The entertainment was another "musical comedy"
like the one he had seen a few nights before. On that occasion,
however, Bertie Stuyvesant's sister had talked to him the whole
time, while now he was let alone, and had a chance to watch the
performance.
This was a very popular play; it had had a long run, and the papers
told how its author had an income of a couple of hundred thousand
dollars a year. And here was an audience of the most rich and
influential people in the city; and they laughed and clapped, and
made it clear that they were enjoying themselves heartily. And what
sort of a play was it?
It was called "The Kaliph of Kamskatka." It had no shred of a plot;
the Kaliph had seventeen wives, and there was an American drummer
who wanted to sell him another--but then you did not need to
remember this, for nothing came of it. There was nothing in the play
which could be called a character--there was nothing which could be
connected with any real emotion ever felt by human beings. Nor could
one say that there was any incident--at least nothing happened
because of anything else.
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