LIFE WITH THE PERFORMERS
The art of seating the audience in the big tent plays a prominent part
in the receipts of the day. “Fill the highest rows first,” is the
instruction forced upon each usher, and censure or dismissal is the
penalty of disobedience. By skilful and systematic arrangement of the
crowds, it is possible to utilize every inch of seating space in the
vast enclosure. Indifferent or careless performance of the duty leaves
the tent, to the casual observer, packed to completion, but in reality
here and there are spots not occupied. Hence all ingenuity must be
brought to bear to prevent this condition and its consequent financial
loss, for the sale of tickets stops when no more seats are available.
Sometimes a prosperous day has not been confidently expected and the
management orders a four- instead of the usual five-centre-pole tent
raised. The difference in seating capacity is several hundred. Then,
but not often, for circus foresight is keen, people flock to the lot in
thousands and there is no room for their accommodation. The owner is
shame and mortification personified.
On the hippodrome track one of the clowns, clad in sober black and
looking to be all he represents, waits with imitation camera and
tripod for victims. He is an experienced master of human nature.
With exaggerated politeness and scrupulous care of detail he poses
unsuspecting new-comers, to the boisterous amusement of those already
seated. Sweethearts stand in affectionate attitude, mightily pleased
and unsuspecting, while he pretends to impress their likeness upon
photographic plates. Sometimes he turns their faces from him, tells
them not to move until instructed, and then moves quietly away. Very
infrequently they take the joke seriously. When anger and retaliation
are manifested, he is agile enough to escape punishment.
A boy sings on the topmost seats. His voice is powerful, but pure and
sweet, and the tent is filled with the sounds of approval when he
finishes. The musical director discovered him in Rochester, N. Y., and
has great hopes for his professional future.
The military band is discoursing popular selections, and the equestrian
director makes a last critical survey of the network of suspended bars,
trapezes, rings, perches and wires. Finishing touches are being added
to the “loop-the-loop” apparatus. A score of men have been putting it
together since early morning. Now the band is at the dressing-room exit
and the cornet sounds a melodious call. The inaugural tournament is
on, comprising, the press agent is telling his guests, “spectacular
pageantry, zoologic, equestric, hippodromatic and aerial elements,
indicative of the limitless resources of this colossal consolidation of
circus chieftains, collection of celebrities and congress of champions;
a comprehensive, kaleidoscopic and illustrative review upon the ellipse
of the hippodrome, upon the two stages and in the three rings.”
Then the clowns’ carol, the herds of trained elephants and the circus
performance that is familiar to the young and old. The ringmaster’s
whip cracks merrily; ponies and dogs show the results of patient
teaching; slack wire equilibrists, head balancers and daring horizontal
bar heroes are innumerable; there are graceful flights upon flying
trapeze and swinging rings; living classic statuary pleases the eye;
hurdle riding, a hazardous form of equestrianism, gives the audience
a thrill; prancing thoroughbreds engage in a cakewalk, and the
clowns burlesque it; a crowd of acrobats and jugglers fill the rings
simultaneously, while a septette of men and women engage in fancy and
trick bicycle riding, and the most intrepid wheelman rides down a
ladder which stretches to the dome of the canvas; a performing bear
shows almost human intelligence, and some one dressed like a monster
rooster evokes general mirth; a young man, standing on the pedals of
a single wheel with no support save his nerve, makes his perilous
journey up and down a spiral arrangement, which has a curious effect
upon the snare drum; an eighteen-year-old girl turns somersaults upon a
moving white horse’s back, and the onlookers read that she is the only
one of her sex accomplishing the feat.
So the show progresses to the rushing hippodrome races, contests
between women on fiery thoroughbreds, double standing Roman bareback
races, tandem hurdle races, jockey races, pony races with monkey
jockeys, clowns in comical competition, and the breath-taking chariot
race. It is now that the country crowd perhaps gets a thrill that
is denied the New York city audience. In Madison Square Garden the
hippodrome track is dry and firm and smooth and true. The country
course offers none of these conditions. No time is granted to make it
perfect. And so it is that sometimes there is a wild cry from rider or
driver, a confused heap of hoofs, legs, wheels and dust, breathless
silence from the thousands of onlookers and then, generally, a loud
burst of applause as horse and human struggle to their feet, not
seriously damaged. The danger of disaster is especially great when
the four fleet horses are dashing with the heavy, low Roman chariots.
Great skill is required to prevent collision or collapse on the
abrupt course; and rough, uneven grounds make serious strain upon the
vehicle. The accidents seldom have disastrous endings. I remember
vividly when an axle broke in a Pennsylvania town. The woman driver
jumped and escaped with a sprained wrist. The band instantly stopped
its thumping. The horses, racing madly and unguided to the finish post
came to an abrupt standstill. The audience, on a verge of a panic,
resumed their seats, marvelling. They did not understand, that as a
precautionary measure against just such accidents, the fiery animals
are trained to run with the music. They have been taught not to move
rapidly until the band begins and to stop whenever its melody ceases.
It will be observed that the women who rush around the hippodrome
track in the jockey races ride in an opposite direction from that of
the other sex, and the reason is not apparent to the lay visitor.
The explanation is that thus their feet swing on the horse’s side
not exposed to the supporting quarter-pole, as would be the case did
they follow the course of the men. Disregard of this precautionary
measure has resulted in serious injury in many circuses, for the circus
woman makes light of danger in many forms which would appall her
unprofessional sister. The natural route is the men’s, and she would
take it every time did the equestrian director permit.
[Illustration: RING “STARS” LINED UP FOR INSPECTION.]
Of course, most skilled performers “stall.” That is, in the execution
of a particularly dangerous or difficult feat, they pretend to
barely escape a serious fall or make an unsuccessful attempt at
accomplishment. It gives the audience an exaggerated idea of the
extreme peril or difficulty of the undertaking, and ensures an outburst
of applause when finally triumphantly done. It is a sidelight on the
mild vanity of the circus man, but incidentally serves a commercial
purpose, for he knows that public approval carries with it renewal of
engagement at no smaller salary.
Nearly all on the list of circus performances have inherited their
strength and skill. They have been literally born to the arena. Some
of them represent the third and fourth generations of famous circus
families. The boys and girls of our circus, comprising two tiny concert
dancers, a smart young bicycle rider, several acrobats and gymnasts and
two Japanese boys, are a modest, healthy, honest party of playmates
whose parents find time each day to hear lessons and give advice in
manners and morals. They are “chums” in all the word implies, and an
occasional clash with words or fists always ends without the call for
parental adjustment and serves to cement the juvenile friendship. Of
young men and women, those who have not yet reached their majorities,
we have half a dozen, all of whom have conspicuous parts in the show.
One of the girls, a skilled acrobat, took up riding recently and bids
fair to achieve fame, the veterans say. The act does not interfere with
her other performance and she is in receipt of a handsome income. The
most finished tumbler among the lads is a boy who also participates in
a wire-walking act. In this performance he is disguised as a girl, for
the feminine sex always lends interest to any feat. The deception is
perfect, but it was very annoying to the management and embarrassing to
the youth when his blonde wig dropped off one afternoon and he stood
revealed in his masculinity. So it is with a “family” who do a graceful
and dangerous aerial act. The youngest member of the troupe is a boy,
although appearance indicates the other sex. They are both eagerly
biding the time when age will do away with the disguise.
The training of these children begins almost at birth. Indeed, in
the vast majority of cases there is the powerful effect of heredity,
which exercises an influence upon the child and helps it to overcome
obstacles to others well-nigh impossible. The chief effort is to create
courage and daring, to develop those qualities where they already
exist. The lungs are expanded and broadened by hearty exercise, and
the muscles are hardened and developed by athletic work. At the same
time it has been found by the modern gymnast that the body, to perform
this extraordinary work, must be well nourished. The necessity for a
clear head, a steady eye and unflinching hand requires that the brain
shall likewise be well nourished; so the education of the little pupils
is not neglected; indeed, many a gymnast has mental abilities often
lacking in the ordinary man. He has to understand some geometry and
mathematics, else how can he calculate the exact distance of a jump, a
fall, a somersault? He very often is the inventor of his own apparatus
and this has to be exact in shape, size and strength. The suppleness
of the limbs and joints comes from long practice, not, as is usually
thought, from straining the soft joints of a child. The result of such
straining would be weakness, not strength. Only those whose business
it is know or understand what can be done with those joints, how much
strain they will bear and which will endure the greatest strain. When
to hold on and when to let go are important items, too, in an acrobat’s
training. These can be learned only when young. It is natural for a
child to “catch at something” when it thinks it is falling. It must be
taught to do the catching only at precisely the right moment, and to
turn at the instant when required.
In these days, the net is an element of safety in all mid-air feats.
But so fearless and confident do gymnasts become that they hardly know
and certainly do not notice whether it is in place. There is a piece of
apparatus largely used among circus riders when training or learning
new feats called the “mecanique.” It consists of a belt, which goes
around the waist of the performer, to which is attached a strong,
elastic rope, which is again fastened to a wooden, gibbet-like arm.
The tyro knows that he cannot possibly fall beyond the length of the
rope and that, therefore, no matter how many times he fails, he cannot
by any possibility come to physical grief. The use of this machine
is deprecated by some performers as reducing the nerve training to
a minimum. It is, however, in great favor with all whose nerves are
already steadied by experience and who are trying new tricks. In the
case of women and children the “mecanique” is very frequently employed.
There is no phase of work that requires more patient and faithful
study, more steadiness of nerve or a greater command of the muscles
than feats of balancing on trapeze, rings and slack wire. To balance
well, one must be systematically developed, and each muscle must be
ready to act instantly and do its work with certainty. The legs must be
strong and firm to sustain the body in its various poses. The back must
be sinewy, so that the recovery may be made quickly and the upright
maintained without a chance of failure, and the arms and hands must be
hard and strong; for when a man, falling from a trapeze, grasps at the
bar, he must catch it and hold to it if he desires to emerge unhurt.
Balancing on the slack wire is essentially different from trapeze
balancing. On the slack wire the balance must be kept by working the
body from the waist down, and is mainly done with the legs. It is the
reverse on the trapeze, where the legs must be kept rigid and the
balance worked from the leg up. The slack wire is harder to learn at
first than the trapeze, as it is radically different from a person’s
natural balance, which is kept more with the arms and body and less
with the legs.
The triple somersault has slain its scores, yet as long as men tumble
over elephants in the circus, and as long as springboards are made, the
acrobats will be trying to accomplish this most difficult of feats.
There have been acrobats who have done it. They are dead now. They
were carried out of the ring to a hospital immediately thereafter,
and lived for the various periods of from one to three days. There
have been men who have asserted that they can turn the triple. They
are generally the acrobats who have left the circus ring forever and
are devoting the last years of their lives to the sale of cigars or
some other stirring occupation. The men who have followed the circus
all their lives say that no man has ever turned the triple from a
springboard and lived to boast of his triumph. The triple somersault is
done from a flying trapeze, but it is simply a series of revolutions
in the air as the performer drops. Even then it should be called two
and a half revolutions, for the acrobat falls on his back in a net and
depends upon the rebound to hurl him to his feet. He can make these
two revolutions and a half from a springboard, sometimes, with the
difference that nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand
he alights on his head or on the back of his neck which brings instant
death. A man who even falls that way in a net is a subject for the
coroner.
It is circus tradition that in 1842, when even the double somersault
was deemed a difficult and dangerous feat, a performer tried the triple
turn. It happened in Mobile, Alabama, and the rash acrobat broke his
neck. W. J. Hobbes, a tumbler, was killed attempting the trick in
London four years later. John Amor, a Pennsylvania circus leaper, who
was a famous double somersault revolver, paid with his life for his
ambition in 1859. He was travelling with an English circus, essayed the
death-dealing act, struck on his forehead and died.
The somersault, whether it be single or double, is a feat which
requires the most assiduous practice and the most accurate calculation.
The first thing which the tumbler learns is to jump from a springboard.
The sensation of springing through the air is an uncanny one. Next is
the “stock” somersault, which consists of merely springing up in the
air and slowly, and with practically no muscular exertion, turning
over. The motion is so slow that the spectators hardly realize that
the man has revolved. Then begins the drill for the real somersault.
The acrobat learns the “tuck,” which consists of grasping both
legs tightly half way between the knee and ankle and pressing them
closely together. At the same time the acrobat puts the muscles of his
shoulders and back into play. This muscular force acts like the balance
weight of the wheel. It aids him to complete the revolution. The taking
of the “tuck” requires the nicest calculation. The acrobat must wait
until he has sprung as far in the air as the force of the springboard
or his legs will carry him. If he “tucks” too soon he will fall like a
coffee sack. If he waits until too late he finds himself cast, a human
wheel at a dead centre. He is likely to have broken bones in either
case in spite of carpet or mattress. The double somersault requires
more muscular force. The trained acrobat knows exactly where he is at
every point in the revolution. He has a strange sense which makes him
feel it. It is when he summons his almost exhausted energies for a
third turn that he feels like a ship without a rudder. Harry Costello,
Wm. Kinkead, John Armstrong, Arthur Mohring, and “Little Bob” Hanlon,
well-known circus performers, have broken their necks and died in
executing the double somersault within a score of years.
The dressing-rooms--the “green room” of the circus--are as convenient
to the centre of the tent as the topography of the lot will permit.
Passing through the canvas connection, the women of the show enter
quarters to the left and the men’s accommodations are on the other
side. Between, stand the horses and wagons and other “property” which
for various reasons cannot be stored near the rings. Very cosy and
comfortable are the two canvas compartments, although room is at a
premium. Trunks replace chairs, and mirrors are of a dimension to
discourage vanity. The process of “making up” is a laborious, and
tedious undertaking, but accepted as one of the conditions which are
unavoidable. Of cold water there is a plenty, and soap and towels
abound. Naphtha lights furnish illumination. Electric experiments have
never been successful.
The music of the band furnishes the circus man’s cue. He knows by
its brazen notes when to leave the dressing-room for the ring. If
the musical director changes an air, the dressing-room inmates must
be thoroughly informed to avoid delay and confusion. No performer
is permitted to leave until the entire show is over. The danger of
accident in the ring is never absent, and as many do several “turns”
others must be ready if one becomes incapacitated. When the nights grow
cold in the early and late season, the chill air which penetrates the
canvas would drive any but the hardy circus folk to a sick-bed. Their
trained systems are equal to all demands the elements put forward,
however, and a cough or a cold are almost unknown. A miserable enough
place it is when the rain falls freely. Scant as is the dressing-room
protection, the journey to and from the rings is infinitely worse.
Performers return to their trunks wet in the feet and generally
bestrewed with drops from the head down. Pretty costumes are spotted
and the effect is very depressing. There is peril to life and limb,
too, when bars and trapezes and rings and other apparatus becomes
drenched. Hands may slip, feet may not hold, a horse may stumble,
and there are numberless other chances of misfortune. The equestrian
director decides whether or not the possibility of disaster is too
great for the act. If he deems the risk not too venturesome, the
performer accepts cheerfully, no matter what is his own conviction.
Sometimes he enters upon the duty with grim forebodings as to the
outcome, for he appreciates that perhaps the director, in his desire
not to disappoint the audience, has imposed a critical undertaking.
The circus concert offers opportunity for a display of talents other
than those presented in the ring. Many performers with nimble foot or
tuneful voice add to their incomes by this extra work.
Circus performers are persons of large and unwearied charity and
compassion. No comrade is deserted in affliction or distress.
Contributions of money and sympathy flow in upon him, and none fails to
subscribe. If the situation requires more money than one circus is able
to provide, word of the need is sent to friends with other similar
organizations and there is always prompt and ready response. I know of
a dozen invalids who are to-day being supported solely by the liberal
benevolence of comrades.
Two benevolent societies are with the Barnum & Bailey circus, the
B.O.S.S. and the Tigers. Each makes a weekly collection from the
members and pays $15.00 weekly to the sick or disabled. Last year
$9,000 was collected and $8,000 disbursed. The balances remained in the
treasurers’ hands for this year.
Many of the people of the circus accumulate competences after a few
years’ work, and there is no reason why all who live prudently should
not soon be financially independent. Their expenses of travel, board
and bed are all borne by the management, and other requirements of
a circus campaign are few and small. It is a common practice with
some to draw only a small share of their salaries each week. The
accumulated balance awaits them in the money wagon at the close of
the season. Then, there is the “mother” of the circus with whom many
of the unmarried men and the boys deposit a weekly stipend. No plea,
however piteous, will force her to disgorge, they know, until the last
stand has been played. Then the amassed wealth is handed to them with a
parting kindly injunction to be moderate through the winter and return
next year with as much unspent as consistent. This interest in his
welfare has started many a circus man on the road to prosperity and
fortune.
The “mother” is one of the most interesting characters of the
circus. Her life is devoted particularly to the welfare of the woman
performers under tents. Her official duty is as matron of the women’s
dressing-room. She it is who supervises their wardrobe, mends sudden
breaches in the tarlatan and bespangled skirts and cares for her
charges in case of illness or accident. Should an equestrienne fall
from her horse, it is the “circus mother” who brings the cup of black
coffee, which is the only stimulant ever given to gymnasts and acrobats
in such an emergency.
At night, after the performance, she presides over the performers’
luncheon of sandwiches and tea, which the circus women enjoy in the
sleeping car. In short, she is a general chaperon, hospital nurse,
friend and counsellor in one. Our “mother’s” long experience in circus
life has made her familiar with every detail of the business and she
knows what to do, without any prompting, whenever any emergency arises.
Men and women alike come to her with the petty troubles that are bound
to occur in the uncertain and strenuous existence they lead. She is
cheery, sympathetic or admonitory as the occasion may require, and no
one leaves her presence without being the better for having come into
contact with the motherly matron. It is an axiom among circus people
that the good-will of the “mother” is equivalent to lasting favor with
the management, and that to incur her ill-will is to stand an imminent
risk of losing an engagement.
A large part of her duty is the care of the circus wardrobe, and during
the winter she devotes her entire time to it. With her deft fingers and
the judicious use of naphtha she makes old circus costumes look like
new. Trappings which are worn by the animals in the grand entry are all
made by the “mother” and her assistants during the idle winter season.
She is as expert at cutting a pattern for the costumes of the animals
as a Fifth avenue modiste is at cutting those for her smart clientele.
She is, in short, the Worth of circusland. Although nearly sixty years
old, she is as lively as a woman half her age.
The domestic instinct is very strong among the circus women for the
reason that they are deprived of home life, a great part of every year.
It finds an outlet in many little ways, one of which is an appeal to
the chef in charge of the dining car to be allowed to bake a cake. If
he is in a mood to give them permission they are pleased as children,
and begin a hunt for eggs and milk. The train may be standing just
outside of some village, and they run out and buy the things and come
back and cook as though it were the greatest fun in the world. When
their cake or pie is done, it is passed through the car, and no matter
how small it may be, there is always a bit for everyone. Sometimes the
cook is ill-tempered and won’t let them fuss around, but that doesn’t
always stop them. It isn’t at all unusual for them to go to one of the
houses along near the track and ask the woman who lives there to let
them use her kitchen. Almost always they get permission and afterwards
pay for it.
They sew, too, and many do exceedingly pretty fancy work. They don’t
have to keep their circus clothes in order. The “circus mother” does
that, but they do all the mending of personal garments, and besides
keep some sort of pickup work on hand. There isn’t a home of a circus
woman that is not furnished with the covers of some sort she has made
during the season. One seldom sees a circus woman in a city after the
season is over. She flees from it. She detests the noise and bustle,
and, almost without exception, they all live in little country towns,
where they practise during the winter, go early to bed and are in fine
condition when the season opens.
I know that it is a common thing to believe that a circus woman has
no modesty, but the impression is a mistaken one. She can dress as
she does and perform, and still be a perfectly good, pure woman.
That is because no town has any identity to her, nor any person any
individuality. It makes no difference to her whether the show is in New
York City or Kalamazoo. There is simply a performance to be given, and
she is not playing to any one person. There is no “he” in the audience
who may be attracted to take her out to supper afterwards. He wouldn’t
have the chance to speak to her, if he wanted to, and if she seems to
him an earth-born fairy, she never knows it. No women could live more
protected lives. The performance isn’t over until eleven o’clock, and
all must be in the cars of the circus train by midnight, when the cars
are usually locked for the night; and when one remembers that a circus
woman is almost invariably married, and that her husband is with her,
it can be appreciated that the moral standard of the profession is
high. Most of the circus women support families, and their leisure
between performances is spent in sewing--perhaps garments for younger
children at home, or, as a matter of economy, for themselves; for they
save every possible penny, finding incentive and practical aid in the
fact that they need not consider the expense of living in the necessary
outlay.
After the night performance, they return to their private cars, which
are by that time prepared to start for another town as soon as the
tents and other paraphernalia are aboard. Week after week of this
routine, as regularly carried out as the work of a factory, requires
physical stamina as well as the actual gymnastic or acrobatic circus
faculty, for which a clear brain is the most requisite. These things
are not maintained except by regular living. The motto of the circus
acrobat, therefore, might be “plain living and high jumping.” Beneath
the white canvas, as under the brick and iron of city office buildings,
there is no room for those who complain. “Headaches” and similar
excuses for a non-appearance must for disciplinary reasons be frowned
upon by the equestrian director--the stage manager of the circus. It is
the “circus mother” who pleads with him to excuse the women who are not
able to appear. She it is to whom they go with griefs and complaints
and upon whose sympathy in their concern they may rely.
Frivolity, even in the innocuous guise of a waiting maid, is
discouraged in circus life, and no woman performer, be she ever so
celebrated, is allowed to carry a handmaiden to aid in dressing her.
“No room for ’em,” is the terse but eloquent excuse of the management.
Circuses of the better class look after the welfare of their woman
performers with a surprising regard to detail. They are provided with a
special car in which they live while on the road, except when the show
plays a three-night or week’s stand; in that case they are quartered
in a hotel. How very comfortable their travelling quarters may be they
are nevertheless pleased when an opportunity is had to spend a few
days in a room which affords sufficient space to allow of unpacking
and repacking trunks, for in one-night stands the trunk containing
personal belongings is never moved except from car to lot. Woman riders
frequently own their own horses. It is indeed considered a breach of
circus etiquette, or more particularly speaking a lowering of one’s
“caste” to be content to ride an animal owned by some one else. The
sharp little vibrant “clucks,” with which the equestrienne commands
her horse in the ring, are “cues” which he understands as well as he
does the swaying of the ringmaster’s whip from left to right, or the
pressure of his rider’s satin slipper. Each of these is a suggestion to
his memory that brings instant response in some change of movement.
The disadvantage under which a circus woman “makes up” would drive an
actress to despair. She sits upon a small stool before the stationary
mirror in the upraised lid of the trunk, and “makes up” as best she
can in the big dressing tent. There are perhaps thirty other women in
the tent, and a wardrobe mistress in charge, prepared to mend suddenly
acquired rents in emergencies. The use of alcohol for spirit lamps is
not allowed unless with a special permit from the “mother.” Many of
the woman acrobats, gymnasts and jugglers are foreign. They have homes
abroad, perhaps, and work industriously in leisure hours to beautify
them. One woman who travelled last season with us completed during
the tour an entire bed set of renaissance lace, cover and pillow
shams. This same woman who is one of a troupe of acrobats, when twitted
for her “stinginess,” was wont to reply: “Well, it is another brick in
my house--very dollar I save.” She was buying a home for her mother and
sister.
[Illustration: PRACTISING TRICKS IN THE OPEN.]
Any one who witnesses the performance of these professional female
athletes must marvel at the strength, skill and endurance that a woman
is capable of. There are on both sides of the Atlantic more than two
thousand women who earn their living in this way, and of these nearly
one half are found in America. They like the West best; for they tell
you the Westerner is the most ardent admirer of muscle and nerve as
displayed by the gentler sex. The women like their business. They have
no special dietary. They eat when they feel like it; eat heartily, too,
and of anything they crave. Their remuneration varies from fifty to one
hundred and fifty dollars a week. The best of them and, of course, the
few, command the latter sum.
A woman performer with whom I talked one afternoon gave it as her
opinion that women are more proficient as animal trainers than men. She
said: “One need not seek far for a reason for this. In the first place,
women are more patient, and it is quite a mistaken idea to suppose
that rough methods are necessary in training animals. One sees many
more woman animal trainers abroad than in this country, but a number
of them have been celebrated in the United States. I think it is the
mother instinct in women which enables them to command the obedience of
animals. It is a well-known fact among circus people that monkeys are
particularly fond of women. Horses, too, are readily trained by women.
“Some years ago I trained successfully a number of sheep, supposedly
the stupidest of animals. I cannot say that I found them overweaningly
intelligent, but with much patience, the virtue which I insist makes
a woman capable as an animal trainer, I succeeded in teaching them
a series of tricks both original and clever, such as are usually
performed by a dog circus. Dogs and horses have the best memories,
though some trainers contend that the elephant has. A dog or horse will
respond to a nod or the slightest swaying motion of a whip from side to
side. Elephants, being more ponderous of body, naturally require more
time to train.”
Few people distinguish between the gymnasts and acrobats of a circus,
yet there is a distinction with a decided difference. The acrobat is
he who tumbles and turns somersaults, and usually “starts the show” by
running from a springboard and jumping over the wide backs of elephants
in line. The gymnast is an aerial artist, and his work has little in
common with that of the other performer. Some people, according to
an authority on circus matters, are born with a balance. Presence of
mind has not only to be a habit but an exact science, as it were, with
the man or woman performer who would master the art of the flying
ring. This is one of the reasons for the abstemiousness of the circus
fraternity. No drugs or alcohol are permitted inside the circus tent.
This is a law the violation of which means inevitable dismissal for any
performer. Perhaps the very obvious necessity for its enforcement is at
the same time the reason why it is so seldom broken. Performers must
needs be springy of step, clear of head, keen of eye and sound of liver.
Perhaps few in a circus audience who have many times admired the
graceful gesticulations of the tight rope and slack rope walkers
realize the utility of the small Japanese umbrella which they wield
with apparently careless grace. As a matter of fact, the umbrella and
other paraphernalia thrown to them by the attendants and which they
manipulate for no apparent reason save that of adding effectiveness to
the act, are in reality used for balancing purposes. Many a wire walker
has been saved from perhaps fatal accident by a dexterous swerving of
the light parasol from right to left, readjusting the balance just in
the nick of time.
Most of the circuses abroad are enclosed indoor affairs, and as the
buildings in which such attractions are seen are of much greater height
than anything we have in this country, the opportunity for daring
gymnastic acts is far greater than here. At the Crystal Palace, the
Olympia and the Royal Aquarium and also at the Alhambra, many feats
are performed which it would be impossible to duplicate here. Children
are oftener seen as acrobats and gymnasts in the old country than in
America. They begin to train as early as three years of age and many
tots of six and seven are wonderfully accomplished circus performers,
in lands where the Children’s Society holds not sway. These children
are in many instances apprenticed out to old performers who train them,
and are repaid in return by their services for a certain number of
years.
Few of the members of the so-called acrobatic families bear any
individual relationship to one another, and the name taken by the
troupe is usually that of the trainer or leading acrobat.
Of late years costumes for acrobats have changed considerably. It used
to be the fashion to wear tights and blouses which would be as little
impedimental as possible to the free swing of the body. Now, however,
the latest acrobatic actors imported from Europe are affecting evening
dress, the women in decollete gowns, full-skirted, and the men in
the black and white habiliments prescribed by convention for dress
occasions. Needless to say it is much more difficult for both men and
women to perform acrobatic feats thus attired, but the fashions of the
circus world like those of society are inexorable.
Nothing could be more incongruous than the devotion existing between
our French animal trainer and his performing grizzly bear. The
animal is the largest of the bear species and the most powerful and
formidable, yet this owner has taught his specimen gentleness and good
manners. He is its constant companion and attendant. Its long and
shaggy brown coat is brushed and combed at frequent intervals, and food
is proffered in bare outstretched hands. It obeys commands with all the
sagacity of a well-trained dog and gives an exhibition of wrestling,
pugilism and other difficult displays which interest and amuse. Its
enormous paws and long sharp claws are a menace against which pads
and gloves sometimes avail nothing and the foreigner is ever a sorely
wounded person. Bruin has been elevated to a state of intelligence
which seems to give him keen enjoyment of bear humor. Thus it is that
the circus folks declare that whenever the beast slaps or hugs its
human friend with unusual violence, great glee is depicted in every
characteristic. No matter how the resentful trainer exerts himself, he
cannot retaliate with any effect. The sight of the Frenchman chattering
angrily at the unconcerned furry humorist after their performance is a
weekly source of merriment in the menagerie tent.
The “rooster man” is one of the novelties of the show and of the
dressing-room. He is an Englishman who costumes himself like a
monstrous fighting cock, gaffed and ready for the fray, and astonishes
the audience with an exhibition in which an audacious little natural
game cock participates. It concludes with a battle between the
pseudo and the genuine bird in which the one engages eagerly and is
impressed with an exultant, strutting conviction of victory when
its huge antagonist flops fluttering to the ground. The diversion
is as entertaining as any in the sawdust precincts and to the show
persons the most remarkable for patience in training and endurance in
execution. How little the onlookers imagine that after the act the
human rooster frequently drops in a state of collapse and exhaustion!
The feathers which envelop him are of necessity fastened to stiff and
smothering supports, and their encumbering weight on a hot day is
tremendous. This is one of the secrets of the arena which probably no
one who has witnessed the unique performance ever divined.
For intrepid bravery and wild exploits I doubt if the equal of the
trick bicyclist can be found. In the parade, the chances of injury
he gleefully assumes fill the sightseer with horror and dread. Under
the canvas the greater the risk the more enjoyment it accords him.
He rides, in one exhibition, down an ordinary ladder which stretches
to the dome of the tent. Down the smooth rungs he dashes, like a
spectral flash, and his comrades wonder what the final end will be.
Nothing can prevent the feat. When wet weather makes other performers
hesitate or they are directed not to try their acts, he mounts merrily
to his perch and trusts to luck and skill. Water drips from the
apparatus and his mad flight seems impossible of safe accomplishment.
He emerges unscathed. He is, too, the dare-devil of the “cycle whirl,”
a cup-shaped apparatus made of wooden slats. He has four companions,
but the neck-breaking scorching is delegated to him. Around the
inclined track he rushes, with hands spread out and arms upraised, the
contrivance shivering and rattling. Faster and yet faster he whizzes
until he no longer looks like a man on a bicycle; he is a blurred line
drawn around the track. Within an inch of the rim and disaster, down
the drop to the very edge of the floor he rumbles with no power of
guidance over his machine save his wonderful balance, and spectators
catch their breath. Then a wild jump and he is bowing and smiling in
the centre of the cup.
The invention of new acts engages the attention of acrobats and
gymnasts most of the winter. Many of them rehearse in the gymnasiums of
large cities, although aerial performers have difficulty in finding
sufficiently ample quarters. They tell, in dressing-room conversation,
of many queer experiences with the flabby-muscled, hollow-chested men
who seek their aid and advice to attain better physical condition, and
find much amusement in relating their observation of methods employed
in this effort. A very rich weakling who patronizes one of the New York
city gymnasiums is a never-ending source of hilarious reminiscence. He
is ridiculous in all his body-building plans, but firm in his belief in
their efficacy. One of his practices is to run for hours with a bag of
shot tied to his head. He has persuaded himself that it will develop
and strengthen his chest!
It is in the knees that the evidences of age first manifest themselves
in the acrobats. The strain on this part of the body is always
intense. Suddenly the veteran finds accustomed life and spring have
left them. Then he knows the end of his active career has come. Many
of these men, barred physically from somersaults and the like, become
“understanders,” that is, they are the members of troupes who catch and
support their twisting comrades who alight on shoulder or ground. Their
strength is still in shoulder and arm, but agility is a wistful memory.
Circus rehearsals are delayed until two or three days before the
formal opening, which affords ample time for guaranteeing a smooth
performance. The reason that no more preliminary time is required
is due to the fact that each performer appears for the season’s work
perfect in his individual act. There remains only the necessity for
blending into a harmonious whole. Minor details are speedily adjusted
by the equestrian director. The celerity with which intelligent order
is evolved from chaos is amazing to the inexperienced observer.
The pretty and pleasant and picturesque part of daily life under canvas
comes after the substantial meal at five o’clock, when for two hours
there is rest for all save the hard worked side-show establishment.
The woman performers, busy with fancy work and sewing; the men talking
over the gossip of the ring; the children playing among themselves, and
with the pet ponies, form a charming picture on the greensward back of
the tents. Down from the southern hills steals the softly descending
darkness, swift shadows move through the lingering twilight across the
big tent and hang about the lot, and color comes into the white moon
above. A breeze, long desired and grateful, sweeps through the place.
Naphtha torches flare as the wind blows them about. Inside the “big
top,” the long stretches of seats barren of spectators, the equestrian
director is disciplining an obstinate “cake walking” horse; the cycle
sextet perfect a new pose; the clown is acting as ringmaster, while
his wife rehearses her riding act, and ten gymnasts in the high white
dome of the canvas plan more breath-taking aerial flights. Suddenly the
shrill shriek of a whistle, a scampering to dressing-rooms, ushers in
place and the evening audience pours into the seats.