his performance was over, he retired to a corner and wept profusely. He
was a man of tender heart and generous impulses. There is a story about
him which has been handed down by many generations of clowns. It goes
on to say that once Grimaldi became very ill and despondent. He went to
consult a great London specialist. The great man looked him over, and
then remarked:
“Go to see Grimaldi, and laugh yourself well.”
The clown looked at him sadly, and replied:
“I am Grimaldi.”
The art of exquisite clown fooling died in England when Grimaldi passed
away. The London managers had to create a substitute, which they did
after a fashion, with elaborate scenic spectacles. The clowns that
followed were acrobats. Agility took the place of humor. There are
traces of this in the clowning of to-day.
Of course, in any consideration of the origin of the modern clown you
must reckon with the king’s jester. You have only to turn to the pages
of Shakespeare to find how highly he was regarded. Every court had its
fool, and he was often the wise man. In King Lear are the words:
“_Jesters do oft prove prophets._”
Jacques was a philosopher, and Touchstone a great personage.
I have known king’s jesters in the American circus, but their art was
too fine to be appreciated by the multitudes, and they had to give
way to the more popular form of clowning. It took years of thought and
study to be a Shakespearian jester.
Although the historical facts about the origin of the clown are fine
and imposing, I somehow prefer to remember the legend about it that I
heard as a boy in France. It was told me by an old clown in Normandy.
As he related it to me, it went on to show that the little daughter
of a wandering mountebank once dreamed that she saw her father with
whitened face, peaked hat, and baggy white pantaloons, performing
before a great crowd, and that everybody was laughing and applauding.
It was such a vivid dream that she told her father about it. He was
deeply impressed, and adopted the costume, thus appearing as the first
white-faced clown.
VII
I GIVE MY CREED
For thousands of years man has searched for the Fountain of Youth, and
it has always eluded him. Yet I am foolish enough to think that I have
discovered it. The secret lies in being a clown. We are not only the
oldest people of the circus in tradition, but also in years. There is
that about our work which keeps us eternally young in spirit. Sometimes
when the journey has been long and the day hot and the dust thick, I
get a little weary, for I am moving on towards sixty. But as soon as I
hear the music of the band, the snorts of the horses, the shrill voices
of the “barkers,” and the indescribable movement of the crowd toward
the big tent, it all acts like wine upon my blood. I am stirred to
action, the weariness falls away like magic, and I am young again. I
have not missed a performance in five years.
Many performers in the circus have this same experience, but the clown
has a deeper and truer inspiration behind his. It lies in laughter.
We make people laugh and we get, in a curious way, the effect of that
laughter on ourselves. Laughter looses the fetters of the brain, and it
radiates a spirit that makes for the joyousness of life. Combined with
it is our constant action in the open air. No man who keeps his body
and mind active, and who lives temperately in the fresh air, will grow
“old” as the world sees age. This is why I say that I have found the
Fountain of Youth.
Perhaps by this time you may wonder what a clown’s state of mind is. If
I have succeeded in giving any hint of the real mood of my profession,
you will know that it is seriousness. Hence the clown’s outlook on life
is grave. It takes a wise man to be a fool. Therefore anybody cannot
play the clown. It is only in external things that we are “comical
fellows.” There are good and bad clowns, clowns with high ideals,
and those who regard clowning merely as a means towards earning a
livelihood. Of course, clowns, like poets, must be fed, but there is a
right way to approach one’s calling and a wrong way. To be a good clown
a man must be a student and be in earnest.
I read books every chance I get. It will not surprise you perhaps when
I say that one of my favorites is “Don Quixote.” Somewhere in this
great work Sancho Panza says:
“In comedy the most difficult character is that of the fool, and he
that plays the part must be no simpleton.”
Wise old Sancho was right. It fits into my theory of clowning perfectly.
I have read every one of Charles Dickens’ books. This is not because
the Immortal Boz was the friend and editor of Grimaldi, the king of
clowns, but because it always seems to me that he knew how to analyze
the human heart. He knew the lowly. I like history, too, and once in a
while, when I want to be stirred deeply, I read about Napoleon. I think
he was a very wicked man, but I have French blood in me, and I suppose
it is pride in him, after all, that makes me admire him. I have left
for the last the book that has influenced me more than all others, and
this is the Bible. The world never associates a white-faced clown with
piety. I don’t profess to be pious, but I love to read the Bible.
Sometimes on the long, hot Sunday afternoons I lie under a tent flap
and read it to the men. The roughest canvas man will respect a man who
is sincerely good, but he has a profound contempt for the pretender.
[Illustration: “I HAVE MADE COUNTLESS CHILDREN CLAP THEIR LITTLE HANDS
WITH GLEE.”]
Since I have gotten into a reflective mood I should like to say
something about the work of a clown that I don’t think the average
person who goes to the circus comprehends, and it is this: the clown’s
art has endured through all the years because it is clean. This is a
very simple but a very powerful reason. Amusement vogues come and go,
for the taste of the man who wants to be diverted is fickle. He is
always craving something new. He may be interested for a brief time in
the sickly atmosphere of a problem or an erotic play, but he soon tires
of it. So with many other forms of entertainment. The vaudeville which
is now having its hour of glory will pass away. But clowning is
done out in the open air, where the winds of heaven blow about you! It
is clean, morally and physically. It has no ambition to appeal to the
senses; it has no elevating purpose; its sole idea is to amuse. In this
it has achieved permanency.
Perhaps nothing in all my long antic before the public has given me
a keener pleasure than the realization that I have given delight to
children. The sight of their little faces, beaming with happiness and
stretching up, row behind row, to the very top of the seats, has always
filled me with renewed zeal for my work.
Nothing so attracts the small boy as the circus. I have strained my
conscience many a time by letting a ragged urchin slip under the canvas
and get a seat in the cherished paradise. This reminds me of an
incident that always gives me satisfaction to rehearse.
Eighteen years ago the Ringling show was at Binghamton, N. Y. It was
a very hot day, and I stood outside the dressing tent to get a breath
of air. As I stood there a little boy came up and eyed me eagerly. I
was dressed for the afternoon performance, and thought he was merely
staring at me out of boyish curiosity. Then I saw tears and a very
wistful look in his eyes. I have always loved children, and this little
chap made me think of my own dead boy. I walked up to him, and putting
my hand on his head, said:
“What’s the matter, sonny?”
“I want to see the circus,” he replied.
“Have you no money?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, and fell to weeping.
Something in the lad’s manner touched me deeply. I saw that he really
wanted to see the show, so I took him by the hand and led him to where
he could find his way to a good seat. He was radiant with pleasure as I
left him.
The years passed, and I forgot all about the incident. A few seasons
ago we again showed at Binghamton, N. Y. Once more it was a scorching
hot afternoon, and curiously enough I stood outside the dressing tent
before the time came for me to go on. A fine-looking young man came up
to where I was standing, and said:
“I beg your pardon, but I am looking for a clown who befriended me
fifteen years ago. I heard someone then call him ‘Jules.’ Can you tell
me if he is still with the show?”
I said to him:
“You don’t have to look far, for I am Jules.”
With that he reached forward, seized my hand and shook it warmly. Then
he said:
“I have waited a long time to thank you for that kindness of long ago.
It may have seemed a small thing to you, but it meant a lot to me. I
want you to take dinner with me to-night.”
I went downtown with him after the performance, and we had a fine talk.
He had become an electrical engineer and was doing well. He had always
missed our circus when it showed at Binghamton. He made me promise to
send him a picture of myself.
[Illustration: “IT IS GOOD TO BE A CLOWN.”]
My life is dotted with experiences of this kind. Can you wonder, then,
that I am proud and glad to be a clown? In one of his plays Shakespeare
says:
“_It is meat and drink to see a clown._”
I should change it so as to read:
“_It is meat and drink_ TO BE _a clown._”
I have saved my money, and I own a house out in a Missouri town, where
I go every winter after the circus season closes. I also have a farm in
North Dakota, where I can see green things grow. I know that whatever
may befall me I have a roof of my own which will shelter my last years.
But I never expect to stop clowning as long as I am able to work.
Since I have spoken of the origin of the clown it might be well for me
to speak of his end. Few ever leave the circus. Once a clown, always a
clown. It is best to die in harness.
I have enjoyed my clowning, and to be content with one’s work is a
great satisfaction. It does not come to all. I know at least that
I have caused many people to forget their troubles, and I have made
countless children clap their little hands with glee.
It is good to be a clown.
THE END