The Broadway Anthology | Page 4

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