All Europe, like all America, was, for the
moment, tango mad. While we were in Paris, M. Jean Richepin
lectured before the Forty Immortals of the Five Academies assembled
in solemn conclave at the Institute of France. They are called
the Forty Immortals because nobody can remember the names of more
than five of them. He took for his subject the tango--his motto,
in short, being one borrowed from the conductors in the New York
subway--"Mind your step!"
While he spoke, which was for an hour or more, the bebadged and
beribboned bosoms of his illustrious compatriots heaved with
emotion; their faces--or such parts of their faces as were visible
above the whiskerline--flushed with enthusiasm, and most vociferously
they applauded his masterly phrasing and his tracing-out of the
evolution of the tango, all the way from its Genesis, as it were,
to its Revelation. I judge the revelation particularly appealed
to them--that part of it appeals to so many.
After that the tango seemed literally to trail us. We could not
escape it. While we were in Berlin the emperor saw fit officially
to forbid the dancing of the tango by officers of his navy and
army. We reached England just after the vogue for tango teas
started.
Naturally we went to one of these affairs. It took place at a
theater. Such is the English way of interpreting the poetry of
motion--to hire some one else to do it for you, and--in order to
get the worth of your money--sit and swizzle tea while the paid
performer is doing it.
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