The Broadway Anthology Part 2

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 gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.terfly 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d 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 amus.e.m.e.nt of the seasoned editor, Shredding the cherished story And uprooting the flourishing "plant"; Makes one forgive The ingrat.i.tude of artists arrived.

They who do not love me I hope to have fear me; There is only one h.e.l.l, 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,"