THE HIPPODROME.
The re-opening of the Hippodrome and the first performance of its
pantomime are a great event in each year; a festival for “society,”
which for this occasion makes a large outlay in spring toilettes,
and a festival for the Parisians of the “fifth floor” and the shop
parlour too.
The number of those who cannot escape to the sea or the country
during the heat of the dog-days, of those whom work and economy hold
prisoners, is greater than one usually feigns to believe. During the
whole summer these people have no other oasis of refreshment within
a walk than the great hall with its movable glass roof, which gives
the Hippodrome a ceiling of stars. It is important to those Parisians
who from July to September will go at least once a week to the
Hippodrome, to know that each time they will see the new pantomime
with renewed pleasure. [p184]
[Illustration]
I have frequently overheard the following definition given by very
superficial people: [p185]
“The Hippodrome is a circus, of larger size than the others . . .”
There are some degrees of ignorance which should be sent back to
learn A B C D. On the other hand, some amateurs may be found who
are convinced they are right because they do not quite know what
difference exists between the two.
A circus is a circular arena of _fourteen yards nine inches_ in
diameter, surrounded by benches. Travel with a yard measure, measure
the diameter of the Cirque d’Hiver, of the Cirque d’Été, and of the
Nouveau Cirque. Cross the sea towards America, follow Barnum and
measure across his arena, continue your journey round the world
by exploring Australia and Asia; lastly, return to Europe by the
Caucasus, raise the canvas of one of the numerous travelling circuses
which erect their tents at Astrakan in the fair time—you will not
discover the difference of a fraction of an inch from the rule of
fourteen yards nine inches in diameter. Fourteen yards nine inches is
the regulation size.
A superstition, perhaps?
Do not believe it.
The unvarying dimensions of the arena respond to a double necessity:
the exigency of the man and the exigency of the animal.
You already know that the _banquiste_ is instinctively nomad, both
through disposition and interest. It is therefore most important
that, although he continually changes his locality he should find the
scene of his performance unvaried.
This rule is extremely convenient for men, but it is indispensable
for animals. A performing horse must find, in whatever spot he
appears before the public, a ring of fourteen [p186] yards nine
inches sanded to a depth of three inches and a quarter, surrounded by
a palisade opening in two places only, and low enough to enable it to
walk round it, with the fore hoofs on the red cushion and the hind
legs in the arena.
[Illustration]
The Hippodrome is not restricted to these dimensions. Its arena
is an elastic parallelogram, rounded at the four angles to assist
the horses in turning. Its shape excludes all acts of equestrian
vaulting, based upon the support given by the centrifugal force to
circus acrobats.
It is not only the name but the principles of art which the
Hippodrome has borrowed from Greece. No doubt the circus gives us an
opportunity of admiring the human body, after the education of the
ancients has restored it to the forms chosen by them for the eternal
life of marble; but the purest lessons in Greek æsthetics are to be
found at the Hippodrome. [p187]
You know that one of the most important differences which distinguish
our conception of human beauty from that formed by Greek art lies in
this principle: the subordination of the body to the head.
[Illustration]
Christian civilization has taught us that we must seize [p188]
every opportunity of mortifying and humiliating the flesh to secure
the predominance of the superior and spiritual principle—the
soul. No doubt the passions and emotions of this soul manifest
themselves by gesture to some extent; but they are chiefly revealed
in the expression of the face, of the mouth and eyes. Hence the
preponderance given to the head, which, at the first appearance of
Christianity, when the art of the ancients escaped from the Byzantine
bonds, led the early painters to represent hydrocephalic Christs
and angels, with the enormous eyes of batrachians, and emaciated,
anchylosis, meagre bodies. Hence also the habit that we all have at
the present time of judging beauty—and particularly feminine beauty,
which is more expressive than the other—from the features of the face.
Greece never despised corporeal beauty in this way. She taught that
if the soul be divine, the body is the temple of a god. And on the
same principle that she decorated the houses of the Olympians, so
that it might please them to dwell therein, she also commanded the
body, the habitation of the soul, to be embellished by gymnastics.
She placed the _musikè_, the tutor of the soul, and the _gumnastikè_,
the tutor of the body, on the same level in the practical education
of her heroes.
This is why the artists who embodied her ideal of beauty did not
give more expression to the face than to the torso. Suppose that the
Venus had lost her head instead of an arm; she would not appear more
mutilated. One of the most beautiful legacies that Greek sculpture
has bequeathed to us is a headless _Victory_.
The immense extent of the Hippodrome prevents the [p189] spectator
from seeing the details of the features, and transfers his habitual
attention to the observation of the whole figure. I noticed this
effect a short time ago, when watching the classic poses of a
group of young Italian girls—the sisters Chiesi. To increase their
resemblance to statues, and to produce as far as possible the
illusion of nudes in marble, these young models wear tights whitened
with flour. Thus moulded, the Chiesi mount upon each other, and pause
in bold yet classic attitudes, which combine the poses of the acrobat
and the academy. I did not for one second dream of looking at the
beauty of their faces, not even when they were triumphantly driven
round the ring under my eyes in the gilded carriage of the late Duke
of Brunswick.
[Illustration] [p190]
This is an exceptional case. But given equal talent, we always prefer
a woman’s performance to that of a man. It gives us, besides the
peculiar pleasure which acrobatic feats always produce, the general
pleasure which the exhibition of a perfectly-formed woman never fails
to excite. And to us moderns this is not merely an intellectual and
moral enjoyment; in it there mingles a little voluptuous emotion. . .
[Illustration]
This fascination, which Greek art knew nothing of, does not
affect us at the Hippodrome. The latent sentiment is [p191] in
abeyance, like the pity which the Spaniards never feel at their
bull-fights, probably because the arenas are too vast. A true pagan
would probably congratulate himself upon the freedom from emotion
which, at the Hippodrome, leaves him free to enjoy the essence of
beauty. But we cannot all raise ourselves to the level of this
Olympian indifference; we do not care to be cured of the pleasure we
enjoy—contenting ourselves with deploring, like Théophile Gauthier,
“_d’être si fort corrompus de Christianisme_.”
[Illustration] [p192]
The Hippodrome regains all its advantages when it leaves to the
circus the exhibition of “expressive novelties,” which must be seen
close at hand, and contents itself with its speciality of races: foot
and horse races, chariot races, “Berberini races,” processions, and
pantomimes.
The race of riderless horses is one of the most attractive spectacles
one can possibly see, and it is easily understood why the Italians
with their artistic genius elected to close the festivities of their
carnival by this exciting contest.
Every one has read some descriptions of this hippique _fête_ which
so greatly delighted papal Rome. For a fortnight before the race
the horses which were entered for it were led out every morning to
accustom them to the course, and corn was given to them at the end of
the Corso, near the winning post.
On the day of the race, at four o’clock in the afternoon, two cannon
shots gave the signal. All the carriages at once turned out of the
road, the spectators fell back into two lines, and a detachment of
dragoons cleared the Corso at a rapid gallop. The murmur of the crowd
died away into a profound silence.
The horses chosen for the race were held in a line behind a cord
stretched towards the column of the People’s Gate. Their foreheads
were decorated with plumes, which worried their eyes by waving in
front of them; golden spangles were plaited into their tails and
manes. Small copper plates and leaden balls armed with steel points
were attached to their flanks and croups to goad them on their way;
and the effort to frighten them even led to light sheets of tin
and stiff paper being fastened on their backs, which, rustling and
quivering, [p193] produced the discomfort of a rider without the
drawback of weight.
Before the cord fell, the animals, impatient to start, excited by the
crowd, uttered loud neighs, pranced about, and produced a clamour
which filled the Corso. It frequently happened that one of them would
knock its groom down and rush amongst the crowd.
At last the senator of Rome gave the signal. A trumpet sounded, the
cord fell, the half-maddened horses started wildly, urged on by the
applause of the people as though by whips. Usually the “Berberies”
traversed the 800 fathoms of the course in two minutes twenty-one
seconds, that is to say that they ran thirty-seven feet per second.
In the confusion, if one horse could overtake the competitor which
preceded it, it would bite it, kick it, and use every artifice to
impede its progress. The arrival of the horses was announced by
firing two cannon; to stop them carpets were extended across the end
of the street.
In later years the Corso was only a speculation of the horsedealers.
The Hippodrome revives the best days of this Roman institution;
the epoch when the first families of Rome, the Barberini, the
Santa-Croce, the Colonna, and the Borghese entered their horses for
the race, the champions of their rivalries and of their colours.
Since the managers of the Hippodrome object to injuring the valuable
beasts they place in the arena, they have abandoned the practice of
harnessing them with spurs and spangles. It is really bare-backed
horses, free from all carnival disguise, which they produce in the
lists.
The animals have been trained for a long time, placed [p194] before
the barriers with a whip to urge them to jump, guided all round the
ring by sentinels, who punished any deviation from the course.
Now they know what they are expected to do, and as soon as the bell
rings they all start. They reach the barrier, their manes flowing
in the wind, their hoofs flying, terrible as the tide, white as
the surge which rises on the waves. Ἵππος μετέωρος, said Pindar,
describing a horse rearing. It is a brilliant meteor which flies over
the barrier, but it is also a crest of foam.
[Illustration]
And the pleasure of watching these riderless races is augmented by
the good faith, the honesty of the beast, which cannot be suspected
of corruption, which strives for victory only. Neither crime nor
death can stop them. M. Houcke has told me that he has known some
horses to be killed in the [p195] ring by their jealous rivals, and
others after the victory have died from fits of apoplexy when they
had gone back to the stables.
If the riderless horse is superb, it is certain that the chariot, the
ancient Greek chariot, immortalized by Homer, is the most æsthetic
frame for it. The other day I read a commonplace remark from Madame
Dacier, who has only, and quite justly, seized the meaning of words
in Greek. “I do not understand,” she said, “why the Greeks, who were
so wise, should have used the chariot for so long a time—why they did
not see its great inconvenience. I am not speaking of the difficulty
of managing a chariot, although it is far greater than of managing a
horse; nor of the space occupied by it: I only say that there were
two men to each chariot. These two men were important individuals,
both fit for war. Yet only one of them could fight. Moreover, some
chariots required not only two, but even three or four horses for a
single warrior—another loss which merits attention.”
[Illustration] [p196]
The excellent Madame Dacier has forgotten one thing, that the
Greeks were devoted to beauty before everything else. They liked
the chariot, because the quadriga was a superbly æsthetic picture—a
moving pedestal for the hero. So that the chariot was not only an
engine of war in their eyes; it was an object of luxurious pleasure.
Do you remember the beautiful descriptions of chariot-races which
fill the literature of Greece, and particularly the plays of
Sophocles?
Do you remember, amongst others, the account of the tutor of Orestes?
For my own part, I never witness one of these heroic displays without
the lines of the divine poet recurring to my memory.
“At sunrise the chariot-races took place. Orestes appeared, and with
him many charioteers. One was Achean, another from Sparta; two came
from Lybia, true masters of the reins. Orestes was fifth, with mares
from Thessaly. The sixth brought light chestnuts from Etolia. The
seventh was from Magnesia. The eighth, a son of Enia, advanced with
white horses. The divine Athene had sent the ninth. Lastly, a Beotian
mounted the tenth chariot.
“The heroes were standing, and when the lots had been drawn and their
places were assigned to them, they sprang forward at the blast of the
brazen trumpets. All together they raised the beasts; they shook the
reins; the arena was full of the roll of their ringing chariots. And
all mingled, confused, lavished the whip to pass by the axle of some
opponent. And the breath of the horses, covered with foam, the backs
of the drivers, and the wheels of the chariots. [p197]
[Illustration]
“When they reached the last post Orestes grazed it slightly with his
axle. He slackened the reins, and gave the wheeler his head. With his
right hand he restrained the other. . . . He was preparing for the
finish of the race. But when he saw that only the Athenian was left,
he made his [p198] whip whistle round the ears of his steeds, and
sprang forward behind his rival. The two chariots rolled on in front.
Alternately they passed and re-passed each other by the length of a
head. Upright in his uninjured chariot, Orestes had successfully run
in every race; but in giving the left rein to the horse rounding the
post, he struck the column. His axle was broken; from the height of
his chariot he rolled entangled in the reins, whilst the frightened
horses tumultuously rushed into the arena.”
Pantomime—another ancient amusement—is the glory of the Hippodrome as
well as the races. All who saw it will still remember the splendours
of the _Chasse_. It seemed difficult to find anything more brilliant,
for there are not many subjects which can be used for these grand
spectacular shows. When a _Roman Triumph_ has been displayed, a
_Nero_ with chariot races, a _Fête amongst the Rajahs_ with rivulets
of precious stones, an _Arab Fantasia_, a fairy piece, and a genuine
_Congo_, the management must fall back upon military pieces. But we
live upon former triumphs, and the Hippodrome dare no longer produce
old-fashioned effects from its storehouses.
The embarrassment of M. Houcke the manager, who arranges his own
plays, was therefore very great. The resources of a large place like
the Hippodrome vary from one season to the other. Sometimes acrobats
form the great novelty, sometimes a troupe of vaulting clowns is the
central attraction. Lastly, the horses were there to be exhibited,
so that the director found himself obliged to select a military
pantomime.
[Illustration]
M. Houcke is a type, a true child of the stage. He has [p199] five
or six brothers scattered through the world, all managers of riding
establishments. His father, under the name of Leonard, was formerly
proprietor of the Deux-Cirques before the Franconi. He has taken M.
Loyal’s place in the ring in Russia, Germany, and Scandinavia. This
will tell you, if [p200] heredity is not an empty word, that he is
gifted with a large amount of professional genius.
Moreover—and this does not spoil it—Houcke is very knowing. His
choice of the name of Skobelef, as the hero of his last military
_fête_, appears to me an excellent proof of this acuteness. You
may vainly search contemporary history without finding the name of
any other victorious general who would command the sympathy of the
Parisians. . . .
Skobelef and Plevna, the Russians and the Turks! Houcke had grasped
his pantomime. The chief outlines of the plot were quickly arranged,
and M. Thomas, the former decorator of the Théâtre Français and the
Opera Comique, Houcke’s right hand man left for Russia, with a great
deal of money in his pockets to buy weapons, costumes, sledges,
moujiks, drovskies, and snow.
He returned with all Russia in his trunks.
Picture to yourself, from one end of the arena to the other, a
parquet floor laid down, over which sledges and skaters glided
as though upon the Neva. In the first _tableau_ the parqueterie
represented a high road, a post-station in the steppe. The orchestra,
which had reinforced its musicians by a choir of genuine moujiks, was
suspended above the buildings of the Isba. The good people sang with
those deep voices which Agrenieff had already enabled us to hear, in
their national songs, some years previously at the Trocadero. They
were placed in a suitably decorated gallery, and when, accompanied by
bells, the moujiks chanted their national hymn—
_Bojé tsara krani
Silni der jarni
Stsar stvouyna slavouna, slavounam. . . ._
one [p201] really felt carried far away on the wings of the music. During
the singing I looked over towards the third places, filled with
the poorer people, who are less sceptical than the others. Many of
them were quite touched, their eyes were glistening, their breasts
heaving. . . .
[Illustration: CHARIOT RACES AT THE HIPPODROME.]
[Illustration]
Whilst the bells and the moujiks were singing in unison, the
processions commenced to pass over the road. First came the singers
and wandering dancers, who followed the army to the scene of war;
then groups of officers, convoys of prisoners, the fantastic gallop
of an orderly; then, with a bustle, a troïka, containing a tall man
enveloped in a grey pelisse. This was Skobelef, who had arrived to
take command of the army.
[Illustration]
Then we were transported before Plevna. The country people were
taking refuge in the town, carrying all their wealth in their carts.
They were just in time! the Russian soldiers were at their heels!
But they are only scouts. The Turkish sentinels have seen them
from the walls of Plevna. [p202] The alarm is given. A sortie is
made, and they are surrounded. Their case is not quite clear; their
reconnaissance has a fatal look of spying. The Turks prepare to shoot
them, when a thundering gallop shakes the floor. The Cossacks have
arrived at furious speed to rescue the prisoners. Ah, the brave men!
I always thought that a candle diet developed heroism. With the
thrust of a lance, the [p203] Turks are properly settled; a few of
them run away in great style, and succeed in re-entering the town.
They merely postpone the moment of surrender, for the whole Russian
army is advancing. It rushes to the assault of the practicable places
in the fort. In the midst of the engagement and smoke the whole end
of the Hippodrome becomes [p204] illumined with the lurid light of
fire. _Vive_ Skobelef! _vive_ Ruggieri! Plevna is burning! Plevna is
burnt!
[Illustration]
And the victors have nothing to do but rejoice!
In a moment a painted canvas has been unrolled round the arena,
which represents St. Petersburg in perspective; the parqueterie has
changed into the frozen Neva. The whole town has come out to greet
the victorious soldiers!
A fine evening for skaters!
With the point of their skates, on the ice, in English, in Italics,
in Gothic, they write the name of Skobelef. Lamps suspended to the
arches reproduce the glorious word. The sound of the clarions and
fifes playing the triumphal march is already heard.
The moment has come!
The leader of the orchestra lowers his baton.
One, two, three!
And as though the whole army, the whole people had been stopped
spellbound at this signal, the cannon thundered, the orchestra
bellowed, the fireworks, are let off, the bells ring, and high above
all the clamour the national hymn rises for the last time—
_BOJÉ TSARA KRANI._
Although _Buffalo Bill’s_ company has not appeared at the Hippodrome,
this seems to be a fitting place in which to chronicle the
magnificent equestrian spectacle with which they have delighted the
Parisians during the Exhibition.
[Illustration]
The innumerable readers of Cooper’s American novels have seen
the prairie of the Sioux transported, with its actors and its
decorative accessories, to the Porte Maillot. All were there: the Red
Skins—genuine Red Skins, the mustangs, [p206] buffaloes, cowboys,
vaqueros, waggons, tents, bows, arrows, rifles, dogs, squaws, and
papooses.
[Illustration]
This extraordinary troupe was taken to Paris by Nael Salsbury, a
manager who is celebrated in every English-speaking country. It is
commanded by an extraordinary man, Colonel W. F. Cody. Picture to
yourself the most perfect type of trapper that you can imagine after
reading _The Spy_ and _The Mohicans_. Born on the frontier, brought
up on horseback, of chimerical courage, and unequalled skill in the
management of horses and firearms, Colonel Cody is six feet high,
and this fine body is crowned by the head of a stage musketeer. His
curling hair falls upon his shoulders, and he has the moustache of an
Aramis beneath the straight classical nose of an American.
Colonel Cody’s warrior troupe has its female star, Miss Annie Oakley,
called the “infallible little shot.” She is also a child of the
frontier, where her name is as much feared as her bullet. And in
fact she has accomplished wonders. One [p207] day at Tiffin (Ohio)
she hit a fifty-centime piece held between a man’s finger and thumb
at a distance of thirty feet.
In February, 1885, she fired at 5,000 glass balls, which three
projectiles threw up for her fifteen yards high; she broke 4,772 of
them in nine hours, although loading the guns herself.
Miss Oakley manages a horse quite as well as a gun.
At a New Jersey fair she won four races out of five.
“And Miss Oakley is rendered still more interesting,” says a
biography from which I am copying, “by the fact that she is short,
and only weighs 106 lbs.”
Not one word more.
The young girl is still unmarried.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[p209] [Illustration]