The real Argentine: Notes and Impressions of a Year in the Argentine and Uruguay

by J. A. Hammerton

Plaza Francia in the Avenida Alvear.

The memorial is an offering of the French “Colony” to the Argentine on its Centenary in 1910. Various monuments, the gifts of other “Colonies,” ornament different parts of the capital city.

It will thus be seen at a glance that one form of social intercourse so familiar to us does not exist in the Argentine, which country is typical in this of almost all the South American Republics. How far this must condition the social life, any one can guess. The women are permitted some measure of freedom until they become engaged, and may, under strict chaperonage, attend formal receptions and balls, where the stiffest of starchy manners are de rigueur. But after marriage, they withdraw to the seclusion of their own homes and devote themselves to the care of their families, seldom taking part in any social gaieties, even going very little to the theatre.

One consequence of this is an extraordinary preponderance of men at all places of amusement. I am probably under-estimating the proportion when I say that in almost any audience, with the exception of that at the Teatro Colón, seventy-five per cent. would be men. More, I have often deemed it a pathetic commentary on the arid life of the place to enter one of the many cinematograph theatres and note the rows upon rows of men, with no more than a handful of women sprinkled among them. Often in an audience numbering probably five hundred, there would not be more than a dozen ladies and most of these foreigners. It is a condition of things that tends to perpetuate itself, as my wife, even with me at her side, always felt a little ill at ease where so few of her sex seemed to be expected, although, without exception, the entertainments might have been arranged for a party of Sunday-school children, especially if it contained a number of “Budges” who revelled in “bluggy” subjects, as hairbreadth escapes and the adventures of Nick Winter, Sherlock (often rendered “Shylock”) Holmes, and other preposterous “detectives” were the staple fare.

This tremendous overplus of men in the places of amusement admits of two explanations. First, we have the unusual social custom which allows of the husband acting as vicarious pleasure-seeker for wife and family, so that no Argentine lady complains when her husband goes out alone to the theatre and winds up the night at his club, returning long after she has been asleep! Secondly, we have to remember that in all cities populated chiefly by emigrants, large numbers of single men are to be encountered. It is the experience of business people in Buenos Ayres who employ considerable staffs, that a large proportion of their workers are youngish men who seem to be absolutely without family ties or attachments of any kind, lonely wanderers from the far lands of Europe.

A further influence militating against the womenkind enjoying such entertainment as is to be found in Buenos Ayres is the widespread area of the city. With a population not very much larger than half that of Paris, Buenos Ayres occupies vastly more space, owing to the system of one-story houses, which is still universal beyond the congested business area of the town. The tram service, one of the best regulated in the world, as it is also one of the cheapest, affords only a very inadequate means of communication between the further suburbs and the theatre district, in Maipú and Esmeralda, while the primitive state of the Suburban roadways make travel by coach, or taxicab, a hazardous and painful experience. So it happens that we find nowhere those bright and attractive supper restaurants with merry groups of pleasure-seekers, men and women, discussing the play they have just come from; but, in their place, many cafés, exclusively occupied by soft-hatted men smoking and drinking. The most pretentious restaurant in the city shuts its doors immediately after dinner, and even during dinner the ladies are always in an insignificant minority. Gaiety, forsooth! Who comes to look for that in Buenos Ayres has undertaken one of the most barren of pursuits.

As for the character of the resorts, little that is favourable can be said. I remember with what delight I used to scan the theatre advertisements in the columns of La Prensa before I sailed for the River Plate, and what pleasures we promised ourselves, my wife and I, when the day’s work would be done! Places of amusement there are in abundance, and their advertisements make a brave showing in the newspapers, but there are rarely more than two, or it may be three, entertainments that are worthy of a visit. South America is the happy hunting ground of all sorts of incompetent Spanish actors and draggle-tailed Spanish dramatic companies. To see “The Merry Widow,” “Casta Susana,” or “The Count of Luxembourg” performed by a company destitute of vocal talent, with shabby, misfit scenery, and a wardrobe so poverty stricken that not a single actor wears a suit of his size (the whole company of them resembling, in evening dress, a scratch lot of waiters from a Soho chop-house), the orchestra clad in the motliest mixture of tweed suits, while the voice of the prompter, whose sweaty shirt sleeves obtrude from his ugly box in the fore-front of the stage, is heard above that of the actor—to witness this is by no means a delectable experience; yet such is the manner of the fare most frequently offered in the theatres of the city.

True, from time to time excellently organised Spanish and Italian companies do occupy the principal theatres, and once a year there is a visit from some eminent French actor, with a picked company, but on the whole dramatic entertainment is pitifully poor, the pieces being staged in a slovenly and inadequate style. The State-aided Opera, which has its home in the great Columbus Theatre, is, of course, a national institution, and as such plays a very important part in the social life of the richer classes, though the bulk of the people have never seen more than the outside of the building. Opera is here staged as perfectly as in the finest opera-houses of Europe, and not a few “stars” first twinkled in Buenos Ayres before their magnitude was recognised in London or Paris. On the strength of the Opera, Buenos Ayres enjoys the reputation of being a very musical city. In the paraíso, or gallery, you might discover a considerable number of Italians who had been attracted to the Colón out of a genuine delight in the performance, but in most other parts of the house, and most of all in the highly-priced boxes, the people are there to see each other: the ladies to study the dresses of the other ladies, the gentlemen to display in the persons of their wives and daughters the substantial condition of their banking accounts—or of their credit. Nay, even during the most dramatic parts of “Aïda,” “Manon Lescaut,” or “Otello,” I have seen quite as many ladies in the audience with their backs to the stage, chattering to friends, as there were others following the play. And in the cazuela (a word which in domestic use signifies a stew, and theatrically a gallery reserved entirely for ladies—also something of a stew) the chattering between the fan-flapping occupants is so continuous that on a sudden lowering of the music one is sure to hear voices from the cazuela ringing out by contrast. For the rest, the Opera is a function conducted with the most tremendous gravity, and although the season is comparatively short (and usually unprofitable to the impresarios), it is not without its uses in enabling the native community to see a little more of each other than the restrictions of their social life would otherwise allow. To the stranger, however, it is socially useless, and to the mere lover of music who could appreciate the excellence of its representations, it is almost prohibitively expensive, unless he or she is brave enough to incur the odium of being “spotted” in the five shilling gallery or paraíso, where no English resident of any position in the town would condescend to ascend. The consequence is, you will seldom meet an English resident who has ever been to a performance in the Colón.

Of recent years, a movement in the direction of providing healthier entertainment of a varied description for the family circle on certain afternoons of the week, much after the style of the American vaudeville, has been growing. Thus, on Saturday and Sunday afternoons during our stay, one used to see many ladies and young children at the Casino, but at night it was the rarest thing to discover in the whole crowded theatre a respectable woman. Occasionally, an American or English lady ventured with her husband to one of the boxes, where it was possible to sit behind a screen and see the performance without being seen, but every seat in the pit, the circle, and the galleries was occupied by a man, and invariably there would be at least one turn that was highly objectionable, and rendered the more so by the conduct of the audience, who, slow to respond to anything which the Anglo-Saxon mind recognises as humour, have an ever-ready nose for suggestiveness, and when that is forthcoming, do not merely laugh at it, but render it the more offensive by uttering all sorts of obscene noises.

The Casino, the Theatre Royal, the Scala, and the Parisiana, during my stay, whatever may be the case now, were the evening haunts of the younger men. The first named was the only one that attempted anything like vaudeville entertainment, the majority of the artistes being usually American or English, and the difficulty of maintaining a programme was so great that the management had to content themselves with what they could get in the shape of second- and third-rate “turns” from overseas, so that often the variety was not remarkable, two or three groups of comic acrobats being included in one programme, and we all know that there is no variety in comic acrobats. The other three resorts were deplorable imitations of the Parisian houses that specialise in revues. With the exception of the Casino, these theatres were all so small that they would not have been considered suitable in America for more than lecture rooms or “picture” halls. The revues were usually so stupid, the scenery so contemptible, the performers so inferior, that I always felt sorry the audience had nothing better to do than waste their time in such inanity. French was the language of the revues, with occasional Spanish songs and interludes, and there was only one joke which seemed to have a universal appeal—some reference to “606.” Examples: A miserable youth comes on to visit a burlesque doctor. He begins explaining how he had met a young lady in a restaurant, using words of the most suggestive character, each sentence containing a pun on a number. “Ah,” says the doctor, “your case must be treated arithmetically.” As the patient proceeds with his tale, the doctor seizes on every punning phrase containing a number, jots these down on a slate, adds the lot up, result 909; but reversing the slate he exhibits to the audience “606.” Then there is feeble laughter of fools! Or a young lady has a song of the telephone, and the refrain is “Please give me number 606.” Faugh! But the spectacle of an English acrobat on the Casino stage, dressed as a Highlandman, who at certain times pulled a string that raised the back part of his kilt and displayed “606” painted on the seat of his “shorts” filled me with disgust. (Perhaps it should be explained that “606” is a cure for syphilis.)