The self-enchanted : Mae Murray : image of an era (1959)

nodded darkly and gave way; everything gave way. The great Irving Berlin held her hand and ran with her along the cold street. "We have four hours," he said, pulling off his coat, throwing it around her, never pausing, never slowing step. "Can you do it? Go on tonight?" "I can do anydiing!" "You're cocky," he laughed. But Berlin was cocky too. To more sophisticated eyes than Mae's he looked like a skinny, undernourished boy dressed up in spats and a man's suit; but what carried conviction was his absolute self-confidence, almost brass. He'd started as a singing waiter in Chinatown at a place called Mike's, but such songs as "Alexander's Rag-Time Band," "Ragtime Violin," "When I'm Alone I'm Lonesome," "When the Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves for Alabam" had established him not only as the brightest young music man in the business but also the most prolific. He wrote two or three songs a week, sitting at a battered piano all day, emerging at midnight to chat with his friends and eat a big meal at the Claridge, the Knickerbocker or Murray's. He had turned out such an enormous quantity of songs that it was rumored he didn't write them all himself. When he'd arrived in London to play the Hippodrome, reporters questioned him point-blank. He said, "Give me a title, I'll write you a song," and during lunch scribbled on the back of a menu words and music to "International Rag." The secret of his productivity: he was one of the few who could ever write words and music simultaneously. Watch Your Step was his first show; with his music and the Castles' talent it had been the hit of the season; the only competition was Dillingham's other production, Chin Chin, with Montgomery and Stone. The show had been sold out for months, Standing Room Only; all New York was whistling "Play a Simple Melody" and "Everybody's Doin' It." And then this day immediately after the matinee, Irene had given the word. Whether she was really ill or had had a tiff with Vernon,