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Show Hlj a Theatre-Going in Tarts. ( L j j BY ALAN DALE, II 1 I If you sit tight and hold fast like sister Mary III i Jane on the verge of a top note you may possl- J a bly succeed in time and by dint of perseverance hh t ft J n attending a Paris theater without undue irri- f f f I tation. But to the stranger within the gates this & iilS is out of the question. The uninitiated outsider B I f T I who goes merrily with his wife to the playhouses Lm. I I of the city comes to the conclusion that the mere K i lii play is a detail. He may possibly enjoy it if he B i I can survive the ordeal of the theater itself. In LW ( j- H I fact, the object of the manager in Paris Is to show B 1 1 ' f I I you tno 8ordItl se of life without revealing the 11 I !f I fantastic for which you have just bought seats. 'ill Say, for example, you buy a little loge (which III sounds better than box) for yourself and a couple H i ' jj g Of ladies. Y,ou take the trouble to book it in ad- B i4 vance which costd a franc or so (especially the B j , 11 "so") more, and, being ignoiaut and un-Parisian, B I 1 i you are silly enough to believe that all you have B I I to do is to gd to the theater and enjoy yourself. B I 1 I It's not your fault. You've been brought up in m i that inane belief. m i ' So you go. You are smiling and alert. The B ) . f 1 ladies, arrayed for the fray in their neatest duds, m li j' I are keenly anticipated of the coming treat. A iV 1 theater in Paris sounds so nice! You arrive in , i J : due course and step lightly from your carriage. I There are men outside with programmes and you H $j 1 have grown used to paying for that sort of thing. B l 1 1 A course of theater-going in London has taught Bm ; q I you that managers do not think it necessary for H j ,1 I? you to know the names of their actors or of the H ij j parts that they play. That is a luxury. Luxury H , j! 1 B must be taxed. iiB M lli 1 You pass out a ranc ant say "Deux s'11 vou Plait" H p 1 1 in your best New York 'accent. The vendor says, iiB fTi "Thank you!" in Parisian English. You feel a bit hurt that he has detected you so soon in your lingual infancies, but you pass on. In the lobby of the theater sit three gloomy gentlemen on a high judicial seat. Their faces are long and lugubrious. They wear funereal top hats and the demeanor of judges. They. look down upon you and carefully examine your tickets, apparently ap-parently in the hope of discovering their er what shall I say spuriosity,. While they are making their examination you can't help feeling rather like a condemned criminal waiting for the verdict. It is a most peculiar sensation. You quite forget that you are bent on pleasure. The three lugubrious gentlemen in the top hats scowl (they insist on scowling), then they whisper a few words (most impolitely), after which they return re-turn your tickets . . . wave you in. Good! You heave a sigh of relief. Your little ladles glance sympathetically at your face. They seem glad that the verdict has been favorable . . . that you are acquitted. You have loge No. 33, and you think I say you think that you are going to get to it. It Is just as well to . . . think. As a matter of fact, you are not going to get to it. An ugly old girl In a cape, with a face hungry and avid, and a humor that combines obsequiousness obsequious-ness with rapacity, stands before you Nemesis-like. Nemesis-like. Before you have time to say "Knife!" she mutters, "My little benefits, please, monsieur.' Now you happen to be a nice person, anxious to do the right thing in all directions. Not for the world would you cause a living soul to go home centime-less. But what does the old girl want "benefits" for? You know nothing of the "ouvreuse," as she is called, and that is the trouble: trou-ble: So you take refuge in the fact that you are American and pretend you don't understand. You advance toward Loge No. 33, and try to open it. It is hei'metically sealed. The old girl stands and H smiles. She is mistress of the situation. H You arrive at the conclusion that it behooves H you to pay out sometimes. You take out a.l the H coppers you own and hand them to her. There- H upon, after carefully counting them and placing H them in her waist she opens the door of Loge No. B 33. You heave a sigh of relief. After the three H moody males in top hats and the old girl you feel H just a trifle amused. That is because you are new H to it. B The ladies remove their wraps and hang them B up. It is a tiny box beset with all the modern B inconveniences. No sooner are you seated than B the ouvreuse throws open the door and hands you B three programmes. A franc and a half, please. B This time you feel triumphantly that you can go B her one. With a superior smile you point to the B programmes you have bought outside and exclaim, B "Nong, Ole, nog, madahm." B You think you have floored her. Perchance. B But you haven't. She laughs merrily hateful B old cat! The programmes you bought outside were B last night's when they were playing something B else and she tells you, with a show of sympathy, B never to have anything to do with outside ven- B dors, "Ces sut des filous!" she said, and you feel B that in the "fllou" line she is all right herself. B No sooner has the play started than the door is B flung open again. The old girl reappears and B hands tiny stools under the feet of the ladies. She B buffets the!" pet corns and they call out, "Oh!" but B it doesn't matter. After all, she can't be such B a cruel old girl. You have "tipped" her, but she B tries to earn her tip. At least, so you think. The K first act proceeds. You can't center you atten- B tion on it because the three taciturn judges and B' the ancient matron are in your mind. B During the first entre'acte, she comes again. B She smiles, holds her hand out and points to the B fl footstools. Little benefits, please. She has tried fl to please "ces dames." You feel odiously fractious fl and long to fling the footstools at her. At first fl you cry an irate "NongJ" Then you emit a "Jam- my!' After which It is borne in upon you that fl you are making a fool of yourself and you ask, fl shame-facedly, "Combiang?" She shrugs her fl shoulders. She leaves it to you. . . . Deli- H cutely and in sheer desperation you give her a fl couple of francs and ask her to remove the foot- fl stools, which are very much in the way. Strange fl to say, she forgets to ask for "little benefits" for fl removing the footstools. fl The play drags itself along. You might have fl liked it with a clear and unbothered mind. But fl all these petty drains on your exchequer, these B pin-prick disturbances, and incessant surprises, B liave S0' uPn yur nerves. You find the comedy B tedious and wish you hadn't wandered from your B own fireside. B And just as you have almost lured back your B extinct philosophy the ouvreuse comes again. B "The cloaks of ces dames?" The benefits of the B vestaire! The cloak-room tip! You tell her you B haven't used the cloak room. The ladies' wraps B pend frm the wal1, Tuis tlme you are firn1, No; B yu won't pay. She can go to the Bastile and B be. hanged. Your frenzied "Nong!' Jammy!" has B tears in It this time. B The old girl sees your mood. She is aware B Uiat this time you are adamant, but she promptly fl bangs the door of the box in your face as a guar- fl antee of good faith. And as you leave the theater fl being new to it you make up your mind that fl you'll try something easier next time. This has B' been funny" but . . . wearing on the con- fl stitution. The Valley Magazine. |