h the Tabarin, in the Annagasse, an
establishment not unlike the Bal Tabarin in Paris. We hesitate at the
entrance, but being assured by the doorkeeper, garbed like Louis Seize,
that it is "_ein aeusserst feines und modernes nacht etablissement_" we
enter, partake of a bottle of champagne (thirty kronen--New York prices)
and pass out and on to Le Chapeau Rouge, where we buy more champagne.
From there we go to the Rauhensteingasse and enter Maxim's, brazenly
heralded as the Montmartre of Vienna. Then on to the Wallfischgasse to
mingle with the confused visitors of the Trocadero, where we are urged
to have supper. But time is fleeting. The cabmeter is going round like a
tortured turbine. So we hasten out and seek the Wiehburggasse, where we
discover a "Palais de Danse"--seductive phrase, suggestive of ancient
orgies. But we cannot tarry--in spite of Mimi Lobner (Ah, lovely lady!)
who sings to us "Liebliche Kleine Dingerchen" from "Kino-Koenigin," and
makes us buy her a peach _bowle_ in payment. One more place and we are
ready for the resort in the Prater, the Coney Island of Vienna. This
last place has no embroidered name. Its existence is emblazoned across
the blue skies by an electric sign reading "Etablissement Parisien." It
is in the Schellinggasse and justifies itself by the possession of a
very fine orchestra whose _militaer-kapellmeister_ knows naught but
inebriate _tanzmusik_.

Again in the open air, headed for the Kaisergarten, we reflect on our
evening's search for _nachtvergnuegungen_. With the lone exception of our
half-hour with Mimi, it has been a sad chase. All the places (with the
possible exception of the Trocadero) have been cheaply imitative of
Paris, with the usual appurtenances of arduous waiters, gorgeously
dressed women dancing on red velvet carpets, fortissimo orchestras,
expensive wines, _blumenmaedl_, hothouse strawberries and other
accessories of manufactured pleasure. But compared with Paris these
places have been second rate. The _damen_ (I except thee, lovely Mimi!)
have not inflamed us either with their beauty or with manifestations of
their _esprit gaulois_. For the most part they have been stodgy women
with voluminous bosoms, Eiffel towers of bought hair--bison with
astonishing hyperboles and parabolas, dressed in all of the voluptuous
splendour but possessing none of the grace of the Rue de la Paix.
Furthermore, these establishments have lacked the deportmental abandon
which saves their p