the “January Act.” From the beginning of the American circus, the mule
driven by the clown has been called “January.” I never knew just why
or how he got this peculiar name, save that the animal looked like the
dead of winter, and always got his tail tied up in the reins. The trick
was this:
The clown drove into the ring in a red cart drawn by the mule. He drew
up with a clatter, saying:
“Whoa, January!”
The magic in this very exclamation was amazing. No matter where
spoken, in town or in country, before great and small, it always drew
tumultuous applause. After his noisy entrance the clown got into an
argument with the ringmaster, who had a fine horse at his side. The
clown wanted to make a trade, which was agreed upon, but no sooner did
the ringmaster try to move the mule than the animal became balky, and
would not budge. Meanwhile the clown drove off in triumph with his
horse. The ringmaster, failing to move the mule, called to the clown
to come back, but the funny man treated his plea with contempt, while
the crowd roared with laughter. The ringmaster, in a last entreaty,
yelled that the clown could have a cash bonus if he would only take
his mule away. This, of course, brought the clown back. In a moment old
January was hitched up to the clown wagon, and the clown drove off,
waving his money and saying:
“It’s easy when you know how.” This always caught the crowd, for
everybody is interested in a horse trade, and especially a trade in
which one of the parties gets much the worst of the deal.
[Illustration: “TO BE A SUCCESSFUL CLOWN YOU HAD ALSO TO BE A GOOD
PANTOMIMIST.”]
In 1889 I went with the Ringling circus, and I have been with it ever
since. It was their last year as a wagon show, for the next year it
became a railroad show, and went from town to town on trains. Somehow
I did not like the change at first. I had become so accustomed to the
wagon traveling at night, to the wild, free, clean abandon of the life,
that I did not fancy the idea of sleeping on a stuffy train, with
smoke and cinders to bother me. Many of the other circus people felt
the same way about it. The wagon life may have been hard traveling, but
it was in the open. God’s air and sunshine were about you always, and
although it rained and blew sometimes, the discomfort was not for long.
It kept everybody sound and healthy. Many a millionaire would envy the
appetites and health we enjoyed. And yet, in a way, our life was one of
more or less constant hazard.
There was one big satisfaction about the change to the railroad
shows. The circus remained under canvas. Strange as it may seem to an
outsider, we can work better under canvas than any other place. This is
true all up and down the circus line, from the highest priced “kinker,”
as the performers are called, down to the cheapest “rough neck,” as the
canvas men are known. They would rather get soaked to the skin under
the “big canvas top” out on a North Dakota prairie than be dry under
the roof of Madison Square Garden in New York City.
Of course the circus had been getting bigger all the time. Originally
it was a one-ring affair. But the competition in the show business
stimulated the various showmen to get new and greater attractions.
The one-ring show became a two-ring show, and this in turn became the
“monster three-ring aggregation of mastodonic amusement creations,”
such as is now billed throughout the length and breadth of the land.
As the circus grew bigger, the talking clown ceased to exist. It was
only natural that this end of his work should be eliminated. The
tents became so large, the arena area so extended, that it was with
difficulty that anyone could be heard in the seats. Besides, so many
things were going on at the same time that the clown had to perform
with his hands and legs in order to attract any attention at all.
With all the innovations that have come to the aid of the modern
circus, such monstrosities as “the dip of death” in a somersaulting
automobile, and various other freakish inventions calculated to divert
the mind and thrill the young, the clown remains, and always will
remain, the really picturesque and permanent feature of the circus
business. Like the brook in the poem that the English poet wrote about,
he shall go on forever.
But the clown has had to keep pace with the development of the circus.
The average person who watches a group of clowns disporting themselves
in the ring, and is amused at their grotesque antics, may think it is
silly and easy work. Let him try it, and he will soon find out what
hard work it is, and what careful thought is necessary for each act.
Every act that is done must be carefully rehearsed. I have practiced on
a trick fall for a whole month.
You may have noticed that clowns travel in pairs and trios. This is
due to the fact that every clown act, no matter how ludicrous, or how
simple, must tell a story. It is really a small comedy or a slight
drama. We must not only have action, but something to suggest an
incident or a series of incidents. If the clowns, for example, wear
soldier uniforms, their act must give a hint of a camp, a battlefield,
or some other definite martial picture. It may be hugely grotesque, but
it must be a concrete picture just the same.
Like everything else in this busy world, clowning must be timely. We
play on vogues. It may be Salome, or The Merry Widow, or Roosevelt’s
trip to Africa, or the airship. The good clown must make his act a
perfect piece of mimicry. This is the first and foremost requirement.
This is why so many good clowns are such fine pantomimists. We must, in
short, first see ourselves as others see us.
Many people wonder why we keep the white make-up. This is the
traditional clown face, and has been so for many generations of clowns.
Both the costume and the face have undergone little change within
my lifetime. It is perhaps the only amusement that has maintained
its physical integrity through many years. Take the slap-stick, the
bladder, and the funny fall, and you have the clown’s sole stock in
trade for decades. Unless I am much mistaken, they will remain so for
another hundred years.
[Illustration: “EVERY CLOWN ACT MUST TELL A STORY.”]
Some very successful clown tricks are mere accidents. You start out to
do an act, stump your toe or slip up. Then everybody laughs, for they
think it is part of the show. Thereafter, every time you go out to do
this act you stump your toe or slip up. With all these aids, some men
work for years at clowning, and never become clowns. Good clowns are
born, not made.
The clown’s costume requires much thought and study. Although most
clowns look alike to you, if you will watch their attire carefully you
will see that each one is slightly different from the other. I have
little patience with the many contrivances that some modern clowns
use, such as guns, electrical appliances, and all that sort of thing.
To be a real clown you only need your wits and a few simple things.
The dullard clown seeks to make up for his mental deficiencies with
mechanical contrivances. Perhaps I am prejudiced in favor of the old
ways, just as I cling to the memory of the old days. But they are the
best.
V
I LEARN ABOUT LIFE
I have rambled along, talking about my profession and the things that
have happened in it, until now I realize that I have not touched upon
some events which meant a good deal to me personally. A clown, despite
the general impression, is a real human being. He has emotions like any
other mortal, and sometimes they are deeper and truer than in those who
pretend to piety and keep a straight face.
Although we are nomads, we people of the circus have hearts. It was
shortly after I came to America that I first saw the woman who was to
play, for a time, such an important part in my life. I had just joined
the Burr Robbins show, and I was a struggling young clown in a strange
land. I did not even know all the people in the show. My life had been
so hard and fast that I had had no time to think of romance.
One day as I walked from the pad room to the entrance to the main
tent, waiting for my time to go on, I saw a young woman in tights and
ruffled skirts, standing with a whip in her hand. She, too, was waiting
her turn. She was lithe, slender, and graceful, and she had the most
wonderful eyes I had ever seen. Something rose in my throat and a keen,
swift feeling ran through me. I had never anywhere beheld anyone who
had impressed me in just that way. As she stood there, full of life and
animation, the very embodiment of grace and beauty, I realized that she
wielded a fascination for me that was irresistible. I watched her as
she made her entry. When she walked she was the very poetry of motion;
her bow to the crowd was airy, and when she leaped to the back of a
noble white horse, she seemed like a bird. I stood at the entrance
transfixed. She seemed the most exquisite rider I had ever seen. I
forgot my cue, and one of my fellow-clowns had to shake me by the
shoulder and say:
“Wake up, Jules.”
That afternoon I stumbled through my work. I was so slow that the
ringmaster touched me up with his whip. I could not keep my eyes off
that rider. When she was in the ring the whole tent seemed to be
flooded with sunshine, and when she left it, amid a tumult of applause,
it seemed bare and desolate.
Day after day I watched her in silent admiration. Once I picked up
courage to speak to her. The informality of circus life requires
no introductions among its people. She seemed to be very proud and
haughty, and treated my advance with disdain. Yet I always made it a
point to be at the entrance when she went on, and I watched for her
when she came out. While she was in the ring I could scarcely work.
I never realized how deeply I cared for her until I saw her talking to
the head of our principal trapeze family. He was a splendid-looking
Frenchman, with brown hair and curled mustache, and he had a dashing
air. He got a big salary, was featured in all the bills, and quite
naturally my lady smiled upon him. But I loved on in silence, and in
pain, covering it all with the clown’s fool garb.
Can you imagine how I felt as I stood apart each day, watching this
glorious creature laughing and making merry with a handsome rival? It
was just like a scene in a French book that I had read when I was a boy
at the Circus Francisco in Paris. I little dreamed then that it would
happen to me.
One day I gave her some flowers that I had bought on a hot, dusty trip
downtown. She accepted them with a sort of condescension, and then
turned quickly away, for the French acrobat happened along, and she
beamed on him.
This ordeal was not pleasant. It got on my nerves, and interfered with
my work. I had always been sunny and smiling, and my unfailing good
cheer had often helped to drive care away from my colleagues. I grew
sad and irritable.
“What’s the matter, Jules?” they all said.
“He must be in love,” said the contortionist, banteringly.
Full many a jest is spoken in earnest, and I realized it that day. All
the while we were traveling in the South. The weather was very hot and
there had been a good deal of rain. Often the lot on which we showed
was damp. I caught cold, fever developed, and I had to go to bed. But
I stayed with the show. As I lay in my berth I dreamed, as all young
lovers dream, that some day this beautiful bareback rider, hearing of
my illness, would come to see me on our car; that she would lean over
me with a wondrous smile on her face and say:
“Jules, forgive me. I have cared for you always, and now I shall never
leave you again.”
One night, when I dreamed this very vividly, I woke with a start to
find the moon shining in my face, and the car rattling over a long
bridge. I was alone.
I got well, and took up my clowning again. The first day I was back in
harness I went to my accustomed place, where so often I had seen the
bareback lady. My heart was in my eyes, and they looked for one thing.
But I did not see her. I went on for my first turn, with my mind all in
a whirl. When I got back to the dressing-room I asked the boss clown
about her.
“Humph,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “That woman?”
“Yes?” I replied, growing indignant.
“The less you ask about her the better,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Simply this,” he replied, “at Shreveport, last week, she skipped the
show, and eloped with the hotel manager. She has a husband and two kids
in Canada.” After a pause he added:
“Good riddance, I guess.”
It was a great shock to me. It seemed as if the ground had been cut
away from my feet. I felt a pain in my heart, and stumbled over to my
trunk and sat down. My temple of romance had come toppling down. I had
been terribly disillusioned. But I said to myself:
“Brace up, Jules. There are plenty of other women in the world.” And I
braced up.
I must say right here, in defense of the women of the circus, that the
type I have just described is a very rare one. The women who work under
the canvas are brave, loyal, and moral. Inured to physical hardship,
and accustomed to meet all kinds of emergencies, they well know how to
combat life’s cares. They are the gentlest of wives, the tenderest of
mothers, and the best of comrades.
That early sentimental experience made a slight impress on me, I am
glad to say. I was young and full of life. Some years later, when I
was playing in a winter show in the West, I met a strong and noble
woman. We became great friends. She was not of the circus, but had many
friends in the profession. The next year I went back and married her.
She has been my mate ever since, and each winter I go back to her to
find a tender welcome and a heart filled with affection. Were it not
for her I might to-day be a wanderer on the face of the earth.
They say a clown is a jester and has no soul. I will tell you of an
incident in my own life. One of the joys that my home had given me was
a little boy. I was away with the circus when he came into the world,
and I recall how impatient I was for the end of the season to come,
so I could go to him. We became great pals, this little chap and I.
I called him Jules, and I wanted him to be a great circus performer.
I had to be away from him all summer, but in November, when the show
went into winter quarters at Baraboo, I hurried back to him. The family
lived in New York then. I watched his little muscles develop. I would
dress up in my clown clothes for him, go through all my stunts, and he
had enchanted hours. He was the delight of my life.
One year the show opened very early. We were playing in a small
Wisconsin town. It was a one-night stand, and the big tent was full. I
had a brand-new act, and it was very funny. In it I carried a rag baby
around in my arms. I was supposed to be taking it away from the nurse.
After I had been out on the track for a little while, a clown came
up and told me I was wanted in the pad room. When I got there I was
handed a telegram from my wife. It read:
“Jules is dying.”
He was in New York; I was hundreds of miles away, and I could not go
to him. The dearest thing in all the world to me was slipping away.
Outside in the big tent the band was playing; whips were cracking;
people were laughing; the whole circus fun was on. There I stood in
fool’s garb, with the hot tears streaming down my make-up. I heard a
voice say merrily:
“Come, Jules, we’re waiting for you.”
So I had to go out into that crowded arena with a breaking heart, and
disport myself that the mob might laugh—playing with a dummy child
while my own lay dying.
Can you wonder, then, that behind the jest of the clown there is often
the pang of pain, the sear of sorrow? I have many chances to look
into the heart of the circus, because I am the postman. I go down
to the post-office in every town, and I bring out the mail. I know
every performer by name, and I am the agent that brings joy or ache.
Many eager hopes hang on those post-office trips of mine. The dashing
bareback ladies and the daring trapeze performers look for letters that
never come. Human nature is the same the world over, whether it is in
the gilded palace or under the canvas of the big tent.
[Illustration: “I BECOME THE FRIEND AND CONFIDANT OF ALL.”]
I send away the money orders for all the performers, and in this way
I find out some of their secrets. The gruff strong man, whose giant
muscles are the admiration of the crowd, sends part of his wages each
week to his old mother in Germany; the bewildering little rider, who
moves in a gay world of motion and color, has a sick husband, whom she
supports. I become the friend and confidant of all of them, and it
makes life richer and deeper and more worth while for me.
I have seen many things in my circus day to wring the heart. I told you
of my own great sorrow. It reminds me of a sort of kindred grief that
came to my old friend Garrett. He was one of the best fellows that ever
lived, an Irishman of the real sort, and a good clown. Many a time we
worked together in the sawdust. He married a very pretty slack-wire
performer, named Dottie. She was a very lovable little thing, and
everybody in the circus liked her. One night Garrett and I were working
on the track, and Dottie had gone up for her act. We made merry as we
went, and kept the crowd in a roar of laughter.
All of a sudden I heard a scream, but kept right on with my work. It
is part of the unwritten rule of circus business to ignore fear and
panic. So we kept on. But a curious hush fell on the crowd. I turned,
and there on the middle stage I saw a group standing about a huddled
figure. A man came rushing from the pad room, and I saw it was our
doctor. By that time Garrett had turned, too. I saw his face turn
ghastly, even under the white make-up. He gave a moan, and dashed over
to the platform. There he found his wife dead. She had fallen from the
wire and there was no net beneath.
Gently he picked her up, and carried her away, sobbing out his heart
over her tinseled dress. But in a moment the music struck up, the whips
cracked, and the circus was going again.
VI
I RELATE SOME CLOWN HISTORY
Many people think that because the clown wears a grotesque garb and
indulges in silly antics, that he is a buffoon all the time. They
are very much mistaken. Like humorists, we take our profession very
seriously, for it has traditions of real greatness.
I never quite understood this so much until I had an experience in
Boston. We usually stay there a week, and this gives us a chance to
get around and see the city. One hot June afternoon I was taking a
street-car ride out towards the suburbs. It was so sultry that few
people were stirring. For a time I had the car all to myself. Then
a very dignified old gentleman came aboard and sat down next to me.
We rode on in silence for a time until I made some remark about the
weather. I am inclined to be friendly. We got to talking. Finally he
asked me what my business was.
“I am a circus clown,” I replied.
He looked amazed. Then wiped his glasses, gazed at me, and remarked:
“It’s extraordinary. I thought you were a minister.”
Perhaps the white string necktie that I always wear fooled him, as it
has fooled many other people. They seem to think that a clown should be
grinning all the time or ready to turn a somersault.
I found the old gentleman very entertaining. He said a little later on:
“My friend, your profession is a thousand years old, and you may well
be proud of it.”
This interested me immensely, and I asked him to tell me where I could
find out some facts about its origin.
“If you will read your Roman history you will find much to enlighten
you about the beginning of your work.” Then he told me that he was a
professor at Harvard, and soon after he left the car.
The next day I went down to the Boston Public Library and got some
Roman histories. Although I found nothing about clowns, there was a
great deal about pantomime, which I have always held was the real
forerunner of clowning. Pantomime dates back to the Jews and early
Egyptians. The early Greek drama partook of it, and it was introduced
into Rome during the reign of the Emperor Augustus. Mæcenas, Virgil,
Horace, and Ovid, and other great literary men of the period, enjoyed
the work of the pantomimists. The early pantomimes, so I discovered,
expressed love or the exploits of the gods and goddesses. At one time
the Romans went mad on the subject of pantomimes. Nero was one of the
most ardent patrons. When he asked Demetrius what gift he most wanted,
that worthy answered:
“A pantomime, because it needs no interpreter.”
[Illustration: “TO BE A GOOD CLOWN A MAN MUST BE A STUDENT AND IN
EARNEST.”]
The pantomimist spoke a universal language, because he talked with his
hands. The Roman pantomimist worked in the great open-air theaters,
and also in the homes of the rich. In the latter places he was called
upon to carve the meats, which he did with many flourishes. Thus he
made himself both useful and ornamental. In later years, however, I
might add that the clown has lost his ornamental features. The Roman
pantomime died with the decay of Roman glory, and it was not until
the fifteenth century that it was revived in Italy.
Then it was that the original predecessor of the clown of to-day made
his appearance in rude plays in the character known as Arlecchino,
who was a blundering servant. Originally he combined loutishness with
great cunning. Out of this name developed the word Harlequin, which
became very popular in France. The Harlequin wore a black mask, had a
cocked hat, and wielded a bat. This bat was the original of the modern
slap-stick so much used by clowns and low comedians.
As the pantomime developed, Harlequin surrounded himself with
characters. Of course there had to be a woman, so she was introduced
in the shape of a pretty servant, who wore tights. She was Colombine.
The girl had to have a father, so he became Pantaloon, who wore baggy
trousers. A fourth figure was also needed. Here is where the first
real clown came in. He was the servant to Harlequin. He, too, wore
baggy trousers, had a peaked hat, and was supposed to be always getting
into trouble. You can now see the connection between Harlequin’s clown
and the circus clown of to-day.
Pantomime found its greatest vogue in England, where it was introduced
early in the eighteenth century at the Covent Garden Theater. A manager
named Rich first brought it out. He devised a pantomime play in which
Harlequin appeared as the lover of Colombine. Her father (Pantaloon)
opposed the match; thereupon Harlequin abducted her, with the aid of
the clown. The clown introduced many ludicrous effects.
The pantomime plays grew into tremendous popularity in England. They
were given at the holiday season before immense crowds. The greatest
managers found them necessary to good business. Even Garrick became
sponsor for it. It was he who introduced Signor Giuseppe Grimaldi,
father of the “Immortal Joe,” the greatest clown the world has ever
known. I am proud to belong to the profession that Grimaldi adorned.
The father played Harlequin for a long time in the London pantomimes.
Joe early appeared with his parent. His first part was as monkey, when
he was three years old. He was attached to a chain, and his father used
to whirl him around by this chain. Once the chain broke, and little Joe
landed on the stomach of a stout gentleman who sat in the front row.
When Joe grew up he abandoned the Harlequin part, and became the clown.
He took off the spangles and fancy colored diamonds that were always
a part of the Harlequin costume, and dressed in white with pantaloon
trousers. He whitened his face, and then put on patches of red. He
looked more like a lubberly boy, who had been caught eating jam.
With the ascendency of Joe Grimaldi the clown took precedence over
Harlequin, and has had it ever since. But it was due to Joe’s great
genius. He was called “The Garrick of Clowns.” His first triumphs
were in “Mother Goose.” He did not depend upon acrobatic feats for
his success, but on genuine humor. His antics were side-splitting.
He became a national figure. Lord Byron was his friend, and Charles
Dickens used to come to see him each week. Later, Dickens edited his
Memoirs, which I regard as a remarkable tribute to a clown’s thoughts.
When Grimaldi was out of the cast all London sulked. He was as
necessary to Covent Garden as was the great John Kemble himself. Yet he
was only a clown.