[Illustration]
A medley of crashing music, pungently odd and exhilarating smells, the
roaring croon of the steam calliope, the sweet lingering savour of
clown-white grease paint, elephants, sleek barking seals, trained pigs,
superb white horses, frolicking dogs, exquisite ladies in tights and
spangles, the pallid Venuses of the "living statuary," a whole jumble
of incongruous and fantastic glimpses, moving in perfect order through
its arranged cycles--this is the blurred and ecstatic recollection of an
amateur clown at the circus.
It was pay day that afternoon and all the performers were in cheerful
humour. Perhaps that was why the two outsiders, who played a very
inconspicuous part in the vast show, were so gently treated. Certainly
they had approached the Garden in some secret trepidation. They had had
visions of dire jests and grievous humiliations: of finding themselves
suddenly astride the bare backs of berserk mules, or hoisted by blazing
petards, or douched with mysterious cascades of icy water. Pat Valdo had
written: "I am glad to hear you are going to clown a bit. I hope you
both will enjoy the experience." To our overwrought imaginations this
sounded a little ominous. What would Pat and his lively confreres do to
us?
We need not have feared. Not in the most genial club could we have been
more kindly treated than in the dressing room where we found Pat Valdo
opening his trunk and getting out the antic costumes he had provided.
(The eye of a certain elephant, to tell the truth, was the only real
embarrassment we suffered. We happened to stand by him as he was waiting
to go on, and in his shrewd and critical orb we saw a complete disdain.
He spotted us at once. He knew us for interlopers. He knew that we were
not a real clown, and his eye showed a spark of scorn. We felt shamed,
and slunk away.)
A liberal coating of clown-white, well rubbed into the palms before
applying; a rich powdering of talcum; and decorations applied by Pat
Valdo with his red and black paint-sticks--these give an effect that
startles the amateur when he considers himself in the mirror. Topped
with a skull-cap of white flannel (on which perches a supreme oddity in
the way of a Hooligan hat) and enveloped in a baggy Pierrot garment--one
is ready to look about and study the dressing room, where our fellows,
in every kind of gorgeous grotesquerie, are preparing for the Grand
Introductory Pageant--followed by the "Strange People." (They don't call
them Freaks any more.) Here is Johannes Joseffson, the Icelandic
Gladiator, sitting on his trunk, with his bare feet gingerly placed on
his slippers to keep them off the dusty floor while he puts on his
wrestling tights. As he bends over with arched back, and raises one leg
to insert it into the long pink stocking, one must admire the perfect
muscular grace of his thighs and shoulders. Here is the equally muscular
dwarf, being massaged by a friend before he dons his pink frills and
dashing plumed hat and becomes Mlle. Spangletti, "the marvel
equestrienne, darling of the Parisian boulevards." Here is the
inevitable Charley Chaplin, and here the dean of all the clowns, an old
gentleman of seventy-four, in his frolicsome costume, as lively as
ever. Here is a trunk inscribed _Australian Woodchoppers_, and sitting
on it one of the woodchoppers himself, a quiet, humorous, cultivated
gentleman with a great fund of philosophy. A rumour goes the rounds--as
it does behind the scenes in every kind of show. "Do you know who we
have with us to-day? I see one of the boxes is all decorated up." "It's
Mrs. Vincent Astor." "Who's she?" interjects the Australian woodchopper,
satirically. "It's General Wood." "Did you hear, Wood and Pershing are
here to-day?" Charley Chaplin asserts that he has "a good gag" that he's
going to try out to-day and see how it goes. One of the other clowns in
the course of dressing comes up to Pat Valdo, and Pat introduces his two
pupils. "Newspaper men, hey?" says the latter. "What did you tell me
for? I usually double-cross the newspaper men when they come up to do
some clowning," he explains to us. We are left wondering in what this
double-crossing consists. Suddenly they all troop off down the dark
narrow stairs for the triumphal entry. The splendour of this parade may
not be marred by any clown costumes, so the two novices are left
upstairs, peering through holes in the dressing-room wall. The big arena
is all an expanse of eager faces. The band strikes up a stirring ditty.
A wave of excitement sweeps through the dingy quarters of the Garden.
The show is on, and how delirious it all is!
Downstairs, the space behind the arena is a fascinating jostle of odd
sights. The elephants come swaying up the runway from the basement and
stand in line waiting their turn. Here is a cage of trained bears. In
the background stands the dogcatcher's cart, attached to the famous
kicking mule. From the ladies' dressing quarters come the aerial human
butterflies in their wings and gauzy draperies. On the wall is a list of
names, _Mail Uncalled For_. One of the names is "Toby Hamilton." That
must mean old Toby, and we fear the letter will never be called for now,
for Toby Hamilton, the famous old Barnum and Bailey press agent, who
cleaned up more "free space" than any man who ever lived, died in 1916.
Suddenly appears a person clad in flesh tights and a barrel, carrying a
label announcing himself as _The Common People_. Someone thrusts a large
sign into the hands of one of the amateur clowns, and he is thrust upon
the arena, to precede the barrelled Common People round the sawdust
circuit. He has hardly time to see what the sign says--something about
"On Strike Against $100 Suits." The amateur clown is somewhat aghast at
the huge display of friendly faces. Is he to try to be funny? Here is
the flag-hung box, and he tries to see who is in it. He doesn't see
either Wood, Pershing, or Mrs. Astor, who are not there; but a lot of
wounded soldiers, who smile at him encouragingly. He feels better and
proceeds, finding himself, with a start, just beneath some flying
acrobats who are soaring in air, hanging by their teeth. Common People
shouts to him to keep the sign facing toward the audience. The tour is
made without palpable dishonour.
Things are now moving so fast it is hard to keep up with them. Pat Valdo
is dressed as a prudish old lady with an enormous bustle. Escorted by
the clown policeman and the two amateurs, Pat sets out, fanning himself
demurely. Hullo! the bustle has detached itself from the old lady, but
she proceeds, unconscious. The audience shouts with glee. Finally the
cop sees what has happened and screams. The amateur clowns scream, too,
and one of them, in a burst of inspiration, takes off his absurd hat to
the bustle, which is now left yards behind. But Pat is undismayed, turns
and beckons with his hand. The bustle immediately runs forward of its
own accord and reattaches itself to the rear of the skirt. You see,
there is a dwarf inside it. The two amateur clowns are getting excited
by this time and execute some impromptu tumbling. One tackles the other
and they roll over and over desperately. In the scuffle one loses both
his hat and skull-cap and flees shamefast from the scene. It is asserted
by our partner that "this went big." He swears it got a laugh. Pat Valdo
hurries off to prepare for his boomerang throwing. Pat is a busy man,
for he is not only a clown, but he and Mrs. Valdo also do wonderful
stunts of their own on Ring Number One.
And there are moments of sheer poetry, too. Into the darkened arena,
crossed by dazzling shafts of light, speeds a big white motor car. Bird
Millman descends, tossing aside her cloak. "A fairy on a cobweb" the
press agents call her, and as two humble clowns watch entranced through
the peepholes in the big doors the phrase seems none too extravagant.
See her, in a foam of short fluffy green skirts, twirl and tiptoe on the
glittering wire, all grace and slenderness and agile enchantment. She
bows in the dazzle of light and kisses her hands to the crowd. Then she
hops into the big car and is borne back behind the scenes. Once behind
the doors her gay vivacity ceases. She sits, wearily, several minutes,
before getting out of the car. And then, later, comes Mlle. Leitzel.
She, like all the other stars, is said to have "amazed all Europe." We
don't know whether Europe is harder to amaze than America. Certainly no
one could be more admiringly astounded than the amateur clowns gazing
entranced through the crack of the doorway. To that nerve-tightening
roll of drums she spins deliriously high up in giddy air, floating, a
tiny human pin-wheel, in a shining cone of light. One can hear the crowd
catch its breath. She walks back, all smiles, while her maid trots ahead
saying something unintelligible. Her tall husband is waiting for her at
the doorway. He catches her up like a child and carries her off, limp
and exhausted. One of the clowns (irreverent creature) makes a piteous
squawk and begs us to carry him to his dressing room.
A trained pig, trotting cheerfully round in search of tidbits, is
retrieved from under the hooves of Mrs. Curtis's horse, which is about
to go out and dance. The dogcatcher's wagon is drawn up ready to rush
forth, and the trained terrier which accompanies it is leaping with
excitement. He regards it as a huge lark, and knows his cue perfectly.
When the right time comes he makes a dash for a clown dressed as an
elderly lady and tears off her skirt. One of the amateurs was allowed to
ride behind the kicking mule, but to his great chagrin the mule did not
kick as well as usual. Here are Charley Chaplin and some others throwing
enormous dice from a barrel. No matter how the dice are thrown they
always turn up seven. Into this animated gamble the amateur clown enters
with enjoyment. All round him the wildest capers are proceeding. The
double-ended flivver is prancing about. John Barleycorn's funeral
procession is going its way. "Give me plenty of space," says Charley
Chaplin to us, "so the people can watch me." We do so, reverently, for
Charley's antics are worth watching. We make a wild dash, and plan to do
a tumble in imitation of Charley's. To our disappointment we find that
instead of sliding our feet dig into the soft sawdust, and the
projected collapse does not arrive. Intoxicated by the rich spice of
circus odours, the booming calliope, the galloping horses, we hardly
know what we are doing half the time. We hear Miss May Wirth, the Wonder
Rider of the World, complaining bitterly that someone got in front of
her when she was doing her particularly special stunt. We wonder
dubiously whether we were the guilty one. Alas, it is all over but the
washing up. Pat Valdo, gentlest of hosts, is taking off his trick hat
with the water cistern concealed in it. He has a clean towel ready for
his grateful pupils.
The band is playing "The Star-Spangled Banner," and all the clowns, in
various stages of undress, stand at attention. Our little peep into the
gay, good-hearted, courageous, and extraordinary world of the circus is
over. Pat and his fellows will go on, twice a day, for the next six
months. It takes patience and endurance. But it must be some consolation
to know that nothing else in the world gives half as much pleasure to so
many people.