Chapter 2

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.