Population v. "Poetess"

A cleanly young woman of 22, whose fortune has been made by the most leering sort of dirt, faced three bewhiskered, twinkly-eyed Paris judges last week in the Palace of Justice while sweating press photographers cursed in the corridor because French Justice had locked them out.

At this most sensational trial of a humdrum Paris summer the principals were strangely at cross purposes. The prisoner, Miss Joan Warner, hoped to get by with her professionally nude "Slave Dance" and yearned to have it declared Art. The judges frankly considered the case trivial but expected something brilliant from the great French criminal lawyer, Maitre Henry Torres, who appeared for the defense. The prosecutor, scandalously sympathetic with Miss Warner, observed before the trial opened: "It would be a shame to send Joan to prison. She is young and besides she is very pretty. I am not going to ask a prison sentence, merely a fine on principle." The principle had its living, vibrant incarnation in Miss Warner's accuser, M. Fernand Boverat, 37, striped-trousered, bespectacled, correct, relentless.

Monsieur Boverat is not only Secretary General of the National Alliance for Increasing the Population of France, which boasts more than 30,000 members, but also Vice President of its High Council for Births. With his wife and daughter, M. Boverat stopped in for tea and croissants one afternoon last winter at the hitherto quiet, respectable Restaurant Bagdad. Little did the Boverat family suspect that the Bagdad's proprietor had decided to make a stand against Depression by the drastic step of hiring a fan dancer who had played in some of the hottest cabarets and vaudeville houses from Chicago to Miami.

Suddenly among the Bagdad's sippers of tea, Dubonnet and citron presse appeared Miss Warner in a clinging, translucent gown, her hands manacled at the wrists, her mien intense. She had invented her "Slave Dance" after being distanced by the competition of Fan Dancer Sally Rand at Chicago's Century of Progress and now considered herself "The Poetess of Naked Rhythm." To the Boverat family it appeared that a blonde hussy had suddenly interrupted their tea. She startled them further by rapidly removing what seemed to be all her clothes, casting off her manacles with a bang, and spinning her long legs in an expert cartwheel scarce five feet from Mme Boverat's nose.

Instantly M. Boverat mobilized against Miss Warner the powerful forces of the National Alliance for Increasing the Population of France, which tucks an illustrated manual of instruction into the knapsack of every French recruit and has obtained exemption from Army service for every Frenchman with six children or more, reduced railway tickets for families with three or more, many another benefit for the fecund. Within a few hours M. Boverat had obtained a police order barring Miss Warner from dancing at the Bagdad. Next he got her indicted "for an offense against the public's sense of shame.'' No attempt, however, was made to stop the Poetess of Naked Rhythm from appearing at frankly bawdy Paris music halls outside which the public was expected to park its sense of shame. More popular than ever. Miss Warner has been cashing in on her indictment all winter, banking the wages of dirt, and appearing at numerous night clubs and galas as well as the Theatre Alcazar which advertises "Naked Women in the Manner of the Burlesque Shows of New York."

With the three bewhiskered judges at attention last week. Prisoner Warner cried: "Everything is absolutely chaste in my dance! I am covered from head to foot with makeup paint, and I wore an invisible lavender cloth. Gentlemen, I serve Art and nothing else!''

A gigantic blond Dutch anthropologist named H. M. Dernelot Moens was put on the stand by Maitre Torres to testify for Miss Warner. He swore that, upon look-ing closely, he could not see any clothes on the defendant nor, for that matter, could he see what clothes were supposed to conceal.

"I should call her a little 'arty,' " testified French Transatlantic Airman Paul Codos, "but all the same a fine girl."

Maurice Vlaminck, modernist painter, told the three judges with a defiant air: "Mere nakedness does not shock me!"

"Tiens, M. Vlaminck," gravely observed the senior judge. "I will give you confidence for confidence and inform you that mere nakedness does not shock me either."

In dead earnest Vice President for Births Boverat snapped: "I ask that she be punished. I have described her performance in the presence of my wife and our 12-year-old daughter. Women, after beholding such indecency, don't want to have children. It is wrong to say, as Maitre Torres has said, that she dances like a statue. Statues do not undress. She did. She may have been covered with makeup but she wore virtually nothing.

"Let us remind this Court," continued M. Boverat, "that public morality and the birthrate are intimately interrelated. Our researches incontrovertibly substantiate this fact. French Canada, a country with the highest morals, has the highest birth rate. In Germany, too, the statistics are pertinent. Since Adolf Hitler suppressed nude dancing the Nazi birthrate has risen 35,000 a year. Finally, I submit that this is not Chicago. This is Paris! How are people to know that she is an American and not a Frenchwomen? We have the good name of Paris and of France to think of! I demand that she be punished on principle."

Hastily Maitre Torres interposed for Miss Warner: "Her dance in Paris is a good deal cleaner than those done in Chicago today. There is propaganda in America against tourists coming to France lest they be contaminated. Let's set them right. May I not ask Miss Warner to do her 'Slave Dance' in this Court?"

"It is such a hot day," dryly observed the senior judge, "that if such a thing were permitted the spectators would desire permission to strip too. No, no, Maitre Torres!'' And the Court rose to ponder its decision until this week.

Indignant in Chicago was Police Lieut. Harry Costello of the hot-spot censor squad. "I have never seen Miss Warner dance," said he, "but horses are about all that have escaped having to wear pants in Chicago. We visit every theatre or night club where a nude show might be given."

In Paris thrifty Miss Warner returned with her sister-manager to await the verdict in their room at the cheap Hotel Burgundy where they never smoke, never order wine. Thin and, without makeup, childish in appearance, the 22-year-old Slave Dancer shrewdly concocts from cosmetics bought in bulk the thick paint which turns her into a beautiful, large-eyed blonde of uncertain age. Strangely lacking in sex appeal off the stage, Miss Warner is a wet blanket at parties, has been known plaintively to ask fellow guests who were making whoopee to sit down and let her read them a few verses of classical French poetry. Her brother Gerald (Dartmouth 1930) is the meticulous U. S. vice consul at Mukden, Manchuria.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.