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

And perhaps it was. Awareness of him wove into every hour of every day, and as the days rolled toward opening night her anticipation grew until it felt like love, might be love. Excitement all around her rose, caught up with her own, mounted to a tumult. There was nothing in New York like a Ziegfeld opening. Tickets were selling for a hundred dollars apiece, for weeks people had fought their way to the box office, and into the scalpers' little holes on Broadway. Ziegfeld had introduced a ticket auction from the stage of the New Amsterdam; and Diamond Jim Brady, dealer in railroad supplies, Broadway habitue, first nighter, prodigious eater, lavish spender, had stood up in his flamboyant suit and great chamois-colored vest, bulky yellow diamonds gleaming in his cuffs, and bid seven hundred and fifty dollars for ten tickets! This was the gala event of the year; the audience came as to a shrine. "Flowers from Mr. Ziegfeld," Jenny said, showing her the box of sweetheart roses. It was a tradition. Mr. Ziegfeld sent every girl in the show a floral tribute. "A telegram from the old lady and her son," Jenny said. "A telegram from Mr. Berlin." Another armload of flowers, from Otto Kahn. The door opened and closed, opened and closed. From the din backstage it might seem that after all the weeks of rehearsal, the show was finally being put together now. "Forty-second Street's so jammed with traffic they'll have to hold the curtain," Penny said, poking her head in. "Get those goddamned ropes off the stage," shouted stage manager Zeke Colvan. Wardrobe women were rushing back and forth with bales of satin. Western Union messengers ducked in and out. Electricians adjusted lights. "Scene two, open with three, add another pink in the rear, dim down to two," screamed a shrill voice. "Don't forget for the finale, the boss wants them girls flooded in a bright white light." 38