AN OLD AUDIENCE SPEAKS
Tired, madam? That is nothing remarkable. So are we, whose faces you see from across the footlights, faces like rows of wilted plants in the gloom of this decrepit theater. We are all very tired.
It is Saturday afternoon. For a little while yesterday there was spring in the streets. But now it has grown cold again. The wind blows. The buildings wear a bald, cheerless look.
What are we tired about? God knows. Perhaps because winter is so long in passing. Or, perhaps, because spring will be so long in passing. Tired of waiting for tomorrow.
So you dance for us. We have paid 50 cents each to see the show. This abominable orchestra is out of tune. The fiddles scrape, the piano makes clattering sounds. And you, madam, are tired. The gay purple tights, the gilded bodice, the sultana's toque, or whatever it is, do not deceive us. Your legs, madam, are not as shapely as they were once. And your body—ah, bodies grow old.
Yes, we are not deceived, madam. You have come to us—last. There were others before us, others reaching far back, to whom you gave your youth. Others for whom you danced when your legs were, perhaps, like two spring mornings, and when your body was, perhaps, like a pretty laugh.
* * * * *
Here are the tired ones. From the South Clark and South State streets bed-houses. The kinds of faces that the smart movie directors hire as "types" for the underworld scenes or the slum scenes.
It is Saturday afternoon and we walked up and down the street, looking at the lithographs outside the decrepit theater fronts. And when it got too cold to walk any farther we dropped in, forking out four bits for the privilege.
And we expect nothing, madam. There will be no great music for us. And what scenery there is behind the footlights will be faded and patched. The jokes will be things that make no one laugh. And the dancers, madam, will be like you. Tired, heavy-faced dancers, whose legs flop, whose bodies bounce while the abominable orchestra plays.
But it is warm where we sit. We half shut our eyes and tired little dreams come to us. And you, madam, going wearily through your steps, are the Joy of Life. Your hoarse voice, singing indecipherable words about dearie and honey and my jazz baby, your sagging shoulders layered with powder and jerking to the music, the rigid, lifeless grin of your cruelly painted lips—these things and the torn, smeared papier-mâché ballroom interior—these are the Joy of Life.
Tired little dreams, worth almost the four bits. Do you remember other audiences, madam? As we remember other dancers? Do you recall the gay, dark glow of ornate auditoriums, and do you remember when you were young and there were many tomorrows? As we do? Oh, dearie, dearie, how mah heart grows weary, waitin' for mah baby for to come back home. Very good, madam. Although the voice is a bit cracked. Now dance. Lumber across the stage in your purple tights, wiggle around in your sultana's toque. That's the baby. And kick your legs at us as you exit. Ah, what a kick! But never mind. It is quite good enough for us. And—it reminds us.
* * * * *
We applaud. Does the noise sound ghastly? What is it we applaud? God knows. But applause is a habit. One applauds in a theater. How does it sound in the wings to you, madam, our applause? Rather meaningless, eh? And not interesting at all? Ah, we forgive you for that, for not feeling a great thrill at our applause. Nevertheless, it is a rather piquant thing, our applause. Considering how cold it is outside, how long winter is in passing. Considering how cheerless the buildings look.
Put on the red ball gown and come out and crack jokes with the hop-headed-looking juvenile lead. Greetings, madam. How marvelous you look in this ball gown! Ah, indeed! You were walking down the street the other day and chanced to meet. Hm, we've heard that joke, but we'll laugh again. Matrimony. I'll tell you what marriage is. A lottery. Yes, we've heard that one, too. Accept our laughter, nevertheless.
Your jokes, madam, are neither young nor refined. But—neither are we. And your wit is somewhat coarse and pointless. But so are we. And your voice is a trifle tired and cracked and loud. But so is our laughter. We are even, quite even, madam. If you were better once, so were we. If you remember sweeter laughter, why we remember more charming jests. Go on, Dolores, our lady of jokes, you're worth the four bits.
* * * * *
Now the street seems a bit colder because it was warmer in the theater. Where do we go from here? Up and down, up and down the old street. A very pleasant afternoon. Spent in laughter and applause. Once there was booze for a nickel and a dime. But it was found necessary to improve the morals of the nation. No booze today.
That is quite a brave photograph of you outside the theater, madam. The Dancing Venus. If we had tears we would shed them. The Dancing Venus, indeed! We smile as you smiled yourself when you saw it for the first time. But—good-by. Master Francois Villon sang it all long ago. Yesterdays, yesterdays, here is a street of yesterdays.
And we, the tired ones, the brutal-faced, bitter-eyed ones, the beaten ones—we walk up and down the cold street, peering at the cheerless buildings. Life takes a long time to pass. But without changing our bitter, brutal faces we bow this afternoon, madam, to the memory of you.
We paid four bits to see you. Our Lady of Jokes, and in this cold, sunless street we grin, we smirk, we leer a salutation to your photograph and the phrase beneath it that laughs mockingly back at us—Oh, Dancing Venus!