Theater Arthur Miller in Moscow

The nineteenth of February dawned like any other in Moscow. Cold, overcast and lonesome. Even a glance at the vast schedule of theater performances failed to yield anything promising. The Uzbeks had crowded the Ulanovs off the stages. The only thing that looked interesting was an item near the bottom of the broadside. “Vid, s mosta” it read. If that didn’t mean much, the name of the author—Artur Miller (in transliteration)—did. So, in spite of my wishes to avoid enriching Mr. Miller in any way, I turned to the expressionless faces of. In tourist with a request for a ticket.

With an efficiency so dear to the world’s first socialist state (building Communism), In tourist presented me with a certificate stating that I had paid eleven rubles (ten for the ticket and one for a bit of capitalistic scalping) for a ticket to the Soviet première of A View from the Bridge. All that was left to do was to present the certificate at the box office of the Moscow Dramatic Theater and get my seat. It turned out to be on the left side, in soft seat No. 3 of Loge 4 of the Bel Étage, and I was told it was the last seat available and therefore it wasn’t as good as they would like a “guest” to have.

WJ

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Walter Darnell Jacobs

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The nineteenth of February dawned like any other in Moscow. Cold, overcast and lonesome. Even a glance at the vast schedule of theater performances failed to yield anything promising. The Uzbeks had crowded the Ulanovs off the stages. The only thing that looked interesting was an item near the bottom of the broadside. “Vid, s mosta” it read. If that didn’t mean much, the name of the author—Artur Miller (in transliteration)—did. So, in spite of my wishes to avoid enriching Mr. Miller in any way, I turned to the expressionless faces of. In tourist with a request for a ticket.

With an efficiency so dear to the world’s first socialist state (building Communism), In tourist presented me with a certificate stating that I had paid eleven rubles (ten for the ticket and one for a bit of capitalistic scalping) for a ticket to the Soviet première of A View from the Bridge. All that was left to do was to present the certificate at the box office of the Moscow Dramatic Theater and get my seat. It turned out to be on the left side, in soft seat No. 3 of Loge 4 of the Bel Étage, and I was told it was the last seat available and therefore it wasn’t as good as they would like a “guest” to have.