Each time I see a little girl / of five or six or seven / I can’t resist a joyous urge / to smile and say… / Thank Heaven for little girls / For little girls get bigger every day / Thank Heaven for little girls / They grow up in the most delightful way. / Those little eyes, / so helpless and appealing / when they were flashing / send you crashing through the ceiling / Thank Heaven for little girls / Thank Heaven for them all / No matter where, no matter who / Without them, what would little boys do? / Thank Heaven, thank Heaven / Thank Heaven for little girls…
Well, they’re a very peculiar family – with peculiar ideas. I negotiated with them myself once. With me, one casual bit of grazing in another pasture – and the gate was slammed behind me.
I’ll tell you about that blue villa, Mamita. I was so much in love with you, I wanted to marry you. Yes, it’s true. I was beginning to think of marriage. Imagine, marriage, ME! Oh, no! I was really desperate! I had to do something. And what I did was the soprano!
Don’t you marvel at the power / of the mighty Eiffel Tower / knowing there it will remain evermore? / Climbing up to the sky / over ninety stories high!
This story is about a little girl. It could be about any one of those little girls playing there. But it isn’t. It’s about one in particular. Her name is Gigi.
Why not? That’s the one thing you mustn’t do. Do you want people to think you’re despondent? Disturbed? If you leave, they will, you know. No, no. That would be snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. No, no, no. For the next few weeks, you should be out every night. Maxim’s, Moulin Rouge, Pre Catalan.
Open it! You must be carefree. Devil-may-care. A different girl every night. Keep them guessing who’s next. Play the game. Be gay, extravagant, outrageous!
Good afternoon! As you see, this lovely city all around us is Paris, and this lovely park is of course the Bois de Boulogne. Who am I? Well, allow me to introduce myself: I am Honore Lachaille. Born: Paris. When…
…not lately. This is 1900, so let’s just say not in this century. Circumstances: comfortable. Profession: lover, and collector of beautiful things. Not antiques mind you, younger things.
Yes, definitely younger. Married: what for? Now please don’t misunderstand. Like everywhere else, most people in Paris get married, but not all. There are some who will not marry, and some who do not marry. But in Paris, those who will not marry are usually men, and those who do not marry are usually women.
Now for example here we find / Exhibit A, the married kind. / These ladies stood their ground and won / and I salute them, every one. / Here are some others to behold / for whom the bells have never tolled. / Oh, what a poor defenseless pair / in those pathetic rags they wear…
She looks adorable. So fresh, so eager – so young. It’s the sophisticated women who get boring so quickly. What can they give you? Everything but surprise. But with someone like Gigi – she can amuse you for months! Oh, I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to tell Manuel.
But think of a race / with your horse in seventh place / and he suddenly begins and he catches up and wins with a roar!
Just imagine her chagrin / when she sees you wander in/ And you find her with that slippery señor / What a moment supreme / when she totters with a scream…!
But think of the bliss / of the pleasure you would miss / When she topples in a heap / and you leave her there to weep on the floor…
Youth is the thing, Gaston. Youth. Stay close to the young and a little rubs off.
Poor boy! Poor boy! / Downhearted and depressed and in a spin! / Poor boy! Poor boy! / Oh, youth can really do a fellow in! How lovely to sit here in the shade / with none of the woes of man and maid / I’m glad I’m not young anymore… The rivals that don’t exist at all / The feeling you’re only two feet tall / I’m glad that I’m not young anymore… / No more confusion / No morning-after surprise / No self-delusion / That when you’re telling those lies / she isn’t wise / And even if love comes through the door / the chance that goes on forevermore / Forevermore is shorter than before / Oh, I’m so glad that I’m not young anymore… / The tiny remark that tortures you / The fear that your friends won’t like her too / I’m glad I’m not young anymore… / The longing to end the stale affair / until you find out she doesn’t care / I’m glad I’m not young anymore… / No more frustration / No star-crossed lover am I / No aggravation / Just one reluctant reply / “Lady, goodbye!” The Fountain of Youth is dull as paint / Methuselah is my patron saint / I’ve never been so comfortable before / Oh, I’m so glad that I’m not young anymore…
Do you know how long it will take you to forget her? Tomorrow noon at the latest. So now why don’t you consult your little book and meet me at Maxim’s tonight?
Gaston and Liane are joining me here at Maxim’s tonight. I’m giving a small party in honor of a *heavenly* creature I met this afternoon. She’s –
pardon me – she’s the sister of the heavenly creature I gave a party for last night. Hahahaha, oh what a marvelous place Maxim’s is – not only gay and beautiful, but one thing: unique! In Maxim’s, everybody minds his own business; *no one* is the slightest bit interested in who one is with.
