The Broadway Anthology.
by Edward L. Bernays, Samuel Hoffenstein, Walter J. Kingsley, Murdock Pemberton.
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.