Chapter 1

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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