incandescents, +Is in itself a privilege. +That compensates +For the wisdom of the cub reporter, +The amusement of the seasoned editor, +Shredding the cherished story +And uprooting the flourishing "plant"; +Makes one forgive +The ingratitude of artists arrived. +They who do not love me +I hope to have fear me; +There is only one hell, +And that is to be disregarded. + + +FIRST NIGHTS + +August heat cannot weaken nor flivvers stale +Our first-night expectance when the new season opens. +Come on, boys and girls, the gang's all here; +The Death Watch is ready in orchestra chairs +Still shrouded in summer's cool slip pajamas, +And the undertakers of stage reputations +Are gathered to chatter about author and players, +And give them and their work disrespectful interment +By gleefully agreeing in that sage Broadway saying: +"Oh, what an awful oil can that piece turned out to be!" +It's hard when the Chanters of Death-House Blues +Have to turn to each other and reluctantly murmur: +"I'm afraid it's a hit--the poor fish is lucky." +First-nighters are the theatre's forty-niners, +Making the early rush to new dramatic gold fields, +And usually finding them barren. +Often must it madden the playwright to offer his ideals +To an audience whose personnel would for the most part +Regard an ideal as a symptom of sickness; +To show sweetness and beauty and color +To those whose knowledge of tints is confined +To the rouge and the lip stick on dressers; +To pioneer in playwrighting, to delve deep into mind, +When all that the first-nighters ask is plain entertainment. +How much of the great, wholesome public, hard-working and normal, +To whom the final appeal must be made +Frequents our first nights on Broadway? +Costumers, friends of the author, and critics, +Scene painters, all of the tradesmen concerned, +Kinsfolk of mummers even to the third generation, +Wine agents, hot-house ladies, unemployed players, +Hearty laughers or ready weepers "planted." +Most of them there prepare for a funeral; +Their diversion is nodding to friends and acquaintances, +And he or she who nods the most times +Is thereby the greatest first-nighter. +Some managers open to hand-picked audiences, +Others strive to escape the regulars; +But the majority seek for the standardized premier faces +That really mean so little in the life of the play. +Listen to the comments during intermission: +"It doesn't get over!" "It's a flop!" +"What atmosphere!" "An absolute steal!" +"Such originality!" "Not a bit life-like!" +"That author has a wonderful memory!" +"He copped that lyric from Irving Berlin!" +"He's as funny as a crutch or a cry for help!" +"They grabbed that number in London!" +"She's one of his tigers!" +"From a Lucile model, my dear, but home-made!" +"I can't hand him anything on this one!" +"Some heavy-sugar papa backed the production!" +"Isn't my boy wonderful!" +"Yes, but my girl is running away with the piece!" +"If you like this, you're not well!" +"What could be sweeter!" +"What large feet she has!" "His Adam's apple annoys me!" +"She must get her clothes on Avenue A!" +"They say she was born there!" +"What an awful sunburn!" +"Best thing in years!" "The storehouse for this one!" +"Did you catch her going up in her lines?" +"Yes, and he's fluffing all over the place!" +"Splendidly produced, don't you think?" +"I think the stage direction is rotten!" +So I suggest the old Roman fashion of presenting, +The artists, like gladiators crying: +"We, who are about to die, salute you!" + + +THE DRAMATIST + +I've put one over at last! +My play with the surprise finish is a bear. +Al Woods wants to read all of my scripts; +Georgie Cohan speaks to me as an equal +And the office boy swings the gate without being asked. +I don't care if the manager's name is as large as the play's +Or if the critics are featured all over the ash cans. +I'm going to get mine and I'm going to live. +A Rolls-Royce for me and trips "up the road," +Long Beach and pretty girls, big eats at the Ritz +And the ice pitcher for the fellows who snubbed me. +How the other reporters laughed +When I showed my first script and started to peddle! +"Stick to the steady job," they advised. +"Play writing is too big a gamble; +It will never keep your nose in the feed bag." +I wrote a trunkful of junk; did a play succeed, +I immediately copied the fashion; +Like a pilfering tailor I stole the new models. +Kind David Belasco, with his face in the gloom, +And mine brightly lighted, said ministerially: +"Rather crude yet, my boy, but the way to write a play +Is to write plays from sunrise to sunset +And rewrite them long after midnight. +Try, try, try, my boy, and God bless you." +Broke and disgusted, I became a play reader +And the "yessir man" to a manager. +I was a play doctor, too. +A few of my patients lived +And I learned about drama from them. +How we gutted the scripts! +Grabbing a wonderful line, a peach of a scene, +A gem of a finish +Out of the rubbish that struggling poor devils +Borrowed money to typewrite and mail to us. +It's like opening oysters looking for pearls, +But pearls are to be found and out of the shell heaps +Come jewels that, polished and set by a clever artificer, +Are a season's theatrical wonder. +Finally came my own big idea. +I wrote and rewrote and cast and recast, +Convinced the manager, got a production. +Here am I young and successful, +And Walter and Thomas and Selwyn have nothing on me. +Press agents are hired to praise me. +Watch for my next big sensation, +But meanwhile I hope that that play-writing plumber, +Who had an idea and nothing else, +Never sees this one. + + +TYPES + +They've got me down for a hick, bo, +Sam Harris says I'm the best boob in the biz, +And that no manager will cast me for anything else. +Curses on my hit in "'Way Down East" +That handcuffs me forever to yokels, +And me a better character actor than Corse Payton! +That's how it is they're stuck on types, +And the wise guy who plays anything +Isn't given a look-in. +Listen to me, young feller, and don't ever +Let 'em tab you for keeps as a type. +It's curtains for a career as sure as you're born. +Why, there's actors sentenced to comedy dog parts, +To Chinks, to Wops, to Frenchmen and fluffs. +There ain't no release for them. +The producers and managers can see only one angle, +And you may be a Mansfield or Sothern. +It's outrageous that's what it is, that make-up +And character acting should be thrown in the discard. +You can sit in an agent's office for months +Before a part comes along that you fit without fixin'. +This natural stuff puts the kibosh on art +And a stock training ain't what it used to be. +Say, if ever I rise to be hind legs of a camel +Or a bloodhound chasing Eliza, I'll kick or I'll bite +The type-choosing manager. + + +GEORGE M. COHAN + +Blessed be Providence +That gave us our Cohan; +Irreverent, +Resourceful, prolific, steady-advancing +George M. +Nothing in life +Better becomes him +Than his earliest choice +Of Jerry and Helen +For father and mother; +Bred in the wings and the dressing room, +The theatre alley his playground, +Hotels his home and his schoolhouse, +Blessed with a wonderful sister, +And in love with a violin. +From baby days used to the footlights, +With infrequent teachers of book lore +In the cities of lengthy engagements +Showing him pages of learning +That he turned from to life's open volume, +Acquiring indelible lessons, +Loyalty, candor, clear seeing, +Sincerity, plain speaking, love of his own, +Passion for all things American. +From Jerry, his father, +Came Celtic humor, delight in the dance, +And devotion to things of the theatre; +From Helen, his mother, +Depth, Celtic devotion to things of the spirit, +Fineness of soul. +Early he turned from his fiddle +To write popular songs +And tunes so whistly and catchy +That the music of a child +Enraptured the nation. +Then followed comedy sketches, +Gay little pieces that made public +And player-folk chatter of Cohan. +Later, essaying the musical comedy, +He wrote "Running for Office," +To be followed by that impudent +Classic of fresh young America, +"Little Johnnie Jones." +One followed another in rapid succession; +His name grew a cherished possession, +And ever his dancing delighted. +His manner of singing and speaking +Provoked to endless imitation. +His personality became better known +Then the President's. +Always he soared in ambition +And, becoming a lord of the theatre, +He ventured on serious drama, +And out of his wisdom and watching +Wrote masterful plays, +Envisaging the types of our natives. +Truly a genius, +Genius in friendship, genius in stagecraft, +Genius in life! +Even in choosing a partner +He fattened his average, +Batting four hundred +By taking a kindred irreverent soul, +Graduated out of the whirlpool +That wrecks all but the strongest, +Born on the eastern edge +Of Manhattan, +Sam H. Harris, man of business, +Who to the skill of the trader +Adds the joy in life +And the sense of humor, +Coupled with pleasure in giving +And helping +That Cohan demands of his pals. +Together they plan wonderful projects, +And the artist soul +And the soul of commerce +Are an unbeatable union. +Best of all about Cohan +Is his congenital manliness. +He sees Americans +As our soil and our air and our water +Have made them; +Types as distinct as the Indian. +He follows no school, +Knows little of movements artistic. +A lonely creator, +His friends are not writing men, +Reformers, uplifters or zealots. +He writes the life he has lived +So fully and zestfully, +And over it all plays like sheet lightning +A beneficent humor. +Growth is his hall-mark, +Hard work his chief recreation; +Not Balzac could toil with labor titanic +More terribly. +George M. Cohan, +Excelling in everything-- +Beloved son, brother, father, partner, friend, +Our best-beloved man of the theatre. + + +DAVID BELASCO + +King David of old slew the Philistines; +Our David has made them admirers and patrons; +He has numbered the people +Night after night in his theatres. +Will he ever, I wonder, send forth for the Shunammite? +Many there be who would answer his calling, +For he has shown ambitious fair women +To acting's high places. +As Rodin in marble saw wondrous creations +To be freed by the chisel, +So Belasco in immature genius and beauty +Sees the resplendent star to be kindled +At his own steady beacon. +Too varied a mind for our comprehension, +Too big and too broad and too subtle +To be understood of the bourgeois American +Whom he has led decade after decade +By a nose ring artistic. +Capable of everything, he has worked +With the ease of a master, giving the public +Marvelous detail, unfailing sensation and poses pictorial; +Preferring the certain success to arduous striving +For the more excellent things of the future. +Like David his forebear, a king but no prophet, +Amazingly wise in his own generation. +A wizard in art of the everyday, +Lord of the spotlight and dimmer, +But nursing the unconquerable hope, the inviolable shade +Of what in his dreams Oriental +He fain would do, did not necessity drive him. +His the fascination of a great personality. +Who knoweth not him of the clerical collar? +Hair of the sage and eyes of the poet, +Features perfectly drawn and as mobile +As those of the inspired actor; +With speech so much blander than honey +And insight that maketh his staged stumbling in bargains +Cover the shrewdness of a masterly trader. +None better than he knoweth the crowd and its likings, +As to using the patter of drama artistic, +That's where he lives. +With incense and color and scenery +He refilleth the bottle of art so that the contents +Go twice better than in the original package. +Thanks be to David for joy in the playhouse. +Wizard, magician, necromancer of switchboards, +He hath woven spells from the actual, +Keeping ideals and ideas well in the background. +Like Gautier, these things delight him: +Gold, marble and purple; brilliance, solidity, color. +He can stage Tiffany's jewels but not Maeterlinck's bees. +Deep in his soul there are tempests +Revealed in the storms of his dramas-- +Sandstorm and snowstorm, rainstorm and hurricane. +That nature revealed in its subtle reactions +Would show in its deeps the soul of an Angelo +Subdued to success and dyed by democracy. +Opportunism hath made him +An artistic materialist. +One work remains for David Belasco, +And that is to stage with patient precision +A cross section in drama of his own self-surprising, +Making the world sit up and take notice +With what "masterly detail," "unfailing atmosphere," +"Startling reality" he can star David Belasco. + + +LO, THE HEADLINER + +I was not raised for vaudeville. +Father and mother were veteran legits; +They loved the Bard and the "Lady of Lyons." +I was born on a show boat on the Cumberland; +I was carried on as a child +When the farm girl revealed her shame +On the night of the snowstorm. +The old folks died with grease paint on their faces. +I did a little of everything +Even to staking out a pitch in a street fair. +Hiram Grafter taught me to ballyhoo +And to make openings. +I stole the business of Billy Sunday +And imitated William Jennings Bryan. +I became famous in the small towns. +One day Poli heard me-- +He's the head of the New England variety circuit.-- +"Cul," he said, "you are a born monologist. +Where you got that stuff I don't know, +But you would be a riot in the two-a-day. +Quit this hanky-panky +And I'll make you a headliner." +Well, I fell for his line of talk +Like the sod busters had fallen for mine. +Aaron Hoffman wrote me a topical monologue; +Max Marx made me a suit of clothes; +And Lew Dockstader wised me up +On how to jockey my laughs. +I opened in Hartford; +Believe me, I was some scream. +I gave them gravy, and hokum, +And when they ate it up I came through +With the old jasbo, +Than which there is nothing so efficacious +In vaudeville, polite or otherwise. +The first thing I did I hollered for more dough, +And Poli says: +"That's what I get for feeding you meat, +But you are a riot all right, all right, +So I guess you are on for more kale." +I kept getting better. +I got so's I could follow any act at all +And get my laughs. +And he who getteth his laughs +Is greater than he who taketh a city. +At last the Palace Theatre sent for me +And I signed up for a week. +They kept me two. +I am a headliner; +I stand at the corner of Forty-seventh Street +And Little Old Broadway; +Throw out my chest, +Call the agents and vaudeville magnates +By their first names. +I am a HEADLINER with a home in Freeport. + + + + +MURDOCK PEMBERTON + + + + +THE SCREEN + +From midnight till the following noon +I stand in shadow, +Just a splotch of white, +Unnoted by the cleaning crew +Who've spent their hours of toil +That I might live again. +Yet they hold no reverence for my charms, +And if they pause amid their work +They do not glance at me; +All their admiration, all their awe, +Is for the gold and scarlet trappings of the home +That's built to house my wonders; +Or for the gorgeous murals all around, +Which really, after all, +Were put in place as most lame substitutes, +Striving to soothe the patron's ire +For those few moments when my face is dark. +Yes, men have built a palace sheltering me, +And as the endless ocean washes on its stretch of beach +The tides of people flow to me. + +All things I am to everyone; +The newsboys, shopgirls, +And all starved souls +Who've clutched at life and missed, +See in my magic face, +The lowly rise to fame and palaces, +See virtue triumph every time +And rich and wicked justly flayed. +Old men are tearful +When I show them what they might have been. +And others, not so old, +Bask in the sunshine of my fairy tales. +The lovers see new ways to woo; +And wives see ways to use old brooms. +Some nights I see the jeweled opera crowd +Who seem aloof but inwardly are fond of me +Because I've caught the gracious beauty of their pets. +Then some there are who watch my changing face +To catch new history's shadow +As it falls from day to day. +And at the noiseless tramp of soldier feet, +In time to music of the warring tribes, +The shadow men across my face +Seem living with the hope or dread +Of those who watch them off to wars. + +In sordid substance I am but a sheet, +A fabric of some fireproof stuff. +And yet, in every port where ships can ride, +In every nook where there is breath of life, +Intrepid men face death +To catch for me the fleeting phases of the world +Lest I lose some charming facet of my face. +And all the masters of all time +Have thrummed their harps +And bowed their violins +To fashion melodies that might be played +The while I tell my tales. +O you who hold the mirror up to nature, +Behold my cosmic scope: +I am the mirror of the whirling globe. + + +BROADWAY--NIGHT + +I saw the rich in motor cars +Held in long lines +Until cross-streams of cars flowed by; +I saw young boys in service clothes +And flags flung out from tradesmen's doors; +I saw some thousand drifting men +Some thousand aimless women; +I saw some thousand wearied eyes +That caught no sparkle from the myriad lights +Which blazoned everywhere; +I saw a man stop in his walk +To pet an old black cat. + + +MATINEE + +They pass the window +Where I sit at work, +In silks and furs +And boots and hats +All of the latest mode. +They chatter as they pass +Of various things +But hardly hear the words they speak +So tense are they +Upon a life they know begins for them +At 2:15. + +Within the theatre +The air is pungent with the mixed perfumes, +More scents than ever blew from Araby. +And there's a rapid hum +Of some six hundred secrets; +Then sudden hush +As tongues and violins cease. + +The play is on. + +There is a hastening of the beat +Of some six hundred hearts. +There're twitches soon about the lips, +And later copious tears +From waiting eyes; +But all this time +There are six hundred separate souls +The playwright's puppet has to woo, +To win, to humor, or to cajole, +Until, with master stroke +Of Devil knowledge, +Or old Adam's, +He crushes in his manful arms +The languid heroine +And forcing back her golden head +Implants the kiss. + +And then against his heaving breast +The hero feels the beatings of six hundred hearts +In mighty unison, +And on his lips there is the pulse +Of that one lingering kiss +Returned six-hundred fold. + + +PAVLOWA + +I was working on _The Daily News_ +When I first heard of her, +And from that time +Until the day she came to town +I longed to see her dance. +The night the dancer and her ballet came +The Desk assigned me to my nightly run +Of hotels, clubs, and undertakers' shops; +I was so green +I had not learned +The art of using telephones +To make it seem +That I was hot upon the trail of news +While loafing otherwhere. +How could I do my trick +And also see her dance? +So I left bread and butter flat, +To feast my eyes, which had been prairie-fed, +Upon this vision from another world. + +I'd seen the wind +Go rippling over seas of wheat; +I'd stood at night within a wood +And felt the pulse of growing things +Upon the April air; +I'd seen the hawks arise and soar; +And dragon-flies +At sunrise over misty pools-- +But all these things had never known a name +Until I saw Pavlowa dance. + +Next day the editor explained +That although art was--art, +He'd found a boy to take my place. +The days that followed +When I walked the town +Seeking for some sort of work, +The haze of Indian Summer +Blended with the dream +Of that one night's magic. +And though I needed work to keep alive +My thoughts would go no further +Than Pavlowa as the maid Giselle ... +Then cold days came, +And found the dream a fabric much too thin; +And finally a job, +And I was back to stomach fare. + +But through the years +I've nursed the sacrifice, +Counting it a tribute +Unlike all the things +That Kings and Queens have laid before her feet; +And wishing somehow she might know +About the price +The cub reporter paid +To see Pavlowa dance. + +And then by trick of time, +We came together at the Hippodrome; +And every day I saw her dance. +One morning in the darkened wings +I saw a big-eyed woman in a filmy thing +Go through the exercises +Athletes use when training for a team; +And from a stage-hand learned +That this Pavlowa, incomparable one, +Out of every day spent hours +On elementary practice steps. +And now somehow +I can not find the heart +To tell Pavlowa of the price I paid +To see her dance. + + +THE OLD CHORUS MAN + +He's played with Booth, +He's shared applause with Jefferson, +He's run the gamut of the soul +Imparting substance to the shadow men +Masters have fashioned with their quills +And set upon the boards. +Great men-of-iron were his favored rôles, +(Once he essayed Napoleon). +And now, unknowing, he plays his greatest tragedy: +Dressed in a garb to look like service clothes, +Cheeks lit by fire--of make-up box, +He marches with a squad of sallow youths +And bare-kneed girls, +Keeping step to tattoo of the drums +Beat by some shapely maids in tights, +While close by in the silent streets +There march long files of purposed men +Who go to death, perhaps, +For the same cause he travesties +Within the playhouse walls. + + +BLUCH LANDOLF'S TALE + +When I was old enough to walk +I rode a circus horse; +My first teeth held me swinging from a high trapeze. +About the age young men go out to colleges +I trudged the sanded vasts of Northern Africa, +Top-mounter in a nomad Arab tumbling troupe. +I was Christian, that is white and Infidel, +So old Abdullah took me in his tent +And stripping off my white man's clothes +Painted me with dye made from the chestnut hulls, +Laughing the while about the potency of juice +That would prove armour 'gainst some zealot's scimitar. +Four camels made our caravan +And these we also used for "props." +When we played a Morocco town +The chieftain met us at the hamlet's edge +Asked of Abdullah what his mission there, +Then let us enter +He leading our caravan to the chieftain's hut, +Where we sat upon the sand +The thirty odd of us +Surrounded by as many lesser chiefs. +The hookah solemnly was passed around +And then the hamlet chief would speak; +"Stranger, why have you forsaken home +And drawn believers after you, +You bear no spices, oil, or woven cloth, +No jewels nor any merchantry?" + + And then Abdullah: +"True, Allah's precious son, +We trade in naught men feed their bellies on +But we have wares to thrill brave men, +To make your youth see what use bodies are, +To make your women blush +That they have no such men." + +"What are these magic wares?" + +"Why we have here an Arab youth +Who seems possessed of wings, +Jumping three camels in a row." + +"So! In this very village there's a lad +Who jumps four camels +With half the wind it takes you, telling of your boy." + +Scoff followed boast and back again +Until the chief arose, +Saying to the lesser chiefs +That they should call the local tribe +To meet beside the caravanserai +Before another sun went down +To see if these vain wandering men +Could do one half the deeds they boasted. + +So we met at sundown, +Our brown men stripped +Except for linen clouts. +We tumbled, jumped, made human pyramids, +And whirled as only Dervish whirl. + +Then as a climax the village boy essayed +To span the four trained camels +Who at Abdullah's soft-spoke word +Moved just enough apart to make the boy fall short. +And then our sinewed lad would make the leap, +The camels crowding close together +At another soft command. +Our lad making good his jump, +The populace would grant our greater skill; +A goatskin filled with wine, +And honey mixed with melted butter +Was offered us within the caravanserai. +Then we moved out beyond the town +And pitched our tents of camels' hair, +Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes +Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail, +I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe +Lest my Christian tongue betray me) +Trudging behind with all the salary-- +Chasing the desert after two new sheep, +Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand. + +Now twice each day within the Hippodrome +I, a buffoon in absurd clothes, +Strive to make the thousands laugh; +And when my act is done +There comes the tread of camels' feet, +Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe, +Who tumble, jump and build pyramids +Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert.... +When I saw Slayman last +He was a boy +Chasing the sheep with me +Beneath Morocco's moon. +Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway? +In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights? + + +PRE-EMINENCE + +I once knew a man +Who'd met Duse, +(Or so he said) +And talked with her; +As she came down a windy street +He turned a corner +Headlong into her. +"I am so sorry," Duse said, +"I was looking at the stars." + +My envy of that man +Withstood the years +Until one day I met a Dane +Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen: +This man, with head bowed to the wind, +Was walking up a Stockholm way +When 'round the corner came the seer, +And he plumped into him. +And that great mind +Whose thinking moved the world +Surveyed my friend +Through his big eyes +And slowly spoke: +"Since when have codfish come to land?" + +With all the awe +One has for those who've known the great, +These two I've envied +Until the other day +When blundering 'round behind the scenes +I stepped upon Pavlowa's toe. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Broadway Anthology +by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROADWAY ANTHOLOGY *** + +***** This file should be named 15120-8.txt or 15120-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/1/2/15120/ + +Produced by Ted Garvin, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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