Read Ebook: The Broadway Anthology by Bernays Edward L Hoffenstein Samuel Kingsley Walter J Pemberton Murdock

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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 CAF?

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."

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

FIRST NIGHTS

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

DAVID BELASCO

LO, THE HEADLINER

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'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 r?les, . 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 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

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