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When Justine Johnstone Was Natural 235
My blithering, cocksure notice of her opening in “Over the Top” flashed before me sickeningly:
“She may have it (a sense of humor); and then, again, she mayn’t. From where I sat last night you couldn’t tell.”
“No,” I faltered, “I don’t know. But I’ll bite. I’ll be the, as it is well-termed, goat. What did you want to say to him?”
“I wanted to say : ‘Mr. Roth, will you please oblige me by sitting on a tack ?’ ”
The glacier was broken ; we were acquainted now. She likes to dream, but not to think. The deliberate processes of intellection bore her. She likes to snug up in a corner of her window and dream jokes. She was so human that her beauty ceased to be a fatal spectacle.
“Why don’t you dream a joke or two for your part in the show?” I said, “and give a first-nighter a chance to know what sort of girl you really are?” “What’s the use! They’d treat my jokes the way they treat my songs. I go into the Shubert office and suggest a suggestion and they say :
“ ‘A very good idea, but let’s do it this way. We’ll get you a nice new pink dress and let him sing the song to you.’ ”
“What do you say to that?”
“Oh, I say: ‘No, it would be cleverer to give him the pink dress and let me sing the song.’ ”
“Why didn’t they write that into the libretto?” “Perhaps because I didn’t say it to Mr. Wynn. He knows a joke — so long as it isn’t subtle.”
“Did you ever dream a joke for Ed Wynn ?”
“Yes; I gave him the one that goes: ‘Waiter, my plate’s damp.’ ‘You dern fool, that’s your soup.’ ”