THE Occidental, in order to appreciate why a Chinese audience can both hate and laugh at a comedian, must forget all the theatres he has seen. He must wipe clean the slate of his memory, as it were, and leave it blank for a new picture. Before touching on the Chinese comedian in particular, it may be interesting to consider more in general an old-style playhouse. A visit to the Kuangho Lou in Peking, which is connected with a theatrical training school for boys, will itself vividly show how vast is the difference between the theatres of China and the West. You enter without an adriission ticket. An attendant, garrulous and annoyingly solicitous, shows you to a seat, which he sells to you. He expects for the favor a tip. But the seat is unlike any you have seen. It is a bench, backless and narrow and hard. It runs at right angles to the stage, proof that conservative Chinese go to hear a play rather than to see it. A long table in front of your bench is crowded with teapots, cups, melon seeds, sweetmeats, and pipes with cunningly wrought bowls of jadeite or ivory. Balconies above emphasize the squareness of the building. In other theatres women may sit in specially designated parts of the house, but here the fair sex is denied entrance. The platform stage projects into the audience and is surrounded on three sides by spectators. The structure, a living counterpart of that of Shakespeare's day, has at its outer corners two columns, shining with black lacquer and bright with gilt ideographs. These support a roof. If a scene is on, there will be ear-splitting sounds of brass orchestration that have no counterpart anywhere else today; one must go back to the noise of Shakespeare or the din of battle of the Bible to seek a likeness. On such a stage before a sea of jet-black hair, relieved by
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