Polly had never been much to the theatre, and the few plays she had seen were the good old fairy tales, dramatized to suit young beholders—lively, bright, and full of the harmless nonsense that brings laughter without a blush. That night, however, she saw one of the new spectacles that had lately become the rage, running for hundreds of nights—dazzling, exciting, and demoralizing the spectator with every allurement that French ingenuity could invent and American prodigality execute. Never mind its name; it was very gorgeous, very vulgar, and very fashionable. Naturally, it was much admired, and everyone went to see it.
At first, Polly thought she had stepped into fairyland, seeing only sparkling creatures who danced and sang in a world of light and beauty. But presently, as she listened to the songs and conversation, the illusion vanished. The lovely phantoms sang negro melodies, talked slang, and were a disgrace to the good old-fashioned elves whom she knew and loved so well.
Our little girl was too innocent to understand half the jokes, and often wondered what people were laughing at. As the first enchantment subsided, Polly began to feel uncomfortable. She was sure her mother would not like her to be there and wished she had never come. Somehow, things seemed to get worse as the play went on. Polly was being rapidly enlightened by the gossip going on around her, as well as by her own quick eyes and girlish instincts.
When twenty-four girls, dressed as jockeys, came prancing onto the stage, cracking their whips, stamping the heels of their topboots, and winking at the audience, Polly did not find it funny at all. She looked disgusted and was glad when they were gone. But when another set appeared, wearing gauze wings and a bit of gold fringe around the waist, poor unfashionable Polly did not know what to do. She felt both frightened and indignant, sitting with her eyes fixed on her playbill, her cheeks growing hotter every minute.
"What are you blushing so for?" asked Fanny, as the painted sylphs vanished.
"I'm so ashamed of those girls," whispered Polly, taking a long breath of relief.
"You little goose! It's just the way it was done in Paris, and the dancing is splendid. It seems queer at first, but you'll get used to it, as I did."
"I'll never come again," said Polly decidedly. Her innocent nature rebelled against the spectacle, which, as yet, gave her more pain than pleasure. She did not know how easy it was to "get used to it," as Fanny did, and it was well for her that the temptation was not often offered.
She could not explain the feeling, but she was glad when the play was over and they were safe at home, where kind Grandma was waiting to see them comfortably into bed.
"Did you have a good time, dear?" she asked, looking at Polly's feverish cheeks and excited eyes.
"I don't wish to be rude, but I didn't," answered Polly. "Some of it was splendid, but a good deal of it made me want to hide under the seat. People seemed to like it, but I don't think it was proper."
As Polly freed her mind and emphasized her opinion with a decided rap of the boot she had just taken off, Fanny laughed and pirouetted about the room like Mademoiselle Therese.
"Polly was shocked, Grandma! Her eyes were as big as saucers, her face as red as my sash, and once I thought she was going to cry. Some of it was rather queer, but of course, it was proper, or all our set wouldn't go. I heard Mrs. Smythe Perkins say, 'It was charming; so like dear Paris!' and she has lived abroad, so of course, she knows what is what."
"I don't care if she has. I know it wasn't proper for little girls to see, or I shouldn't have been so ashamed!" cried sturdy Polly, perplexed but not convinced even by Mrs. Smythe Perkins.
"I think you are right, my dear; but you have lived in the country and haven't yet learned that modesty has gone out of fashion."
With a good-night kiss, Grandma left Polly to dream dreadfully of dancing in jockey costume on a great stage, while Tom played a big drum in the orchestra, and the audience all wore the faces of her father and mother, looking sorrowfully at her with eyes like saucers and faces as red as Fanny's sash.