The Broadway Anthology | Page 3

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,