The Talk of the Town

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 364, 26 May 1928, Page 26

The Talk of the Town

THE SUN’S | LONDON LETTER

(By PAMELA TRAVERSA LONDON, April 16, 1925. ■ HAVE been taking a rest cure in the New Forest. It is not fashionable to take a holiday at this time of the year. All one can have is a rest cure from which one returns to parry a host of insincere exclamations such as: “My dear, how much better -ou look! The blotches on your face aren t nearly so noticeable now and you actually seem to have a little flesh on your bones!” London pavements after carpets of primrose, wild violet, wild anemone and the lesser celandine —horrible.’ And how strange it is to see instead of tree-laced skies hoardings that demand garishly: “Why not lengthen the life of your bowler?” or “What! Not tried Woggo yet?” “Alice,” alas, or rather the manuscript of her bewitching tale, is. not to remain with us after all. The American, Dr. Rosenbacii, who bought her for £15,400, offered her to the British Museum for the same amount less £SOO, but our dear grevbeards—who are so far behind the times that the knowledge that a manuscript cf “Alice in Wonderland” exists is only now beginning to percolate into their minds-—have refused the offer. Perhaps it is just as well. What would she do among those mournful relics and sad ruins—she who was warmed into life at such a joyous, lovely fire? Better perhaps for Young America to gape at her with wide-fallen mouths and remark —“Say, what’s this guy jgettin’ at, anyway?” Mushroom-like, the newest theatre iias sprung up since my sojourn in ihe South. The last little tender : touches of paint are being put upon its face at this moment, the last gilding of the wooden columns in proj Sress. Unfortunately, in the midst of a chaste eau rle nil and geld ensemble a faint odour of Japan has crept in. Japanese designs adorn the boxes and look strangely stark and lonely in the , midst of the gilt grandeur. Another odd note is struck in the ceiling, which is shaped like a saucer, made of imitation crystal, and resembles nothing so closely as a rather stagey North Pole. The architect claims all sorts of new splendours and comforts for I his child. I was shown to-day how ; the air comes in through the ceiling (without, apparently, disturbing the ! crystal! and goes out through a series lof small holes in the floor, one of which is situated under each seat. It 1 seemed to me that each member of the Piccadilly audience will be sitting in a constant draught and that men will have to tie their hats to the seats or they will be blown away. But. I 'j kept silence. It is the safest thing. But secretly I have determined to provide myself with a small wooden lid i to fit over the air-hole under my chair when I visit the Piccadilly. " I am wise in the draughtiness of London’s ; theatres.

Apropos of theatres, I have discovered that the claque , which I had thought dead to England, is still very robust. Most of the musical comedy theatres still pay people to clap at the right moment and to laugh madly

a<. the very poorest jokes. To see a claqueur at work is a pitiful sight. The foremost claqueur in London is a barber-—a very apt choice of individual in view of the present craze for hair-raising productions. In France the claqueur is a familiar sight. He does not hide timidly behind a post as he does in England. He is, so to speak, naked and unashamed. His hollow laugh rings out in lonely splendour, his clapping is terrific and Olympian in its loneliness. —particularly at such theatres as the Folies Bergere and the Moulin Rouge, which are invariably filled with tourists who, of course, cannot see the jokes and do not know when to laugh or clap unless the claqueur gives them a lead. Still more affecting are the Pleureurs, who are to be found in droves at the Comedie Franqaise, and who weep noisily into handkerchiefs of an indeterminate colour upon the least provocation. The aged heroine—all heroines are aged at the Comedie Frangaise—has but to look vaguely tragic to make a dozen noses seek succour in a dozen handkerchiefs.

But best of all are the Bisseurs. who frantically and heroically (since they must loathe every production they see) demand encores, and the Chatouilleurs, who tittilate the flagging senses of their neighbours by chatting cheerfully about the fineness of the play, the cleverness of the actors, and tell slightly coloured stories of the private lives of those glorious (he says) creatures who appear behind the footlights to strut their hour. Once, however, I encountered a very new and very young Chatouilleur who was still so full of enthusiasm for his job that his stories of a certain Mme. were so rainbow coloured that a fellowworker, overhearing them, thought fit to remove him from my vicinity, and I heard him being reproved in that ungentle but withal tender manner that is so peculiarly French. I wish he had stayed. I shall never know now how that last story ended. Admirals can be bought for two a penny in England nowadays—this is

not because the rank of admiral has become less noble and imposing than of old, but entirely due to the fact that the powers that create admirals concentrated on mass production but did not bother about providing ships for them. The consequence u that there are scores of richly-dighu red-faced, angry creatures in threecornered hats (I think the hats are three-cornered, or am I. conflteing them with Napoleon’s), dancing wildly on the shores of England, waiting to spy out A sail! A sail'*—or, rather ‘A funnel! A funnel!” Admirals, admirals all around, and not a ship m sight. If things go on like this ±ers will be nothing for these keel-less creatures but the music-halls, the last resort of disappointed nan. channel-swimmer and politician. They are ready to be “admirals all for England’s sake.” but how can they be it —or them—without ships? Echo answers how. If “Mr. Kipperling s” soldier is still suffering nostalgia for Mandalay an'! temple bells and the East, he will soon be cured, for the East is coming to the West. Contrary to the same authors assertion the twain are meeting and ! their place of assignation is in Re- ! gent’s Park. There three Buddhist priests are being sent from India to establish a temple and do missionary work among the London natives. They expect to make many converts in addition to receiving into the temple the numerous English to whom the ‘‘Light |of Asia” is a Bible. Perhaps the priests will convert us into not wearing clothes. That will be a lovely re i venge for all the clothes ovr missionaries have put upon the Polynee | ians and Zulus. And perhaps, since the new thing is always the most ex* I citing thing the nostalgic soldier will find many a “neater, sweeter maiden I “wasting Christian kisses on a bee then idol’s foot” in Regent’s Park. A new dreadful craze is growing-a? among the would-be bright of Lond ,% ' ! “Silent Dances” are the rage. On these | occasions everybody is provided wiii a pair of head-phones and they dance to this secret music, which is heart, only by themselves. One wonder* what would happen if one dancer I should listen in to a blues tune fro® Cardiff and his partner to a Charlestofrom London. Chaos, I thinkthere are worse things yet Not content with turning classical music m jazz, it is now considered faut to play this jazz-cum-classic mus backwards. I heard Liszt’s of Love” mauled in this way the ck , night—a feat which, for sheer becile wickedness, is not to be in the whole history of sound. Tail-Piece jyte ! A collossally-wealthy American * - (ame to England for the Granfl ional cabled for 50 reserved sea “Regret—impossible.” ca ™ e 1 ! r<s the wer from A intree. But to dollars word “impossible” doesn t ens • re mir f “Never mind” came the ■please build me a private sta This, contrary to my custom, •» perfectly true tail-piece.