THE CIRCUS
There had been great excitement for some days past amongst the Arab
children in the little oasis town. Mysterious vans had arrived by the
train which crept once a day across the wide stretches of desert country,
looking in the distance like a caterpillar with gleaming eyes before it
drew up in the dusk at the tiny station. The children hung about watching
till they were dispersed by an important-looking official.
It had not been so very long ago that the train itself had been a new
excitement, bringing a whiff of modern civilisation to this small outpost
on the edge of the desert. This was as far as the railway had reached as
yet, and the station buildings had a somewhat bewildered air, set down in
space with nothing but desert beyond them, and only the frail thread of
the line to connect them with the far-off stir of modern life. And now
it seemed it was bringing something tangible and wonderful. There were
placards in French and in Arabic announcing the arrival of a Grand World
Circus, and performances were to be held three nights running in the town.
The small Arabs talked of nothing else. What was a circus? It leaked
out that there were wonderful European boys who rode on winged horses
with flowing tails; there were men who walked in mid-air on wires as fine
as the threads of a spider’s web. There were animals that could talk.
There were clowns. What were clowns? Above all, there was a marvellously
beautiful princess who also walked in mid-air, light as thistledown and
graceful as a houri. A town crier with a drum paraded the only street
shouting out the attractions of the circus and distributing handbills
printed in Arabic. Grave men studied these solemnly over their tiny cups
of black coffee, whilst the children edged nearer and nearer, gleaning
crumbs of information. “Lo, the cost of a seat is one franc; it is much
money,” said one greybeard to another. But again and again the words of
the handbill drew their eyes back. “Hassan hath seen such an exhibition
at Tunis, and he saith it is more marvellous even than the paper sets
forth.”
Early every morning the children collected in the station square watching
for what might happen. One day there were bales of stuff lying on the
ground, and men were hard at work driving in poles and tent pegs and
little by little a great tent rose in the square itself and a watchman
took up his position in front of it to prevent all from entering. Next
a party of strangers arrived and excitement grew to fever point. The
new comers lodged at a tiny hotel and few caught sight of them. From a
smaller tent close by the large one came the sound of horses stamping,
and a boy lying full length on the ground and peering under the edge of
it, declared his face had been brushed by a long and silky tail that
touched the ground. Then it was true about the wonderful horses! Excited
small boys chattered hard, and the booking of seats became furious.
Along the dusty roads came knots of peasants from outlying mud villages,
fingering their cherished coins. The fat Frenchman at the table outside
the tent took a stream of money all day long and smiled, well pleased.
Down by the grey-green river where the women beat and pounded linen in
the clear running water, there was talk of little else. Their husbands
and brothers and sons would see the circus. They themselves, being women,
could not go. But that did not prevent their being intensely interested
in the coming event.
“It is said they be in league with the Evil One and thus it is they can
walk in mid air,” said one woman, busily wringing out a dark blue strip
of muslin. “Allah send that our menfolk come to no harm in going to see
them.”
“It is truly spoken,” the others answered, and there was a pause for a
moment in the unceasing chatter, whilst a passing breeze stirred the palm
leaves in the oasis across the stream and set the sandy soil whirling in
small eddies.
It was a day in mid-January and already the almond blossom was beginning
to show a delicate flush among the palm stems, and the naked grey fig
trees were putting forth small emerald leaves. On the wide seashore the
waves were coming in gently, pushing a ring of creamy froth ahead of
them, and there was a softness in the air and a greater warmth in the
sun’s rays. The short African winter was almost over.
As the evening drew on, flaring naphtha lamps made a blaze of light at
the entrance of the circus tent, and hours before the entertainment was
to begin a crowd began to collect, the more fortunate clutching their
tickets, the rest prepared to wait outside through the whole performance
on the chance of catching a glimpse of the wonderful sights within.
Darkness came with its usual rush and through the curved leaves of the
eucalyptus trees in the hotel garden shone the faint glimmer of stars. As
we stepped into the open air the far-off beat of the sea seemed a steady
pulse in the night. Our feet fell softly on the sandy road, and ahead of
us was the glow of the circus. A packed crowd surrounded it, the light
catching on dark faces and flowing draperies. Huddled in their cloaks
they were impassive in appearance, but in reality deeply stirred. All
eyes were turned to the tent, from the chinks of which came a heartening
orange glow that spoke of the hidden glories within, whilst the shaky
strains of a band made themselves heard at intervals.
The setting of the entertainment was meagre in the extreme. The Box
Office sat on a chair by a rickety wooden table, and occasionally rushed
forth to chase away inquisitive boys who were approaching too near the
mysteries. Inside there were three or four tiers of rough seats round the
low canvas edging that circled the ring. On one side were the reserved
seats, occupied by French officers of the small garrison and their wives,
glad of even this simple distraction, shopkeepers, railway officials, and
the richer Arabs. On the other side were rows and rows of natives packed
as closely as possible along the benches, whilst the children sat on
lower seats still, staring round them at the tent and up to the dim gloom
of the roof, where a trapeze hung motionless. The ring was uncovered
beaten earth, and naphtha lights illuminated the scene with a crude glare.
When all the seats were filled, the band, composed of a violin, a cornet,
and a most useful drum, set up a martial air. There was a tightening
up of the tense excitement amongst the children, and to a burst of
ardour on the part of the drum, a grey horse cantered easily into the
arena. His flowing tail almost swept the ground and from his arched neck
rippled a long and silky mane. Striding after him came the Master of the
Ceremonies, with his long whip and air of distinction. And with him came
a scrap of a boy in a fringed khaki costume that strove to give him a Red
Indian air. A scarlet handkerchief was knotted round his head. Round and
round the ring went the horse, with an easy regular canter, until the
crowd broke into exclamations of admiration. Had such an animal ever been
seen before in the little town? “Truly it was such a steed as the son of
a prince might ride,” said one to another. Then there was a fresh stir of
interest as the tiny khaki figure ran to meet it, seemed to cling for a
moment against its side, then threw a small leg across its back and sat
upright, waving an acknowledgment to the applause. To the crack of the
Master’s long whip that rang out like a pistol shot, the horse kept up
his easy canter, whilst one by one the boy performed his tricks, standing
on one leg, lying full length and picking up flags from the ground as
he rode past, jumping over hurdles, etc., his small face set and grave
under the folds of the scarlet handkerchief, intent on performing his
task correctly. The crowd clapped delighted, till at last he and his
steed disappeared in a storm of applause. Then talk rose again in a
buzz. “Verily Hassan spoke truth when he said we should see marvels,”
and there were murmurs that the turn was over too quickly. In the more
expensive seats they discussed the show patronisingly and declared it
not at all bad. Someone said it was a small family affair, this French
travelling-circus, and that the performers worked hard and made it pay.
“A wretched life,” he added.
Meanwhile from my seat near the gangway I could watch the performers
as they came on and overhear snatches of talk. As the grey and its
rider went out they passed a knot of people talking together. “Canst
thou manage it, Etienne?” said a woman’s anxious voice, and at the same
moment two clowns appeared laughing and bandying jokes. One of them, the
elder, was so drawn and haggard, it seemed with pain, that it could be
marked even through the thick white make-up on his face. He was in the
usual baggy white costume; whilst the other, tall and young, was dressed
absurdly in a short black jacket, with a turndown collar and flowing red
bow tie, and wide checked trousers. His face, with its twinkling humorous
eyes and wide slit mouth was reddened to the hue of a rosy apple, whilst
his fair curly hair stood up in tufts above it. It could easily be seen
he clowned for the love of it. He chaffed the audience, even drawing
laughter from the Arab part of it, asked absurd questions of the Master
of the Ceremonies, tried to perform feats of horsemanship and failed
grotesquely, only to do something finally much more difficult than he had
at first attempted.
But after a time a certain restlessness began to make itself felt
amongst the audience. Good as the clowns were, the crowd was looking for
the appearance of the Enchantress, the wonderful Princess of the Air.
Expectation, whetted by what had already been seen, became more and more
keen.
At last there was a stir outside, a pause, a crashing of chords on the
part of the Band, and running forward with quick little steps, smiling
to left and right, her dark hair hanging down her back, her candid eyes
seeming to beg a kind reception from the crowd, she appeared.
She was dressed in scarlet tights, her arms bare to the shoulder, and by
her side trotted a small boy, dressed too in red. With all her bravery of
gaudy apparel and in spite of her professional ingratiating smile, there
was still so much of the honest bourgeoise wife and mother about her that
she struck one as incongruous. What queer chance had shaped her life to
this? She came on with an air of competent quiet assurance. She was a
large woman, with well-shaped sturdy limbs, and a wedding ring gleamed on
her plump hand. She stepped into the arena, smiling all round, and I saw
her surreptitiously pat the small boy’s foot as she lifted him into the
trapeze and followed him herself.
Then came a really wonderful performance. She swung at a perilous
height, knelt on the swaying swing, hung head downwards from it by her
knees, her long hair streaming in a straight sweep from her head. The
applause was tremendous. Sitting astride the bar she kissed her hand to
the audience, then she and the small boy went on with their evolutions
in mid air. Sometimes he threw himself into space, to be caught by her
hanging hands, or he stood on her shoulders whilst they swung dizzily
backwards and forwards above our heads. And all the time she had that air
of an honest bourgeoise conscientiously giving the audience full value
for their money. This Enchantress of the Air, this wonderful Princess
the rumour of whose exploits had set a small town dreaming of romance,
about whose scarlet-clad figure in the eyes of the Arab audience still
clung the glamour of far-off cities and of unknown lands beyond the sea:
for many a night she would haunt the dreams of the wide-eyed children in
the audience, with that magic that had been first roused by the music of
her high-sounding names, then strengthened by her strange apparel, and
the ease and sureness which she displayed. Could one use such a word in
connection with her solid person, one might say she had ‘flashed’ upon
their consciousness, a being from another world, something jewelled and
rare. And still she looked down, smiling, from the height above us.
The haggard looking clown had a part too to take in the acrobatic
performance. He came to rub his feet in a heap of chalk near the gangway,
and I could see tiny points of perspiration pricking through the make-up
on his face. I knew he feared lest he should break down and I watched
anxiously as he joined the performers. First he handed a chair up to the
woman as she stood on the swing, and balancing it by two legs she sat on
it, turning and twisting whilst all eyes were rivetted on her. Her calm
and assurance seemed to uphold and steady the man. He and she and the boy
did wonderful acrobatic tricks, but even at that distance I could mark
the tension about his whitened face. Once or twice he missed his spring,
but she remained serene and quiet and smiled encouragement to him.
The performance was gone through steadily, and then came the last pose,
that set the nerves tingling. He stood on the swinging bar, she on his
shoulder, and above her the small figure of the boy with a foot on either
side her head. The veins stood out on the man’s neck from the immense
strain, and though it was only for a moment they stayed, arms stretched
out like a swaying human ladder, it was a relief when they slid safely to
the ground.
Next came a ‘turn’ again with two horses. The Enchantress stood in the
gangway next me, resting, her arms folded. She told me the Infant Prodigy
was her son, and that she had four other children, one of them the boy
rider we had seen. She spoke frankly and pleasantly. Yes, it was a hard
life; they went from town to town, staying a few nights in each, but
they earned their living, and after all, “il faut travailler, n’est ce
pas?” She smiled, and moved away. An honest soul in that large figure,
undoubtedly; kindly and conscientious. Her firm cheeks glowed with
colour, her dark eyes had a direct gaze, and her bare arms were shapely
and white. Her natural setting seemed some small shop in a provincial
town, or perhaps the parlour of a country inn.
Later, she came on again, but this time it was the Infant Prodigy who
was the chief performer. The Master of the Ceremonies appeared in
flannels, balancing a long pole on his shoulder, and up this the little
figure crept inch by inch, till at last he sat on the top, a tiny spot
of crimson in the glare of the lamps. His mother watched him anxiously
whilst the rest of the troupe stood round looking on. At a given signal
the music stopped and the boy cautiously let himself head downwards along
the pole, clasping the top of it with his feet. There was a sharp intake
of breath all round the tent. One small foot felt for a ring at the top
of the pole, and sidled its way through it up to the ankle. Then the
little creature spread himself out, only touching the supporting pole
with the tip of one hand.
All this time, in the dead silence, the man kept the pole balanced,
moving slightly backwards and forwards, moisture running down his face
with the effort. There was an attempt at applause, but it was checked.
The moment was too critical. At last the child straightened himself up
again almost imperceptibly, gently drew his foot free from the ring and
slid triumphantly to the ground, whilst the clapping broke out with
redoubled vigour.
It was the last item on the programme and whilst the Master made a
flowery French speech to the audience, the Enchantress reappeared—a
cotton gown over her professional garments, and methodically went the
round of the tent making a collection in a china plate. In this dress she
became matter-of-fact. It was hard to connect her with the scarlet figure
that had held our interest chained so short a time ago.
People began to leave, streaming out into the darkness. The artistes were
clearing away the few stage properties whilst the musicians wrapped up
their instruments, and turning back as I left the tent I saw the little
Prodigy slipping his hand into his mother’s and trotting off to be put to
bed.
The air outside struck chill after the stuffy heat of the tent. From the
distance came a faint sound of native music and fireworks celebrating an
Arab wedding. Hooded figures muffled in cloaks passed silently as ghosts.
The sharp rustle of palm leaves made itself heard in the darkness, and
clear on the night came the notes of a bugle from the military cantonment
on the edge of the little town. Groups of Arabs stood about discussing
the wonders of the evening with those who had not been able to get a
seat, whilst small boys hung wistfully about the entrance, loth to leave
the enchanted spot and to return to everyday life.
Long after the circus has left the country, and the Prodigy has grown
up, there will be talk of it in the mud houses along the river bank and
in the village market-places. And as the tale spreads from one hearer
to another, its marvels will become ever more and more wonderful, and
slimmer and more beautiful the heroine, till she and the satin-coated
horses and the small boy-acrobat will take their places amongst that
gallery of half-mythical figures, almost divine, of whom stories are told
round flickering village fires in the dusk.