Grown-up people really ought to be more careful. Among themselves it may
seem but a small thing to give their word and take back their word.
For them there are so many compensations. Life lies at their feet, a
party-coloured india-rubber ball; they may kick it this way or kick
it that, it turns up blue, yellow, or green, but always coloured and
glistenning. Thus one sees it happen almost every day, and, with a jest
and a laugh, the thing is over, and the disappointed one turns to fresh
pleasure, lying ready to his hand. But with those who are below them,
whose little globe is swayed by them, who rush to build star-pointing
alhambras on their most casual word, they really ought to be more
careful.
In this case of the circus, for instance, it was not as if we had led up
to the subject. It was they who began it entirely--prompted thereto by
the local newspaper. “What, a circus!” said they, in their irritating,
casual way: “that would be nice to take the children to. Wednesday would
be a good day. Suppose we go on Wednesday. Oh, and pleats are being worn
again, with rows of deep braid,” etc.
What the others thought I know not: what they said, if they said
anything, I did not comprehend. For me the house was bursting, walls
seemed to cramp and to stifle, the roof was jumping and lifting. Escape
was the imperative thing--to escape into the open air, to shake off
bricks and mortar, and to wander in the unfrequented places of the
earth, the more properly to take in the passion and the promise of the
giddy situation.
Nature seemed prim and staid that day, and the globe gave no hint that
it was flying round a circus ring of its own. Could they really be true.
I wondered, all those bewildering things I had heard tell of circuses?
Did long-tailed ponies really walk on their hind-legs and fire off
pistols? Was it humanly possible for clowns to perform one-half of
the bewitching drolleries recorded in history? And how, oh, how dare
I venture to believe that, from off the backs of creamy Arab steeds,
ladies of more than earthly beauty discharged themselves through paper
hoops? No, it was not altogether possible, there must have been some
exaggeration. Still, I would be content with very little, I would take
a low percentage--a very small proportion of the circus myth would more
than satisfy me. But again, even supposing that history were, once in
a way, no liar, could it be that I myself was really fated to look upon
this thing in the flesh and to live through it, to survive the rapture?
No, it was altogether too much. Something was bound to happen, one of us
would develop measles, the world would blow up with a loud explosion.
I must not dare, I must not presume, to entertain the smallest hope. I
must endeavour sternly to think of something else.
Needless to say, I thought, I dreamed of nothing else, day or night.
Waking, I walked arm-in-arm with a clown, and cracked a portentous whip
to the brave music of a band. Sleeping, I pursued--perched astride of a
coal-black horse--a princess all gauze and spangles, who always managed
to keep just one unattainable length ahead. In the early morning Harold
and I, once fully awake, crossexammed each other as to the possibilities
of this or that circus tradition, and exhausted the lore long ere the
first housemaid was stirring. In this state of exaltation we slipped
onward to what promised to be a day of all white days--which brings
me right back to my text, that grown-up people really ought to be more
careful. I had known it could never really be; I had said so to myself a
dozen times. The vision was too sweetly ethereal for embodiment. Yet the
pang of the disillusionment was none the less keen and sickening,
and the pain was as that of a corporeal wound. It seemed strange and
foreboding, when we entered the breakfast-room, not to find everybody
cracking whips, jumping over chairs, and whooping In ecstatic rehearsal
of the wild reality to come. The situation became grim and pallid
indeed, when I caught the expressions “garden-party” and “my mauve
tulle,” and realized that they both referred to that very afternoon.
And every minute, as I sat silent and listened, my heart sank lower and
lower, descending relentlessly like a clock-weight into my boot soles.
Throughout my agony I never dreamed of resorting to a direct question,
much less a reproach. Even during the period of joyful anticipation some
fear of breaking the spell had kept me from any bald circus talk in the
presence of them. But Harold, who was built in quite another way, so
soon as he discerned the drift of their conversation and heard the knell
of all his hopes, filled the room with wail and clamour of bereavement.
The grinning welkin rang with “Circus!” “Cir-cus!” shook the
window-panes; the mocking walls re-echoed “Circus!” Circus he would
have, and the whole circus, and nothing but the circus. No compromise
for him, no evasions, no fallacious, unsecured promises to pay. He had
drawn his cheque on the Bank of Expectation, and it had got to be cashed
then and there; else he would yell, and yell himself into a fit, and
come out of it and yell again. Yelling should be his profession, his
art, his mission, his career. He was qualified, he was resolute, and he
was in no hurry to retire from the business.
The noisy ones of the world, if they do not always shout themselves into
the imperial purple, are sure at least of receiving attention. If they
cannot sell everything at their own price, one thing--silence--must, at
any cost, be purchased of them. Harold accordingly had to be consoled
by the employment of every specious fallacy and base-born trick known to
those whose doom it is to handle children. For me their hollow cajolery
had no interest, I could pluck no consolation out of their bankrupt
though prodigal pledges. I only waited till that hateful, well-known
“Some other time, dear!” told me that hope was finally dead. Then I left
the room without any remark. It made it worse--if anything could--to
hear that stale, worn-out old phrase, still supposed by those dullards
to have some efficacy.
To nature, as usual, I drifted by instinct, and there, out of the track
of humanity, under a friendly hedge-row had my black hour unseen. The
world was a globe no longer, space was no more filled with whirling
circuses of spheres. That day the old beliefs rose up and asserted
themselves, and the earth was flat again--ditch-riddled, stagnant, and
deadly flat. The undeviating roads crawled straight and white, elms
dressed themselves stiffly along inflexible hedges, all nature,
centrifugal no longer, sprawled flatly in lines out to its farthest
edge, and I felt just like walking out to that terminus, and dropping
quietly off. Then, as I sat there, morosely chewing bits of stick, the
recollection came back to me of certain fascinating advertisements I had
spelled out in the papers--advertisements of great and happy men, owning
big ships of tonnage running into four figures, who yet craved, to
the extent of public supplication, for the sympathetic co-operation of
youths as apprentices. I did not rightly know what apprentices might
be, nor whether I was yet big enough to be styled a youth; but one thing
seemed clear, that, by some such means as this, whatever the intervening
hardships, I could eventually visit all the circuses of the world--the
circuses of merry France and gaudy Spain, of Holland and Bohemia, of
China and Peru. Here was a plan worth thinking out in all its bearings;
for something had presently to be done to end this intolerable state of
things.
Mid-day, and even feeding-time, passed by gloomily enough, till a small
disturbance occurred which had the effect of releasing some of the
electricity with which the air was charged. Harold, it should be
explained, was of a very different mental mould, and never brooded,
moped, nor ate his heart out over any disappointment. One wild
outburst--one dissolution of a minute into his original elements of air
and water, of tears and outcry--so much insulted nature claimed. Then he
would pull himself together, iron out his countenance with a smile, and
adjust himself to the new condition of things.
If the gods are ever grateful to man for anything, it is when he is
so good as to display a short memory. The Olympians were never slow to
recognize this quality of Harold's, in which, indeed, their salvation
lay, and on this occasion their gratitude had taken the practical form
of a fine fat orange, tough-rinded as oranges of those days were wont to
be. This he had eviscerated in the good old-fashioned manner, by biting
out a hole in the shoulder, inserting a lump of sugar therein, and then
working it cannily till the whole soul and body of the orange passed
glorified through the sugar into his being. Thereupon, filled full of
orange-juice and iniquity, he conceived a deadly snare. Having deftly
patted and squeezed the orange-skin till it resumed its original shape,
he filled it up with water, inserted a fresh lump of sugar in the
orifice, and, issuing forth, blandly proffered it to me as I sat moodily
in the doorway dreaming of strange wild circuses under tropic skies.
Such a stale old dodge as this would hardly have taken me in at ordinary
moments. But Harold had reckoned rightly upon the disturbing effect of
ill-humour, and had guessed, perhaps, that I thirsted for comfort and
consolation, and would not criticize too closely the source from which
they came. Unthinkingly I grasped the golden fraud, which collapsed at
my touch, and squirted its contents, into my eyes and over my collar,
till the nethermost parts of me were damp with the water that had run
down my neck. In an instant I had Harold down, and, with all the energy
of which I was capable, devoted myself to grinding his head into the
gravel; while he, realizing that the closure was applied, and that
the time for discussion or argument was past, sternly concentrated his
powers on kicking me in the stomach.
Some people can never allow events to work themselves out quietly. At
this juncture one of Them swooped down on the scene, pouring shrill,
misplaced abuse on both of us: on me for ill-treating my younger
brother, whereas it was distinctly I who was the injured and the
deceived; on him for the high offense of assault and battery on a clean
collar--a collar which I had myself deflowered and defaced, shortly
before, in sheer desperate ill-temper. Disgusted and defiant we fled in
different directions, rejoining each other later in the kitchen-garden;
and as we strolled along together, our short feud forgotten, Harold
observed, gloomily: “I should like to be a cave-man, like Uncle George
was tellin' us about: with a flint hatchet and no clothes, and live in a
cave and not know anybody!”
“And if anyone came to see us we didn't like,” I joined in, catching on
to the points of the idea, “we'd hit him on the head with the hatchet
till he dropped down dead.”
“And then,” said Harold, warming up, “we'd drag him into the cave and
skin him!”
For a space we gloated silently over the fair scene our imaginations had
conjured up. It was blood we felt the need of just then. We wanted no
luxuries, nothing dear-bought nor far-fetched. Just plain blood, and
nothing else, and plenty of it.
Blood, however, was not to be had. The time was out of joint, and we had
been born too late. So we went off to the greenhouse, crawled into the
heating arrangement underneath, and played at the dark and dirty and
unrestricted life of cave-men till we were heartily sick of it. Then we
emerged once more into historic times, and went off to the road to look
for something living and sentient to throw stones at.
Nature, so often a cheerful ally, sometimes sulks and refuses to play.
When in this mood she passes the word to her underlings, and all the
little people of fur and feather take the hint and slip home quietly
by back streets. In vain we scouted, lurked, crept, and ambuscaded.
Everything that usually scurried, hopped, or fluttered--the small
society of the undergrowth--seemed to have engagements elsewhere. The
horrid thought that perhaps they had all gone off to the circus occurred
to us simultaneously, and we humped ourselves up on the fence and felt
bad. Even the sound of approaching wheels failed to stir any interest
in us. When you are bent on throwing stones at something, humanity seems
obtrusive and better away. Then suddenly we both jumped off the fence
together, our faces clearing. For our educated ear had told us that the
approaching rattle could only proceed from a dog-cart, and we felt sure
it must be the funny man.
We called him the funny man because he was sad and serious, and said
little, but gazed right into our souls, and made us tell him just what
was on our minds at the time, and then came out with some magnificently
luminous suggestion that cleared every cloud away. What was more, he
would then go off with us at once and pay the thing right out to its
finish, earnestly and devotedly, putting all other things aside. So we
called him the funny man, meaning only that he was different from those
others who thought it incumbent on them to play the painful mummer. The
ideal as opposed to the real man was what we meant, only we were not
acquainted with the phrase. Those others, with their laboured jests and
clumsy contortions, doubtless flattered themselves that they were funny
men; we, who had to sit through and applaud the painful performance,
knew better.
He pulled up to a walk as soon as he caught sight of us, and the
dog-cart crawled slowly along till it stopped just opposite. Then he
leant his chin on his hand and regarded us long and soulfully, yet
said he never a word; while we jigged up and down in the dust, grinning
bashfully but with expectation. For you never knew exactly what this man
might say or do.
“You look bored,” he remarked presently; “thoroughly bored. Or else--let
me see; you're not married, are you?”
He asked this in such sad earnestness that we hastened to assure him we
were not married, though we felt he ought to have known that much; we
had been intimate for some time.
“Then it's only boredom,” he said. “Just satiety and world-weariness.
Well, if you assure me you aren't married you can climb into this cart
and I'll take you for a drive. I'm bored, too. I want to do something
dark and dreadful and exciting.”
We clambered in, of course, yapping with delight and treading all over
his toes; and as we set off, Harold demanded of him imperiously whither
he was going.
“My wife,” he replied, “has ordered me to go and look up the curate and
bring him home to tea. Does that sound sufficiently exciting for you?”
Our faces fell. The curate of the hour was not a success, from our point
of view. He was not a funny man, in any sense of the word.
“--but I'm not going to,” he added, cheerfully. “Then I was to stop at
some cottage and ask--what was it? There was nettle-rash mixed up in it,
I'm sure. But never mind, I've forgotten, and it doesn't matter. Look
here, we're three desperate young fellows who stick at nothing. Suppose
we go off to the circus?”
Of certain supreme moments it is not easy to write. The varying shades
and currents of emotion may indeed be put into words by those specially
skilled that way; they often are, at considerable length. But the sheer,
crude article itself--the strong, live thing that leaps up inside you
and swells and strangles you, the dizziness of revulsion that takes the
breath like cold water--who shall depict this and live? All I knew was
that I would have died then and there, cheerfully, for the funny man;
that I longed for red Indians to spring out from the hedge on the
dog-cart, just to show what I would do; and that, with all this, I could
not find the least little word to say to him.
Harold was less taciturn. With shrill voice, uplifted in solemn chant,
he sang the great spheral circus-song, and the undying glory of the
Ring. Of its timeless beginning he sang, of its fashioning by cosmic
forces, and of its harmony with the stellar plan. Of horses he sang,
of their strength, their swiftness, and their docility as to tricks.
Of clowns again, of the glory of knavery, and of the eternal type that
shall endure. Lastly he sang of Her--the Woman of the Ring--flawless,
complete, untrammelled in each subtly curving limb; earth's highest
output, time's noblest expression. At least, he doubtless sang all
these things and more--he certainly seemed to; though all that was
distinguishable was, “We're-goin'-to-the-circus!” and then, once more,
“We're-goin'-to-the-circus!”--the sweet rhythmic phrase repeated again
and again. But indeed I cannot be quite sure, for I heard confusedly,
as in a dream. Wings of fire sprang from the old mare's shoulders. We
whirled on our way through purple clouds, and earth and the rattle of
wheels were far away below.
The dream and the dizziness were still in my head when I found myself,
scarce conscious of intermediate steps, seated actually in the circus at
last, and took in the first sniff of that intoxicating circus smell that
will stay by me while this clay endures. The place was beset by a
hum and a glitter and a mist; suspense brooded large o'er the blank,
mysterious arena. Strung up to the highest pitch of expectation, we knew
not from what quarter, in what divine shape, the first surprise would
come.
A thud of unseen hoofs first set us aquiver; then a crash of cymbals, a
jangle of bells, a hoarse applauding roar, and Coralie was in the midst
of us, whirling past 'twixt earth and sky, now erect, flushed, radiant,
now crouched to the flowing mane; swung and tossed and moulded by the
maddening dance-music of the band. The mighty whip of the count in the
frock-coat marked time with pistol-shots; his war-cry, whooping clear
above the music, fired the blood with a passion for splendid deeds, as
Coralie, laughing, exultant, crashed through the paper hoops. We gripped
the red cloth in front of us, and our souls sped round and round with
Coralie, leaping with her, prone with her, swung by mane or tail with
her. It was not only the ravishment of her delirious feats, nor her
cream-coloured horse of fairy breed, long-tailed, roe-footed, an
enchanted prince surely, if ever there was one! It was her more than
mortal beauty--displayed, too, under conditions never vouchsafed to us
before--that held us spell-bound. What princess had arms so dazzlingly
white, or went delicately clothed in such pink and spangles? Hitherto
we had known the outward woman as but a drab thing, hour-glass shaped,
nearly legless, bunched here, constricted there; slow of movement, and
given to deprecating lusty action of limb. Here was a revelation! From
henceforth our imaginations would have to be revised and corrected up
to date. In one of those swift rushes the mind makes in high-strung
moments, I saw myself and Coralie, close enfolded, pacing the world
together, o'er hill and plain, through storied cities, past rows of
applauding relations,--I in my Sunday knickerbockers, she in her pink
and spangles.
Summers sicken, flowers fail and die, all beauty but rides round the
ring and out at the portal; even so Coralie passed in her turn, poised
sideways, panting, on her steed; lightly swayed as a tulip-bloom, bowing
on this side and on that as she disappeared; and with her went my heart
and my soul, and all the light and the glory and the entrancement of the
scene.
Harold woke up with a gasp. “Wasn't she beautiful?” he said, in quite
a subdued way for him. I felt a momentary pang. We had been friendly
rivals before, in many an exploit; but here was altogether a more
serious affair. Was this, then, to be the beginning of strife and
coldness, of civil war on the hearthstone and the sundering of old ties?
Then I recollected the true position of things, and felt very sorry for
Harold; for it was inexorably written that he would have to give way
to me, since I was the elder. Rules were not made for nothing, in a
sensibly constructed universe.
There was little more to wait for, now Coralie had gone; yet I lingered
still, on the chance of her appearing again. Next moment the clown
tripped up and fell flat, with magnificent artifice, and at once fresh
emotions began to stir. Love had endured its little hour, and stern
ambition now asserted itself. Oh, to be a splendid fellow like this,
self-contained, ready of speech, agile beyond conception, braving the
forces of society, his hand against everyone, yet always getting the
best of it! What freshness of humour, what courtesy to dames, what
triumphant ability to discomfit rivals, frock-coated and moustached
though they might be! And what a grand, self-confident straddle of
the legs! Who could desire a finer career than to go through life thus
gorgeously equipped! Success was his key-note, adroitness his panoply,
and the mellow music of laughter his instant reward. Even Coralie's
image wavered and receded. I would come back to her in the evening, of
course; but I would be a clown all the working hours of the day.
The short interval was ended: the band, with long-drawn chords, sounded
a prelude touched with significance; and the programme, in letters
overtopping their fellows, proclaimed Zephyrine, the Bride of the
Desert, in her unequalled bareback equestrian interlude. So sated was I
already with beauty and with wit, that I hardly dared hope for a fresh
emotion. Yet her title was tinged with romance, and Coralie's display
had aroused in me an interest in her sex which even herself had failed
to satisfy entirely.
Brayed in by trumpets, Zephyrine swung passionately into the arena.
With a bound she stood erect, one foot upon each of her supple, plunging
Arabs; and at once I knew that my fate was sealed, my chapter closed,
and the Bride of the Desert was the one bride for me. Black was her
raiment, great silver stars shone through it, caught in the dusky
twilight of her gauze; black as her own hair were the two mighty steeds
she bestrode. In a tempest they thundered by, in a whirlwind, a scirocco
of tan; her cheeks bore the kiss of an Eastern sun, and the sand-storms
of her native desert were her satellites. What was Coralie, with her
pink silk, her golden hair and slender limbs, beside this magnificent,
full-figured Cleopatra? In a twinkling we were scouring the desert--she
and I and the two coal-black horses. Side by side, keeping pace in our
swinging gallop, we distanced the ostrich, we outstrode the zebra; and,
as we went, it seemed the wilderness blossomed like the rose.
*****
I know not rightly how we got home that evening. On the road there were
everywhere strange presences, and the thud of phantom hoofs encircled
us. In my nose was the pungent circus-smell; the crack of the whip and
the frank laugh of the clown were in my ears. The funny man thoughtfully
abstained from conversation, and left our illusion quite alone, sparing
us all jarring criticism and analysis; and he gave me no chance, when
he deposited us at our gate, to get rid of the clumsy expressions of
gratitude I had been laboriously framing. For the rest of the evening,
distraught and silent, I only heard the march-music of the band, playing
on in some corner of my brain. When at last my head touched the pillow,
in a trice I was with Zephyrine, riding the boundless Sahara, cheek to
cheek, the world well lost; while at times, through the sand-clouds that
encircled us, glimmered the eyes of Coralie, touched, one fancied, with
something of a tender reproach.