d
enjoys himself prodigiously. Your Latin when he fills the street with
jest and laughter obeys the ebullience of his temperament; your Teuton
always seems to be conscientiously obeying a book of regulations.

I soon arrived at the Winter Garten and secured a stall near the stage.
The vast building was packed with a smoking and perspiring multitude.
In shape it was like a long tunnel or a long, narrow railway station, an
impression intensified by a monotonous barrel roof. This was, however,
painted blue and decorated with myriads of golden stars. Along one side
ran a gallery where those who liked to watch the performance and eat a
six-course dinner at the same time could do so in elaborate comfort. In
the centre of the opposite side was the stage, and below it, grouped in
a semi-circle, the orchestra. Beneath the starry roof hung long wisps of
smoke clouds.

The performance had only just begun and Lola's turn was seventh on the
list. I reflected that greater deliberation in my movements would have
suited the maturity of my years, besides enabling me to eat a more
digestible dinner. I had come with the unreasoning impatience of a boy,
fully conscious that I was too early, yet desperately anxious not to be
too late. I laughed at myself indulgently and patted the boy in me
on the head. Meanwhile, I gave myself up with mild interest to the
entertainment provided. It was the same as that at any music-hall,
winter garden, or variety theatre the world over. The same brawny
gentlemen in tights made human pyramids out of themselves and played
football with the little boys and minced with their aggravating steps
down to the footlights; the same red-nosed clown tried to emulate his
dashing companion on the horizontal bars, pulling himself up, to the
eternal delight of the audience, by the seat of his baggy breeches, and
hanging his hat on the smooth steel upright; the same massive lady with
the deep chest sang sentimental ballads; the same China-man produced
warrens of rabbits and flocks of pigeons from impossible receptacles;
the same half-dozen scantily clad damsels sang the same inane chorus in
the same flat baby voices and danced the same old dance. Mankind in the
bulk is very young; it is very easily amused and, like a child, clamours
for the oft-repeated tale.

The curtain went down on the last turn before Lola's. I felt a curious
suspense, and half wished that I had not come to see the performance.
I shrank from finding