PERMANENT SHOWS OR ENTRESORTS.
The visit to the fair usually commences by the _entresorts_, or
permanent shows.
What are _entresorts_?
I must again quote my friend Philip, the ancient mariner, whom I
introduced to you just now, at the present moment editor of the _Tir
de la Republique_, municipal councillor, and editorial secretary to
the _Voyageur Forain_.
[Illustration]
“In the cant idiom used by the _petite banque_, we describe [p058]
by the name of _entresort_ any booth which contains a permanent show
without beginning or end, an establishment which _the public only
walks through_. Waxworks are _entresorts_, so are exhibitions of
dwarfs, monstrosities, learned fleas, and tattooed women. The booths
which contain catch-pennies, somnambulists, conjuring tricks, fat
women, and pretty girls, are also _entresorts_ if you like, but they
are more frequently termed _Halls of Mystery_—I need scarcely tell
you why.
[Illustration]
_Entresorts_ and Halls of Mystery always swarm in every fair. They
are cheap amusements largely patronized by the [p059] crowd. And
whilst the more important shows have changed all their entertainments
and have introduced unlimited improvements into their theatres, the
_entresort_ has not altered either its arrangements or its exhibition
since the origin of time. It is always established in a canvas
booth, sometimes provided with wooden benches lighted by four oil
lamps; while the show is usually of an alarming nature—scenes from
the [p060] Inquisition, executions, heads of celebrated murderers,
exhibitions of monstrosities, of five-footed sheep, armless artists,
calves’ heads, giants and dwarfs.
No one should wonder at the fact that many people are more interested
in the abnormal than in the beautiful. But this trait being once
recognised, the dwarf is more wonderful than the giant; man is such a
complicated machine, that in watching these microscopic creatures who
gesticulate and speak like ourselves, we feel something of the same
astonishment that would strike us if we found the seconds marked by a
miniature watch which we could only see through a magnifying glass.
For this reason the dwarf show is one of the most popular booths in
the fair.
Every one knows that there are two kinds of dwarfs—those who are
naturally dwarfs, and those who, as children, were at first of
average size and growth, but whose development was abruptly checked.
In their case the limbs which no longer grew, were yet capable of
enlargement. As a rule the head is enormous. Monsieur François, from
the Cirque Franconi—the partner of Billy Hayden the clown, the tiny
circus rider—is a typical specimen of this class of dwarfs, who are
called _noués_ to distinguish them from the perfect miniature of
humanity. They are physically deformed, but in all other respects
they resemble other men. François, for instance, is very intelligent.
I shall always remember our first interview two years ago in Erminia
Chelli’s box at the Cirque d’Eté.
“How old are you, Monsieur François?”
“Twenty.”
“I am older than you are, M. François; yet, as you know, I am not
celebrated.” [p061]
M. François shook his head, and as a consolation—“you see not every
one can be a dwarf”—he gravely answered:
[Illustration]
“Do not pity yourself, sir; you are distinguished for your learning.”
Since then M. François has told me all about his present life. He
lives at Villette with his mother, whom he supports. In the evening,
as the distance is too great for his short legs, [p062] he goes out
by the last omnibus, and even when the vehicle is full, he is charged
for his place.
“Yet I take so little room, sir!”
M. François is a brave lad; and those who have seen him in his
Cordovan boots, driving his team of six horses, know that he is
an exceptionally good whip. It should though be noticed, that
however deficient the _noués_ may be in size, they possess the same
intelligence and sometimes the full strength of a man of normal
height. In 1802 Germany possessed a clever painter named Jacob
Lehnen, who was exactly 3 ft. 10 in. high; and I read in an English
newspaper, the _Daily Advertiser_, dated 18th August, 1740, an
announcement of the arrival at a London tavern, the _Great Glass_,
of a Persian dwarf called the _Second Samson_, only 3 ft. 8 in., who
carried two strong men at arm’s-length and danced between the tables
with his double burden.
[Illustration]
These deformities are not attacked by the decrepitude which prevents
their comrades from living beyond their [p063] twentieth or
twenty-fifth year. There are historical instances of centenarian
_noués_.
[Illustration]
In 1819, at the Court Theatre, a _noués_ was exhibited aged
sixty-three; her name was Thérèse Souvary, and according to the
advertisements, she was betrothed in her youth to Bébé, a dwarf
belonging to good King Stanislaus. And if these advertisements were
untrue, there are proofs in other places of a great many marriages
contracted by dwarfs, who have had large families. M. Edward Garnier,
in his curious pathological study of the _noués_, quotes the case
of the painter dwarf Gibson, who married a wife as small as himself
and had nine children by her, of whom five were of average height
and attained manhood. Two other dwarfs, married in London, Robert
and Judith Kinner, had fourteen children all well made and robust.
Lastly, any one may have seen in the Western papers in 1883, the
notice of the death at Sables d’Olonne, of a little dwarf long
exhibited in fairs under the [p064] name of the _Petite Nine_. This
tiny creature, who was not more than 31-1/2 inches high, married a
M. Callias and had several children by him. She had even survived
the Cesarean operation, and reached a great age notwithstanding her
scandalous insobriety.
In spite of the intelligence of the _noués_ I quite understand why
no one becomes devoted to them; but it is quite another thing with
regard to natural dwarfs who, whilst remarkable for their extremely
small size, yet retain in their miniature forms the æsthetic beauty
of proportion. All Europe has seen in the circus or in the fairs, one
couple of these elegant dwarfs, General Mite and Miss Millie Edwards,
whom Barnum launched upon the world under the name of the _American
Midgets_.
If we may believe the manager who superintends the travels of the
Midgets, they are both American citizens. Their respective families
advertised their matrimonial requirements—a young man of six inches
wishing for a suitable wife, and a young girl of five inches wishing
for a husband of six; they journeyed towards each other across the
world, and were married at Manchester.
The Midgets have prospered in worldly matters. They are engaged at
a very high salary of some thousands of francs per month, and will
be able to provide handsomely for any children that Heaven may send
them. Their dress and food cost them very little. The “General”
usually dines upon half a biscuit and a few carefully-measured drops
of wine. He is marvellously jealous of his wife, and when I once
advanced to her carriage to help her to alight, Mr. Mite pretty
curtly informed me in English that he kept a footman on purpose to
attend to her. [p065]
But it appears that the General is not only jealous, he is also
fickle: he had brilliant success in England. I tried to make him talk
about it, but like an honourable man, he was mute upon the subject,
and his present _impresario_ told me that he had often attempted to
sound him upon the point, but had met with no better success than I
had done.
[Illustration]
General Mite sings the tambour-major’s song extremely well; manages
a “sociable” tricycle like a professional, and waltzes gracefully.
The General is very brisk, very lively, a wonderful mimic; he acts
several little pieces with real talent—amongst others, a scene of
drunkenness, and the promenade of a New York dandy.
But neither the General nor his wife possess the same charm as
Princess Paulina. I have been quite close to this wonderful little
creature and taken her by the hand, which, like the whole of her
person, is modelled with infinite delicacy. [p066] She might be
taken for a waxen statuette, a tiny dancer from Tanagra freshly
exhumed, with a little carmine still clinging to her lips, a little
gold to her tunic.
One might apply to Princess Paulina the same praises which Loret,
in 1653, addressed in his “Gazette” to “a little dwarf belonging to
Mademoiselle,” who was suffering from a cold on the chest produced by
the slamming of a door—
“Jamais près de Roy ny de Prince[3]
On ne vid de naine si mince.
Quand une puce la mordait
Et qu’icelle se défendait,
La puce pour finir la guerre,
La mettait aizément par terre,
Et la moindre haleine du vent
La fazait tomber bien souvent.
Enfin, elle était si petite
(Quoiqu’aucunement favorite),
Que, dans un petit balancier
De cuivre, d’arain ou d’acier,
Ètant par plaisir un jour mise,
Avec robe, jupe et chemize,
Et de plus sa coiffure encor,
Tout ne pezait qu’un louis d’or.” [p067]
“Princess Paulina,” says the voluble individual who advertises her
to the public, “is eleven years old. She is of Dutch origin, and
measures 15-3/4 inches, and weighs ten pounds; she is introduced by
her brother who is with her.”
[Illustration]
And the robust stripling lifts the little doll like an ounce: he
holds out one arm and, in the pleasantest manner, the little princess
performs a few acrobatic feats over it. She is very [p068] proud of
this little social talent. When I was introduced to her behind the
scenes, she courteously said:
“Shall I turn a somersault for monsieur?”
And in an instant she was standing on her hands, head down, feet in
air, like a clown. With her tiny dress of coral-coloured muslin and
satin flying out around her, Princess Paulina did not look any larger
than a bouquet of roses enveloped in white paper.
I asked her all the questions that etiquette requires when speaking
to a dwarf.
“Princess Paulina, have you a doll?”
“As large as this, Monsieur.”
She raised her hand above her head, but even then it only reached the
medium size of the _Bébés Hurel_.
“Princess Paulina, what did you eat for dinner?”
“Six oysters and some breast of chicken.”
“Princess Paulina, do you speak English?”
“Very well.”
“Princess Paulina, can you speak German?”
“_Sehr gut._”
“Princess Paulina, will you give me a kiss?”
“Kiss a gentleman!” cried the little princess, quite alarmed.
And she consulted her tall brother with a look. The tall brother gave
an affirmative nod of the head, and the princess submitted to the
caress—this is how I am able to inform those who may not be aware of
the fact, that, like new-born babies, a little dwarf smells like a
grey mouse.
But there is no need for sensitive souls to distress themselves about
these fragile beings. Vanity is quite as strong [p069] in a dwarf as
in a man, and every “Princess Paulina” in the world is pleased to be
exhibited. Besides, the parents of these goslings with golden eggs
are too much interested in prolonging their lives ever to maltreat
them. Those who should be pitied are the poor children sold once for
all to a speculator. One of these dwarfs met with a tragic fate some
years ago.
[Illustration]
He was named Joseph. At seventeen he measured only 27 inches, and had
a thin, woebegone face rendered grotesque by an enormous nose which,
like his hands and feet, was abnormally large. [p070]
His parents, small agriculturists at Saintes, sold him in 1882 to a
mountebank, who endeavoured to increase the popularity of his show by
making this scrap of a man become an animal-tamer.
By dint of great patience six cats were painted to resemble tigers,
with yellow and black stripes. The animals were shut into a cage with
the dwarf, and the unlucky Joseph, half dead with fear, was forced,
with the aid of a riding-whip, to make the cats perform.
The attempt succeeded for some time, when on July 12th, 1882, at
the fair of Beaupré-sur-Saône, one of the cats suddenly flew at the
dwarf’s throat and threw him down by its weight.
In one second all the other cats had rushed upon Joseph, and before
any one could intervene, the cat-tamer was strangled, his eyes torn
out, his face covered with blood.
The mountebank fled: a few days later he was arrested at Lille.
I was lately discussing this tragic accident with M. François, and my
friend, who was drawing on his riding-boots, paused in the effort to
utter these melancholy words:—
“We were certainly happier under the old _régime_.”
When one is satiated with the abnormal and monstrous, the thoughts
naturally tend towards those entertainments which exhibit the
perfection of human beauty.
It must be admitted that in this respect the public taste has
improved. The infantine and Oriental admiration which the crowd
displayed for enormous women, the “fat lady” who weighed 250 lbs.,
is declining so quickly [p071] that the “colossus” has nearly
disappeared from the fair. And really pretty girls are now exhibited
in the “Halls of Mystery.”
[Illustration] [p072]
The success of the “Beautiful Fatma,” hastened this revolution.
No fair of any importance is now held without some imitation of
the “Beautiful Fatma” being on the ground. I noticed the _Pavillon
Marocain_ amongst the most successful of these imitations.
“Walk in, walk in! ladies and gentlemen,” cries the showman at the
top of his voice; “walk in and see the _danse du ventre_, as danced
at Bardo before the Bey of Tunis! Walk in, walk in! Hurry up!”
We enter. The booth is clean and prettily decorated; at one end three
women in Oriental dresses are singing a harsh melody accompanied
by the traditional thrumming on the bamboo drums, which look like
butter pots. They are called, if names are asked for, Aïcha, Dora,
and Hardiendja. But there is a Fatma in the house. She is a negress
about twenty years old, a fine specimen of her race: at its base the
nose is almost as wide as her thick lips, and by this detail Fatma
shocks all our ideas of classic proportions; still, when looking at
this tall, well-made girl, I, for the first time, understood what
travellers mean when they speak of the beauty and exquisite grace of
negro women. In spite of all defects there is a pleasant harmony in
the dark face, brightened by the modest mischievous eyes. And when
Fatma dances before the negro Bouillabaisse,—first comic actor to
the Sultan of Zanzibar,—her graceful swaying movements, her languid
attitudes and smiling gestures rouse in her audience that innate
sympathy with Oriental views of women, the gentle, soulless creature
of the East, which lies dormant in the heart of every man.
[Illustration: LA BELLE FATMA.]
Another “Hall of Mystery” worth visiting is the “House [p073] of
Metamorphosis,” Manager Stenegry, at the sign of the “Secret des
Dieux.”
The real attraction of this establishment is Mdlle. Stenegry herself,
a Romanische of rare beauty, who with her golden sequins and Egyptian
diadem forms the most perfect “Esmeralda” that you ever dreamed of
at sixteen. Inside we find a second young lady, equally lovely, a
charming blonde—Mademoiselle Lutèce. She fills the _rôle_ of Galatea,
“the marble statue that acquired life beneath the burning kisses of
Pygmalion.”
[Illustration] [p074]
“Pygmalion” does not appear, but in a darkened room, by some device
of slanting mirrors, the beautiful head of Mdlle. Lutèce changes
into a death’s-head before the eyes of the spectators. Then from
the youthful polished ivory skull a rose bush suddenly appears.
This eminently philosophical contrast has inspired M. Stenegry,
the father, with some wonderful variations of the original idea. I
recommend his “Programme of visible and mysterious apparitions” to
all collectors of comicalities.
“Everything pales. . ,” he says, “everything dissolves, everything
blends. Come and see the _chef-d’œuvre_ produced by my researches
upon metempsychosis; it will submit its revelations and revolutions
to the judgment of the spectators, who will become its sincere
admirers.”
But just now the most æsthetic entertainment in the fair is the
series of _tableaux vivants_ presented to the public by M. Melchior
Bonnefois.
M. Bonnefois is an artist and a literary man. Last year he published
a very pathetic article in the _Union Mutuelle_, “Les Drames de la
Vie Foraine,” and I have read some very skilful verses written by him
for some of the small reviews published in the South.
This man has tastefully grouped a limited number of models, youths
and girls, who are not only well trained in their profession, but
also good-looking. Amongst them are Suzanne Bertini, the model from
the studio of J. P. Laurens; Arabelle, the model from the Bouguereau
studio; Jeanne Laurence, the model from the Baudry studio; Antonio
Vega, from the Academy of Madrid; Rose Linon, one of the favourite
models from the Gervex studio; Berthe Biéville, [p075] Serge
Worouzof, from the Academy of Moscow; last and chief, the star of the
troupe, the beautiful Mireille, from the Academy of Marseilles. This
little Phocean is crowned with beautiful blue-black hair, and has the
profile of Pallas Athene, with all the Olympian coldness, the absence
of expression, and the gravity which distinguished the goddess.
[Illustration]
Perhaps, since it is a question of perfection, her arms, like her
bust, are a little thin, but Mireille’s statuesque divinity reappears
in her legs from the hips to the feet. One lady, whose views upon
questions of dress are extremely accurate, and in whose society I was
lucky enough to witness this [p076] artistic exhibition, made an
observation upon Mdlle. Mireille’s attire which I faithfully transmit
to this pretty girl and her directors—directors of conscience and
others.
An error on the part of the costumier is the cause of the apparent
want of harmony in the fine proportions of Mdlle. Mireille’s figure,
giving undue importance to the legs. A scarf has been draped across
the hips over the salmon-coloured fleshings; it is about the width
of a bath-towel, and is so inartistically puffed that its whiteness
destroys the harmony of the outlines, and by its vague resemblance to
the short breeches worn with trunk hose, it transforms a nude into a
travesty. Above the trousers of the page one looks for the shoulders
of the man, and because they are missing, Mdlle. Mireille looks too
thin.
What remedy can be applied to this serious error which spoils our
pleasure? There is some difficulty in the matter, I know, but it
has been frequently overcome with greater skill: for instance, by
the artist who designed a costume for Madame Théo, as Eve before
the Fall, which won the approval of all admirers of plastic beauty,
without shocking the susceptible. I shall send a photograph of Madame
Théo to M. Bonnefois.
It is a sad proof of our physical decadence that beauty is no longer
found allied with strength; the two qualities, formerly blended like
metals in an alloy, are now entirely separated, and M. Bonnefois
and M. Marseille each presides over representatives of the two
attributes, which, when united, produced the most perfect types
of humanity. At M. Bonnefois’s establishment beauty is cultivated
without strength, and at M. Marseille’s entertainment, strength is
[p077] found without beauty. Yesterday I could not stifle these
painful thoughts when I took my seat on the velvet benches provided
by the celebrated manager of the athletic show, to watch a wrestling
match.
[Illustration]
Full of recollections of Plutarch, one remembers that in the
palestrea, Lycurgus made the young girls rub themselves with oil
and contend with the Spartan ephebes; the lines of Theocritus on
the fight between Castor and Pollux are haunting the lips; the eyes
are full of visions of the beautiful forms of the wrestlers of the
tribune—the young men of Cephissodote, so beautiful that they were
taken for the sons of Niobe, of whom Apollo was jealous. One enters
the canvas booth, the movable temple of the heroic Hercules, with a
religious shiver, and, alas! what do you see? Stout, [p078] heavy
men, their hair shining with pomatum, with abnormally developed
chests—this is the glorious phalange; on the other hand, amateurs
without either masks or black coats, but who are nearly all in the
service of the _Compagnie Lasage_, men who have served their time, or
porters in the Great Market. No well-bred figures, no delicate limbs.
Compare these bloated Vitellii to the gods? There, my good fellows,
go home to your lock-picking and your work.
[Illustration]
Yet I remember one tragic anecdote of wrestling. It happened at the
fair at Loges about fifteen years ago. We had gone into a booth
to witness a fight with single-sticks between a fencing-master’s
assistant from St. Germains and the proprietor of the establishment.
The soldier and the mountebank evidently knew and disliked each
other; they were engaged for some time, and seemed less like holding
a [p079] match than settling a quarrel; a good many people had
followed the soldier into the booth.
The mountebank was completely beaten. He foamed at the mouth, rolling
his eyes terribly, whilst the fencing-master, swinging himself to and
fro, made his cane whistle above his head.
When the applause ended, the wrestler demanded:
“My revenge! take a belt!”
A woman intervened—a tall dark girl, a gipsy, who had juggled before
us with weights and knives.
“Do not fight,” she cried to the soldier in a voice full of pain. “He
is furious! he will hurt you!”
The mountebank sneered:
“Madame fears that I might break you! Are you a man?”
The soldier turned white. He was a tall lissom man, but he did not
look strong. However, he quietly unbuttoned the waistcoat that he had
put on, and picked up the belt.
The other waited, his arms crossed, a smile on his lips.
They grasped each other, but the struggle did not last long. The
soldier was immediately thrown underneath the other; the mountebank
put one knee on his neck, seized his head with both hands, and turned
it completely round. We heard a crack. The soldier uttered a horrible
cry—the wrestler had broken his neck like a rabbit’s back. I did not
want to see any more and rushed out, whilst the crowd threw itself
upon the mountebank. But in the evening an accidental turn in my walk
brought me in front of the booth.
In the midst of all the gaiety, of songs, of meals in the [p080]
open air, of the illuminations and noise of the shows, the wrestler’s
booth, silent and closed, was the only dark spot in the fair. An
indistinct form cowered on the wooden steps. I went a little nearer
to it. It was the gipsy, the juggler with weights. She was sobbing
bitterly, her head buried in her apron—weeping for the prisoner or
for the dead.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[3] No king nor prince did ever see
Such a tiny dwarf as she.
When a flea to bite her tried,
The feast intended she denied,
And tried to crush him; then she found
With ease he threw her to the ground.
The summer breeze, a zephyr’s sigh,
Would blow her down in passing by.
In fact, she was so slim and small
(Although in no way beautiful),
That when she stood in merry play,
Upon a tiny scale, one day—
Of brass, of copper, or of steel—
With dress and petticoat and frill,
And with her _coiffure_, furthermore—
The whole weighed but one louis d’or.
[p081] [Illustration]