ACROBATS AND MOUNTEBANKS.
BY HUGUES LE ROUX & JULES GARNIER.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY A. P. MORTON.
WITH 233 ILLUSTRATIONS.
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, LIMITED, 1890.
Richard Clay and Sons, Limited, LONDON AND BUNGAY.
PREFACE.
The Banquistes was the first title chosen for this book: it has been altered for two reasons which appeared conclusive after some consideration: the general public would have misunderstood it, and it would certainly have wounded those interested in it, who would have known what it meant.
But if we consult an etymological dictionary we shall find that the word SALTIMBANQUE, which is more generally used than BANQUISTE, is derived from a definite root: SALTIMBANQUE, s. m., from the Italian word SALTIMBANCO: who vaults on a bench (Latin, SALTARE IN BANCO). In Italian we also find the word CANTIMBANCO, a platform singer. I must add that when, after tracing out the etymology of the words SALTIMBANQUISTE and banquiste, we search for the origin of the word banker, we shall find that the same radical, BANCO, is the root of these three derivatives. In the old fairs two personages were allowed to erect a small platform, a “banc”—the money-changer and the acrobat. Perhaps the “banc” already served as a spring-board, giving both the BANKER and the BANQUISTE a greater impetus in their leap; perhaps we must even look back to the same date to find the exact origin of the now common expression “LEVER LE PIED” (to abscond).
However this may be, after the perusal of this book, it will be readily understood that the contemporary acrobat, established, enriched, emerging into the middle classes, indignantly rejects a slang term which apparently assigns to him the same origin as that of our modern financiers. This intolerance is certainly not the only surprise reserved for the reader of these pages. We claim to lead him to the threshold of an unknown world.
Before commencing this work, which has absorbed us during at least three years, I made a thorough investigation of the bibliographic and monographic information now existing upon the banquiste question, and I came to the conclusion that no French or foreign author worth attention or quotation had yet interested himself in this original people. M. Houcke, the manager of the Hippodrome, had kindly placed at our disposal a series of lithographs published in Germany. But the text and the correctness of the work were so defective, that the drawings were of no use to us. It was the same with the Saltimbanques, which M. Escudier published at the close of the Empire through Michel Lévy. The sole merit of M. Escudier’s work lies in his discovery of an unknown subject. He made the mistake of writing without information, picturesqueness, or philosophy, in the light, insufferably trifling tone, which is common to most of the publications of that epoch.
Since then, a conscientious writer, M. Dalsème, who is attached to the acrobats, has published a more interesting account of them entitled Le Cirque à Pied et à Cheval. The kindliness with which M. Dalsème alludes in his book to the quotations which he has made from my publications induces me to notice his work in return. And truly, however unequal and incomplete his book may be, it is still the most interesting work that has yet been seen upon a new subject.
This judgment places M. Edmund de Goncourt’s novel, the Frères Zemganno, far above this level, and beyond any invidious comparison. Although exact observation is the discipline of the novelist, M. de Goncourt has declared that in this instance his chief object was to write a symbolical book. His information was necessarily superficial. Such as it was, I do not think that any one has now more reason than ourselves for admiring the superior art and truth with which M. de Goncourt has spoken of the circus, has formulated its philosophy, depicted its passions, and divined those things that were concealed from him. And I trust that the author of the Frères Zemganno will be one of the first to enjoy the novelty of this work.
The perusal of the so-called naturalistic novels has gradually accustomed the public to a fairly strong dose of realism in books. A number of young men have written in imitation of the great masters, stories which, commonplace in themselves, are yet worth reading for their conscientious observation of the “surroundings.” A thousand inquiries upon contemporary life have been cleverly made, and readers have examined these social records with much curiosity.
It appeared to me that the best part of these novels, the portions most appreciated by the readers, were the facts of actual experience. I therefore asked myself if the time had not come to present to the public these facts free from all romantic fiction, in a form in which the author only intervenes in order to arrange the incidents and to point out the philosophy to be derived from them.
The success of this book will prove whether the attempt is premature, or whether there will be any reason for a sequel.
This publication is really the monograph of an unknown people, related by the pen and pencil. Its laws, its customs, its traditions, its secrets, its hopes, have been seized, defined in spite of reticence, evasions, wavering, and contradictory witnesses. It describes the organization of the banquiste people, the foundation of its agencies, newspapers, and syndicates, it follows the mountebank from his birth in the wandering caravan to his apotheosis in the friezes of the circus. And at the same time it penetrates into the stables to explain the secrets of the trainer, the tamer, and the ring-master; into the booths to ask the clown for the story of his adventures—and by what chance, having become a gentleman himself, he one day met in the land of whims a gentleman who had become a clown!
I cannot close this preface without addressing the warmest thanks to all those who have aided us in bringing this work to a successful issue—to our willing correspondents from America, England, Germany, and Russia. But whilst thus paying our debts, we must express our special gratitude to the learned director of the photographic department of the Salpêtrière, M. Albert Londe; to M. Guy de la Brettonière, the well-known circomane; to amateurs like MM. de Saint-Senoch, Bucquet, and Mathieu. The photographs which these gentlemen kindly took for us enabled the draughtsman to represent the acrobats in THOSE INTERMEDIATE POSES WHICH THE EYE NEVER SEIZES, and which hitherto the most rapid instantaneous photographs have failed in reproducing. A few figures will prove better than any words the extreme rarity of these plates.
In the month of June, 1888, M. Houcke having given us an appointment at the Hippodrome, made the clown, Auguste, and an artist of the fixed bar, vault in our presence. The members of the Société d’Excursions Française de Photographie, headed by its president, were nearly all assembled. Fifty cameras were arranged like a battery: each amateur had brought twelve glasses. After they had been examined, M. Albert Londe sent us ten proofs, which alone out of six hundred had been deemed worthy of being printed, and after a final examination only seven plates were preserved by the painter. They inspired the series of somersaults which are found in the chapter on GYMNASTS.
HUGUES LE ROUX.
ERRATA.
Page 78, line 7 from top, for “bloated Vitelliuses”, read, “bloated Vitellii”.
Page 206, line 3 from top, for “Naet Salsbury”, read, “Nael Salsbury”.
CONTENTS.
- CHAPTER I. Organization 1
- CHAPTER II. The Fair 37
- CHAPTER III. Permanent Shows or Entresorts 57
- CHAPTER IV. The Theatre Booth 81
- CHAPTER V. The Trainers 107
- CHAPTER VI. The Tamers 133
- CHAPTER VII. The Equestrians 159
- CHAPTER VIII. The Hippodrome 183
- CHAPTER IX. The Equilibrists 209
- CHAPTER X. The Gymnasts 241
- CHAPTER XI. The Clowns 277
- CHAPTER XII. The Private Circus 307
- Index. 333
[p001]
CHAPTER I. ORGANIZATION.
Parisians live in scandalous ignorance of the beings who surround them and of the world in which they move. Although fond of curious entertainments, they have never made any serious inquiries about the origin, the private life, or the terms of enlistment of the skilful artists whom they applaud in the circus, the theatre-concert, or the playhouse. I have often heard persons who considered themselves well informed, and who spoke with much reserve and many hints of deeper knowledge, assert that secret manufactures of monstrosities exist in the world, training schools for acrobats, registry offices for mountebanks; and that by diligent search, with a little discreet assistance from the police, one might discover branches of these picturesque establishments in the thieves’ quarters of old Paris. [p002]
This story is enough to frighten children, but it must be allowed to pass away with the dust of other fabrications destroyed by time, whilst you may rely upon the accuracy of the information contained in this book; its sole ambition is to enlighten you on this mysterious subject by telling you the truth about it.
The collection of all these facts has been a work of time. The mountebank is too jealous of his freedom to talk openly to every one that approaches him. The same patience which travellers use in their relations with savages must be employed before one can hope for any intimacy with this people, who are still as much scattered, as varied, as strangely mixed, as vagabond, as their ancestors, the gipsies, who, guitar on back, hoop in hand, their black hair encircled with a copper diadem, traversed the Middle Ages, protected from the hatred of the lower classes and the cruelty of the great by the talisman of superstitious terror.
This tribe, recruited from every nation and every type, is called, in its particular argot, the banque;[1] there is the grande banque and the petite banque: its members are called banquistes.
Qualities transmitted through many generations, natural selection always tending in the same direction—of strength and dexterity—have, in course of time, endowed this [p003] international people with special characteristics. With regard to the superior instincts, they possess a taste for adventure, wonderful facility in acquiring languages, in assimilating every variety of civilization, and a strange amalgamation of qualities, which would seem incompatible with each other—Italian pliancy, Anglo-Saxon coolness, German tenacity. I do not quote the influence of French characteristics in the fabrication of these free citizens of the world: the soil of France is so dear to her children that, even if they tempt the glory and perils of an acrobat’s life, they rarely leave their native land. According to statistics, Frenchmen form a proportion of but five per cent, in the tribe of banquistes who travel round the world. But these mountebanks are not so numerous as one might imagine; in all there are only a few thousands. But earth contains no guests more free than these men, whom the poet Theodore de Banville greets as the “brothers of the birds, the inhabitants of the ideal city of Aristophanes.” Lords of their own will and time, they obey no laws except the terms of their voluntary engagements. They fly from war, pestilence, and ruin. When the heavens darken, they strap up their trunks, go on board a steamer and journey to other countries where gaiety and gold are to be found.
The sole disturbance in these careless lives is the question of engagements. The skill with which they have averted the difficulties, which their preference for a nomad life might have produced in their business, is a very remarkable example of that practical sense which constant travelling develops in the least cultivated individual.
Dispersed throughout the four quarters of the world, the [p004] banquistes have placed themselves in perpetual communication with, first, managers and impresarii, and then with their comrades, by means of a certain number of agencies and newspapers belonging to their corporation.
The eldest of these publications is The Era, published in London in English. The Era, now edited by Edward Ledger, was started in 1837. It is a kind of guide-book, consisting of twenty-four pages, each containing six columns, in the usual shape of an English newspaper; the price is sixpence a copy. In the title the royal escutcheon, supported by the lion and the unicorn, separates the two words The and Era. [p005]
Half the newspaper is filled with addresses of this kind—
Miss FLORENCE WEST.
Address:
10 Elm Tree Road, N.W.
──────────
Miss MINNIE BELL.
Disengaged.
Crystal Palace.
All these addresses are arranged in alphabetical order. A proprietor can at once discover where the “novelty” with whom he proposes to communicate is temporarily staying.
The Era also serves as a letter-box to all its subscribers. A special department is open under this heading:
THE ERA LETTER-BOX.
Then follows, arranged in columns, an alphabetical list of the persons for whom a note has been sent to the newspaper office.
Adeson, M.
Atleyn, Madame.
Barry, Miss Helen.
Chelli, Miss Erminia, &c.
The remainder of the Era is consecrated to artistically-written accounts of all the new theatrical performances going on in the world, and naturally to offers of employment and advertisements for engagements.
The most extraordinary fancies are allowed free play in the compilation and typographical arrangement of these advertisements. It is a question of attracting notice at [p006] any price. A clever artist unhesitatingly pays for a whole column, in which horizontally, diagonally, as a cross, or an X, he repeats his own name and acquirements three or four hundred times.
I quote the following specimens, taken at random from the columns of the Era:
A YOUNG MAN, completely disarticulated, wishes to enter into an engagement with a travelling troupe.
This artist can be described in the placards either as the india-rubber man or the serpent man. He undertakes the monkey parts in pantomimes.
MISS MAGGIE VIOLETTE (fixed bars) is free from any engagement after Christmas.
A FATHER offers to managers a young girl, fourteen years old, who has only one eye, placed above the nose, and one ear on the shoulder.
The Era has an American rival also published in English, The New York Mirror. This newspaper has only one advantage over the Era: it publishes portraits.
[p007]
M. C. KRAUSS
Germany, however, possesses two newspapers for the banquistes: one, under a French title, La Revue; the other, which is far the most important, is called Der Artist. The complete sub-title is: Central-Organ zur Vermittlung des Verkehrs zwischen Directoren und Künstlern der Circus, Varietebühnen, reisenden Theater und Schaustellungen. This paper is printed at Düsseldorf; M. C. Krauss is the chief editor.
Der Artist has been established six years. It looks like a weekly review of twenty leaves, printed in three columns. A woodcut, which fills the frontispiece and all the left side of the first page, represents various scenes from the circus [p008] and theatres: “shootists” breaking bottles, horses leaping over bars, pretty equestrians on their highly-trained steeds, tame lions, dwarfs, giants, clowns,—all the attractions of the circus and fair.
Here, as in the Era, we find long alphabetical enumerations of travelling and stationary establishments and lists of addresses of artists engaged or disengaged. These advertisements are nearly all compiled in an extraordinary gibberish, which far surpasses the ingenuity of the “sabir”: here is a specimen of them, the first I met with. It is a curious mixture of French, English, Latin, Italian, and German words:
MISS ADRIENNE ANCIOU, la reine de l’air, la plus grande Équilibriste aérienne de l’Époque,—Nec plus ultra—senza Rival, frei ab August 1888, 28 East 4. Str. New York.
It is very remarkable that English and American puffing has quite disappeared here. The earnestness and application of the German character are betrayed even in the typographical arrangement of this newspaper for acrobats. It is as clearly and carefully printed as a catalogue of the Leipzic libraries. The biographical notices, announcements of death, column of accidents, the Varietebühnen are compiled with scrupulous care and exactitude. This curious publication even finds space for literature, and the last number of the Artist published as a supplement Damons Walten, a novel, by Otto von Ellendorf. It is easy to appreciate the services which these and similar newspapers are able to confer upon the banquistes.
“To tell the truth,” one of the confraternity said to me one [p010] day, “in the whole world we have no other home but the little pigeon-hole of advertisements, where those who know us go and ask for news of us, where they learn the history of our engagements, our successes, our accidents, our marriage, the birth of our children, or the tidings of our death.”
Between the artist who seeks for an engagement and the manager always on the look out for an extraordinary “novelty,” a third person necessarily intervenes, the middleman, who arises everywhere between buyer and seller.
And, in fact, at the present time all the principal cities of the world have their agents for performing artists of every kind. These personages are very important, and make large profits. Those best known on the Continent are Messrs. Paravicini and Warner, of London; Hitzig and Wulff, of Berlin; Wild, of Vienna; Rosinsky, of Paris; Nael Salsbury, of New York, who, during the Exhibition of 1889, has shown the Parisians the savage life of the “Wild West,” transported to Paris in the persons of the celebrated Buffalo-Bill and his Indians.
The history of the Rosinsky agency is worth narration, for it is now so flourishing that it has replaced, to the advantage of Paris, the engagement market which formerly existed in London.
You can imagine that a man would not open an agency of this kind without first passing through many vicissitudes, and, in fact, R. Rosinsky has had a most checkered life.
He first acquired a taste for the profession through frequenting Barnum’s show in the United States. He has been manager of several American troupes, and proprietor of [p011] a theatre, alternately at St. Louis de Missouri and New York. His affairs prospered, and, with the aid of a partner, Rosinsky opened a circus, which he intended to run during the whole time that the Exhibition at Cincinnati was open, when an unforeseen accident ruined him.
R. ROSINSKY.
One evening his partner’s son, a young man twenty-five years old, but deaf and dumb, almost a brute, yet robust and dangerous, attempted to force an entrance into the dressing-room of an equestrian, who was just changing her dress after rehearsal. A policeman was quickly sent for. The deaf-mute drew a revolver from his pocket, fired at the policeman, and killed him on the spot.
The consequences of this murder may be easily guessed; [p012] the circus was closed. R. Rosinsky was ruined, and he recommenced his wanderings.
M. SARI.
Founder of the Folies-Bergères.
A few months later the famous Brigham Young invited him to undertake the management of the Theatre of the Mormons. I still have a copy of the newspaper—The Salt Lake Daily Herald—in which is found dated “Saturday morning, May 22, 1875,” an advertisement thus worded:
Salt Lake Theatre
R. Rosinsky . . . . Manager
GRAND MATINÉE THIS EVENING
The Wonderful
JACKLEY FAMILY.
Acrobats and Gymnasts.
Engaged [p013] during the course of the same year by Sari, the founder of the Folies Bergères, R. Rosinsky crossed the sea with the Jackley Family.
He was immediately struck by the small number of “stars” known in Paris, and, in order to attract them, he founded an agency for artists in 1875. His business has increased so rapidly that the Rosinsky agency is now in communication with correspondents scattered through all the great cities of Europe and the world. One fact is enough to prove the extent of this business. The annual postal expenses of the firm exceed 10,000 francs (£400).
An agent of this kind receives 10 per cent, upon every engagement which he arranges. To prevent any disputes in collecting this fee a clause is inserted in the agreements to the effect that the agent’s percentage is to be deducted by the manager himself from the salary remitted to the artist at the end of the first month, and these salaries are, sometimes, very considerable.
In order to compare the amount formerly paid to circus artists with the sums now received by them, I have consulted an old manuscript from the archives of M. Franconi, which bears the title of Registre personnel du Cirque, and dates back for fifty years.
We find that in 1838 the equestrians Auriol, Lalanne the elder, Lalanne (Pierre), Lalanne (Paul), Lalanne (Joseph), were paid, the first-named 500 francs (£20), the others 250 francs per fortnight.
M. VICTOR FRANCONI.
The star equestrian, Mdlle. Lucie Linski, then received 300 francs, her companions 100, 50, and even 25 francs per fortnight. [p015]
P. T. BARNUM.
Four years later, in 1842, Auriol, whose success evidently increased, found his salary doubled. He received 1,000 francs per fortnight, or 2,000 francs per month, and the equestrian, Mdlle. Lilianne, 700 francs. Now, a good pad equestrian often receives 2,000 francs per month; a vaulting clown 1,500 francs; a family of acrobats 3,000 or 4,000 francs; and a single artist, whose performance is extraordinary and unusual, receives from 700 to 7,000 francs. Even these prices have been surpassed at times. Dr. Carver, the great “shootist,” was paid 15,000 francs a month at the Folies Bergères. Léotard, at his début, signed engagements for six months, and received 100,000 francs. The two brothers Lockhart, whom the Rosinsky agency had sent to India as [p016] clowns, returned as elephant-trainers, and now each of them, with his beast, earns about 70,000 francs per annum.
The enumeration of these sums tends, I admit, to only one object—to fill the public with respect, and make it understand that a good acrobat is, in his own line, quite as exceptional a being as, for instance, M. Renan is in his. I intentionally name the learned historian in preference to many other great intellects, because, in his wisdom, he is certainly convinced that acrobatic feats are not less useful than exegesis in the recreation of mankind.
I was led a short time ago, à propos of the manager Rosinsky, to mention Barnum—P. T. Barnum, the legendary man whose name, in every language spoken upon the surface of the globe, serves as an amplified superlative to the positive impresario.
To write a book upon the banquistes and omit to celebrate Barnum in it would be equivalent to erasing the venerated name of the Prophet from a commentary on the Koran.
Let us, therefore, now recall the chief events in the biography of Phineas Taylor Barnum. The man who has converted the “American Circus” into a national institution of the New World was born in 1810 in the village of Bethel in Connecticut.
He is, therefore, now in his eightieth year. I refer those readers who may be curious about the details of this adventurous life to a book which P. T. Barnum himself wrote for the edification of his admirers (The Life of P. T. Barnum: New York, 1885), and also to another work, which was published simultaneously in Paris and New York in 1865, under the title of Les Blagues de L’Univers. [p017]
I pass over the exodus of the youthful ploughboy who quitted the farm to become the editor of a newspaper, and will only dwell upon the patriarch, who is ending his life in the village of Bridgeport (Conn.) with all the splendour of the setting sun. There, as far as eye can reach, Barnum’s gaze rests upon his own property only. To him belong the village, farms, and workshops, the 1,200 workmen, who labour incessantly, perfecting the materials of the circus, which special trains convey through the American continent, perpetually travelling from one ocean to the other.
J. A. BAILLY.
Barnum’s partner and son-in-law.
The law endeavoured to oppose the free passage of these trains over the public railroads. Barnum, through economy, at [p018] once proposed to construct new lines for his private use by the side of those already existing. Should the idea of visiting Europe during the Paris Exhibition occur to him, he would wish to acquire the Great Eastern to carry his apparatus, men and animals. The tent which covers his circus is alone worth 30,000 francs (£1,200); it is twice as large as the Hippodrome in Paris, and can shelter 15,000 spectators. In one day it can be erected, a performance given, and the journey renewed. The daily receipts vary between 40,000 and 60,000 francs.
Barnum’s cashiers, although installed in cars containing tills and writing-tables, have no time to keep any books. The daily receipts are forwarded uncounted to Bridgeport in sealed barrels, which are really measures of capacity for gold, silver, and copper coin. The accounts are all kept at Bridgeport. [p019]
A crowd of parasites follows Barnum on his travels and dwells round his tent. A town springs up in a few hours; people throng to it from fifty miles round. But then the arrival of the impresario king has been preceded for some months by immense descriptive placards posted in the localities through which his troupe would pass.
One anecdote taken from a thousand is a good example of the advantages which Barnum has derived from advertisements.
Some years ago a negro, having obtained a reward as a violinist at the Paris Conservatoire of Music, Barnum concluded an engagement with him by telegram for one year at a salary of 40,000 dollars. The walls of New York were [p020] then immediately covered with placards depicting a negro playing the violin, but without any descriptive words attached to the picture.
His virtuoso arrived, and Barnum hastened to produce him. The Yankees came, listened, applauded, but did not send their friends. What could Barnum do to rouse their dormant curiosity? He told his workmen to paste the figure of the negro upside down. This ingenious device was crowned with success. Perhaps the audience who flocked to hear him during three consecutive years fancied that a negro would be exhibited to them—a laureate from the Paris Conservatoire, who would play the violin whilst balanced on his head. Whatever their idea may have been, they went in millions; and this anecdote is not less characteristic of the peculiar stamp of American curiosity than of Barnum’s genius for puffing.
It is also an interesting proof of the share which advertisements play in the success of an entertainment. The artist world has learnt to appreciate the extraordinary effect of these coloured placards, and willingly spends a large sum of money in procuring the most effective designs; and these advertisements—of which I have reproduced a few of the most typical—are so varied and so brilliant that they might fairly dazzle collectors. The finest are issued by the firms of David Allen and Sons of Belfast, Mr. Barlow of Glasgow, Adolphe Friedlander of Hamburg, and Charles and Emile Levy of Paris.
This is the general outline of the organization: of the banquistes, who travel round the world without a country and without home ties. [p021]
[p022] I must now speak of a less adventurous mountebank—the Frenchman, who never willingly travels either by railroad or steamer, and who for centuries—for generations—has contentedly jogged along in a caravan from one fair to another, making in this way his eternal tour of France.
The origin of all these troupes of mountebanks, of every [p023] one of these travelling shows, is lost in the mist of ages. At what epoch were founded the Théâtre Vivien, the Théâtre de Saint-Antoine, the theatres of the Enfer and of the Physicien Delisle? In what century did Mouza-ba-baloued first turn his prophetic wheel under the awning of his caravan? I assure you that it is beyond the recollections of grandchildren or of their grandfathers. At all events, it is certain that from our birth we feel some curiosity mingled with a delicious dread of the mountebank, the picturesque wanderer, who passes our home at the same date in every year—like the migratory birds—who disappears one morning, without any one knowing where he has gone, or even with any certainty where he has come from; an ambiguous individual whom travellers on the high road pass as evening falls, encamped on the wayside, his kettle installed on a heap of stones, his thin steed munching the dusty grass, his half naked children wandering round the caravan, whilst the light shining through the little red curtains in the window throws the semblance of a plash of blood on the road.
This is the rear-guard, the voluntary laggard, the hermit, who wishes to remain alone until the end. He has not changed any of the customs of his ancestors, preferring to [p024] separate from his comrades rather than conform to new ways. His comrades have therefore renounced him. They will not drag such miscreants in their rear, now that they form a corporation with charters and statutes publicly decreed.
At the present moment the showmen’s world, like all other societies composed of rich and poor, is divided into two great disputing parties. Each of these divisions has its own newspaper, its representatives, the managers of its interests, its public opposition meetings. On one side you will find a group of all the important men in the profession, the proprietors of large establishments—who have serious interests to defend. These gentlemen are the anxious guardians of wealth, amassed with much trouble and labour. The authorities, who wish for the success of the “local fairs,” show special favour to these influential banquistes in the allotment of space. From this undue preference, extraordinary hatred, savage jealousy, result on the part of the smaller folk, whose sole fortune consists of one van, the sellers of gaufres and fried potatoes, the owners of swings and rifle saloons, lotteries, shows, and halls of mystery.
The less important men were the first to organize [p025] themselves. This is already the sixth year of publication of the Voyageur Forain,[2] the organ of the syndical chamber of forain travellers, a fortnightly newspaper, published on the 1st and 15th of each month. A notice, always placed above the leading article, informs the readers that “the syndical chamber of forain travellers admits into its ranks all those, whether rich or poor, who honourably earn their livelihood by instructing or amusing the public, or by retail trade.”
M. HOUCKE.
Manager of the Hippodrome.
The office of this picturesque newspaper is situated in the [p026] Boulevard Henri IV., at the end of a courtyard, above a stable. There I found an extraordinary Bohemian smoking a short pipe, lengthened by a quill, who in himself formed the whole editorial staff of the Voyageur Forain. This man of letters edits the notices of the Fairs, the Correspondence, and all the technical part of the newspaper. The rest of the number is composed of articles by the members of the syndical council. They consist chiefly of diatribes, directed against the party of “bourgeois,” who form a separate band, written in forcible language, which renders them most amusing to any one interested in French slang.
The “bourgeois,” whose names I find at the head of the first number of the newspaper of the Union mutuelle, dated May 8, 1887, were, at the time when the society was instituted:
President: M. François Bidel, manager-proprietor of a large zoological establishment, Chevalier de la Valeur civile Italienne.
Vice-presidents: M. J. B. Revest, manufacturer, part-proprietor: boats (sea on land); M. Ferdinand Corvi, proprietor and manager of a (miniature) circus.
I will skip the treasurers and directors, and quote part of the address given to the subscribers to the Union mutuelle in the programme number:
In France, men have fallen into the habit of regarding the forain as a being apart, at the outside worthy of pity.
However, if we consult our memoirs we shall find that in all ages and in every place great appreciation has been shown for the high moral qualities of this population, which, it is true, leads a peculiar existence, but one which is very honest and perfectly honourable.
Are not these men clever, who group as by magic whole cities within the city itself—cities of pleasure, filled with attractions of every kind, which the [p027] public hasten to applaud and admire? Are they not men of progress, these showmen, whose every trick is copied and appropriated in our great administrations?
In a word, are they not the pioneers of civilization and comfort?
Then why do they appear forsaken? Because they exist only as individuals; because they considered it impossible to obtain cohesion amongst themselves; because, in short, they regarded the creation of a great association as impracticable. The generous assistance of M. Bidel has proved adequate to lead this important phalange. Resolutely placing himself at the head of his profession, he said:
“Union is possible; let us unite!”
Now, the Union mutuelle, which was only founded on the 29th April, 1887, is settled in fine offices in the Rue de Châteaudun. The association is rich. Its members have the right to apply to the superannuation fund at the age of fifty if they have belonged to it for ten years. M. Bidel looks forward to the day when, in order to invest their funds, these restless wanderers over the highways of the world will buy some “house property” in Paris. The Union mutuelle will have tenants of its own. The showmen will be estate owners in Paris. And this hope, which will be realized in a short time, gives the greatest delight to M. Bidel and his colleagues, particularly when they recall the modest origin of the association, the meetings held at the Gobelins, in the menagerie even, where the voices of the orators were drowned at intervals by the roaring of the wild beasts. Every month the Union mutuelle holds a plenary meeting, at which the managers submit their accounts to the members. Every Wednesday the managing committee meets to settle the business of the week.
CHADWICK.
The correspondence is voluminous. Every provincial member of the society who has had to apply to a local [p028] mayor for a license, or to obtain justice, addresses himself to the managing committee to solicit its support, and in this way the showman commands the satisfaction of his claim, which might otherwise have been refused. The interest which the Union mutuelle takes in his affairs is the highest recommendation he can have; for it is well known that no one can belong to the society unless his judicial record is perfectly clear. One may learn many curious things by reading the Voyageur forain and the Union mutuelle. No one suspects, for instance, that the order of the fairs is [p029] organized in an almost unvarying routine, that has existed for many centuries, and that it is arranged so as to diminish as much as possible the expenses of travelling for the showmen.
In each number of the newspaper you will find the following intelligence—Indicateur des Foires du Mois (Guide to the Fairs held this Month). Then follows an alphabetical list of the departments, with all the items of useful information quoted in this way:—
Ain.—1 day: the 2nd, Trévouz, pop. 2,635; the 7th, Marboz, pop. 2,556; the 13th, Bagé-le-Châtel, pop. 727; the 18th, Montreval, pop. 1,475.
2 days: the 22nd, Lagnieu.
Another department, the Review of Fairs and Fêtes, gives exact information to the subscribers of the paper respecting the chances of a good sale, and the disadvantages of a useless removal. The following account of the fair at Sigean is a specimen of these articles:—
“THE FAIR AT SIGEAN (November 6th).
“A small town, 21 kilomètres from Narbonne by road (a railway to La Nouvelle, 4 kilometres). Business has been extremely bad here, owing to the unlucky weather and the total ruin of the country. A few years ago this was one of the most popular fairs amongst showmen, for the inhabitants are fond of amusement and most sympathetic towards strangers. Space is exceedingly dear, the price being fixed by the municipality at 25 centimes the square mètre per diem. It is true that some reductions are granted on this price, but it is still much too high.
“The following establishments were present: M. Bétriou, Museum of Progress, and M. Bracco, theatre of performing seals, Place de la Mairie. In the Rue de Perpignan; Lemaître, mechanical museum; two rifle-saloons; Cloffulia, decapitation; Mercadier, roundabout; a bear-fight; Gras Chognon, panorama; lottery bazaars, massacres, and above all, gambling booths, which enjoy great liberty here, if they can pay well. We saw one roulette-table which paid 200 frs. for two days, and others in the cafés which paid the [p030] landlord 400 frs. for a single table. This is to be regretted—for such toleration to gambling is the ruin of all good and honest showmen.”
These papers also contain carefully edited accounts of foreign fairs, such as the following letter sent to the Voyageur forain from Karkhoff (Russia):—
“Those of our comrades who do not suffer from cold in the eyes, and are not afraid of being frozen, could try their luck at Karkhoff, where it is only 17 degrees below zero, with 70 centimètres of snow; our friend and correspondent gives us some interesting details about the customs of the showmen and people in Russia: thus in most of the cities it is not unusual to see several shows installed in one booth; for instance, a complete museum of anatomical figures and groups, a panorama, monkeys, crocodiles, giants, dwarfs, and armless women, all shown for 20 kopecks, or fivepence, children and soldiers half-price; no allusion is made to the nurses, or to the treating propensities of Russian soldiers in love.
“These booths remain in the same town for two or three months at a time; this year an exhibition was held at Karkhoff, which preceded the fair, and lasted a fortnight; it consisted of a large museum, a glass-spinner, a large circus, a fine menagerie, a monkey theatre, and an aquarium, besides the town [p031] theatre; and all these entertainments were established in a city which only contains 20,000 inhabitants, that is to say, there were too many attractions for so few people, and no one made any profits; the lower classes are not worth counting, they devote themselves to the consumption of brandy which brutalizes them; and only the nobility, the middle classes and the Jews, who are rather bad than good, can be relied upon. It is impossible to open anything before noon on Sundays or Thursdays and, we might add, that the Russian public is utterly blasé, for it has seen nearly every variety of attraction. Still, it is very fond of marionettes, and the owner of a puppet-theatre, willing to risk a journey in this country, would soon make his fortune; rents are very dear but living is cheap, with the exception of wine.”
The third page of both the Union mutuelle and the Voyageur forain is filled with advertisements. As usual, these columns are particularly amusing. I need scarcely explain that the following cuttings have been made almost at hazard, and that I have not altered one word of them:— [p032]
M. MENGAL.
UNRIVALLED OPPORTUNITY.
For sale (on account of family arrangements) a Large Theatre of Performing Monkeys and Learned Dogs, with a Miniature Circus, consisting of a Perfectly New Tent, 28 mètres by 11 m. 40 c.; Chairs and Benches for 800 People, provided with carpets of good quality, the interior well lined with very good carpets, the ceiling of good canvas, the scenery oil-painted and richly decorated; for the outside there is a pretty frontage with a show gallery, ornamented with pictures. The whole has only been in use for one year, and has been well taken care of; in short, it is all new.—5 Vans (or without vans), 1 caravan, 1 van for monkeys, also contains a kitchen; 1 waggon carrying 10,000 kilog., 1 car carrying 15,000 kilog., 1 van for elephants, horses, goats, sheep, dogs, and other animals.—1 Elephant (usual tricks) rides on a velocipede, is worth 15,000 frs.; 6 Well-trained Dwarf-Ponies; 4 Sheep (a performance never yet shown); 15 Monkeys and 12 Dogs, equally well trained.—All these animals are trained and guaranteed, and the purchaser can be taught how to make them perform in a fortnight.—The proprietor of this important establishment is engaged for the winter season in Vienna (Austria).—Orpheum. The whole will be sold for 40,000 frs. [p033]
On the manufacturers’ side:—
FOR SALE an Establishment for Fried Potatoes, entirely new; glass frontage, 8 mètres; depth, 6 mètres; 8 boxes, with a beautiful Belgian stove with 4 frying-holes; 4 saucepans; a cutting machine; gaufre irons; fritter moulds; beer till, &c., &c. The booth is all in panels, with planks, waggon, caravan, and a second caravan 5 mètres long, containing two rooms; advantageous terms, with or without carriages. Address to the office of this newspaper.
FOR SALE a Sweetmeat Business, founded in 1848, well known on the road, possessing an excellent connection. Price 12,000 frs., 10,000 to be paid, and easy terms for the remainder. Business: 35,000 frs. per annum. 156–3906.
Subjects for tamers:
FOR SALE a very large Lioness from the Atlas, 4 years old, works well and is very gentle; Lioness, of the same race, 20 months old, very gentle; Leopard, Panther, Ocelot, White Bears from Canada, Russia, and Malay; large African Monkeys, Baboon, Red-backed Pavion, Monk, Pelicans for shows. Moderate prices.
Lastly in the series of monstrosities:—
FOR SALE ON ACCOUNT OF HEALTH, magnificent opportunity, a superb phenomena of remarkable beauty, elegant, clean, very gentle, at liberty, admired by the whole world. The booth is also very elegant. The whole to be sold on advantageous terms. 87–3290.
The fourth page is filled with advertisements of manufactures—of barrel organs, petroleum lamps, awnings, roundabouts, decorated capitals for riding schools and booths; of glass and china, Chinese umbrellas, and waterproof canvas; of skies, curtains, harness, nose-bags, hobby-horses, mermaids, cars, biscuits, gaufres, sugar-sticks, sweetmeats: of everything that makes a noise, shines or sparkles; that swings or turns; that can be eaten or produces a great effect. And as usual these advertisements amuse us, for we outsiders cannot bring ourselves to look upon those industries which tend [p034] only to procure objects of amusement for us, in any serious light.
AGOUST.
Manager of the Nouveau Cirque.
Most of these articles are manufactured in Germany. The oldest manufactory of roundabouts of wooden horses is in Moblitz in Saxe-Weimar, another is in Thuringia. Still, there are a few French manufacturers in the field, and their productions, although a little dearer than the German ones, are much appreciated by showmen, for the good taste which distinguishes them. M. D———, de Vic Bigorre, (Hautes Pyrénées,) a celebrated curtain and scene-painter, is one of these artists. The following notice is added to all his advertisements—
“Note.—Himself a child of the fair, M. D——— is well acquainted with the necessities and style of picture required by each individual, and by this title, he recommends his work to all the children of the banque.” [p035]
Another is a specialist for the vans used for carrying plant, dentists’ cars, breaks for driving parties, caravans, &c.
I saw one of these model caravans at the Fair du Trône; it contained dining and drawing-rooms, a bedroom and servant’s room. Through the open window of the drawing-room, I heard the refrain of one of Métra’s waltzes. I went nearer and saw that the musician was a charming young girl, wearing a plush dressing-gown, conscientiously practising the piano.
I leave you with this vision of middle-class prosperity. I hope it will correct, as far as may be, the very false ideas which hitherto you may have cherished about banquistes and their wandering lives.
M. NAEL SALSBURY.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Grande banque is a general term for large shows and theatres in a fair.
Petite banque is used for small shows, such as “fatma,” giants, &c.
Banquistes includes all persons showing or performing on a fair ground, circus, or variety entertainment.
I am indebted to Mr. John Holden, the owner of the popular Palais des Fantocche, for these definitions: there do not appear to be any equivalent words in English slang.—Note by the Translator.
[2] Forain is the cant word used for all merchants with their wares who sell in fairs, but it is also applied generally to all owners of travelling shows and amusements. See Chapter II., page 37.
[p037]
CHAPTER II. THE FAIR.
Fashion, which regulates our amusements, has decreed for some years past, that when at Easter time we direct our steps to the Fair du Trône, our little excursion is quite “the correct thing.” The faubourgs and suburbs no longer enjoy the monopoly of the fun collected at the foot of the two columns, the caps of the swells from Vincennes, and the hair-nets of the Cytherean bataillon from Montreuil-sous-Bois are no longer the sole head-dresses visible. The Gingerbread Fair has its reserved days like the Opera and the Comédie, and on Tuesdays and Fridays the largest profits [p038] are made. Really, if you strolled in that direction about five o’clock on one of these select afternoons, you would be surprised to see the long line of carriages standing in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and the Boulevard Voltaire. For every three cabs, in which a party of students are enjoying themselves in somewhat noisy fashion with their little companions, you will find one gentleman’s carriage with servants in livery, or, at least, a hired victoria occupied by women in over-smart dresses, who are making their annual excursion to the fair, accompanied by the “mashers” of the year. It is curious to watch these society people when they visit this populous district which they have never seen except through the windows of mourning carriages on the road to Père la Chaise, or on the eve of a capital execution, lighted by the windows of the small taverns in a cruel bustle of festivity. Secretly, they feel a little uneasy. The too demonstrative enjoyment, the cries, shouts and songs, the incessant rattle from the rifle saloons, the explosion of fireworks, the pushing crowd struggling round the stages of the various booths, from which the showman harangues the crowd, recall, in spite of themselves, memories of civil war and the barricades, and produce a gentle shiver—that shiver which steals down the spine in front of a wild beast cage, if the thought occurs to one that the iron bars might give way, and the lion in his fury be free to rush upon the spectators . . . . . . But in itself, this secret, indefinable misgiving is rather pleasant, and it is certain that this semi-dread forms half the pleasure which many pretty women feel in venturing amongst the crowd and exposing themselves to a somewhat rough hustling from the people.
However, when we emerge from the shadows of the [p039] boulevard and faubourg into the brilliantly lighted square, timid hearts regain courage, and we at once catch the infection of the gaiety surrounding us. Every one is come for amusement and intends to get it. We see all the [p040] monstrosities, all the beautiful Circassians, consult all the somnambulists, and visit all the booths, make excursions in the switchback railway and take the traditional turn on the roundabouts, filling up the intervals by breaking pipes, slaughtering marionettes with balls, and throwing the hammer at the Turk’s head. And then the late drive back to dinner in the cool evening air, the slow recovery from the effects of so much laughter as we roll towards the Boulevards, with paper roses in our button-holes, the carriage filled with gingerbread from Rheims, comic figures, symbolic animals, and effigies of Saint Remo with mitre and crosier, which resemble primitive bas-reliefs in old oak torn from the stalls of a church choir.
I also make an annual visit to the Gingerbread fair, but not as a lounger who follows wherever the crowd leads him. I am accompanied to the Champ du Trône by the best of guides, one of the most brilliant correspondents of the Voyageur forain to which I referred just now—M. Philippe, the editor of the Tir de la Republique.
M. Philippe was formerly a sailor; and has retained from his sojourn on the men-of-war the naval cut of his beard, and the cap which he wore during the expedition which he made to the North, when he saluted the Pole in the neighbourhood of the Behring Sea. This retired sailor is a very intelligent man, of a stamp which only flourishes in the atmosphere of Paris; a gunsmith by profession, the vicissitudes of existence and a taste for adventure have made him, as a last expedient, a showman’s journalist.
THE SHOW.
To ensure this excursion passing off with due success, it is always preceded by a short conference held between two glasses of beer, in which, elbows on table, my guide gravely [p041] reminds me, that I must be careful to remember the distinction that exists between the forain and the banquiste, the grande and the petite banques.
A forain is technically a merchant, or the owner of a game. The sweetmeat-maker who, surrounded by a circle of admiring children, rolls serpentine rings of paste round a flexible wand laden with little bells is a forain, so is the fritter merchant; the same term describes the rich agent of the manufacturers of Rheims and Dijon, who travel round the world carrying with them the best brands of gingerbread. The celebrated M. Exaltier, the director of the American Galleries, is also a forain; by the ingenuity of his inventions he has revived the public interest in panoramas. The same term describes the clever M. Chable, the manufacturer of the finest hygienic horses that have ever been [p042] seen, splendid animals made of varnished poplar wood, stout as a Flemish mare, which cost him two hundred francs each.
“They were dearer than if they were alive,” cheerfully repeats M. Chable, caressing his steeds, “but I save it in the food.”
The post-master of hygienic horses is an important personage in the forain world, and so is also the proprietor of the “Crystal Palace,” the most luxurious roundabout of hobby-horses at present in the Fair du Trône or anywhere else. His tent contains no less than two organs; one of them cost him 5,000 fr., the other 12,000 fr. His daily expenses amount to eighty francs for his establishment; but a fine Sunday doubles his receipts in a marvellous way, and the “Crystal Palace,” when all the three sous a ride have been counted up, often makes a thousand francs in one day.
All the keepers of billiard-tables, the owners of wheels of fortune or lotteries, are forains. A complete and most curious book might be written on the fraudulent games of chance which swarm in a fair, in spite of the vigilance of the police. I shall write one some day when M. Carrabilliat, one of the most intelligent and most respected members of the syndicate, has completed my education. To begin with, he explained to me the mechanism of his race game, an amusement which, although forbidden for a time, is now permitted in the fair since the owners have proved the impossibility of tampering with the small horses or of preventing the slight bars upon which they move from turning freely round the course. The good-natured public more than suspects some tricks. It knows by experience that the rabbit is never won at the first shot, and that no one within [p043] the memory of man has ever carried off the clock with its glass shade. This fact does not prevent it from paying its pennies to the owner of the wheel of fortune, or check its eager competition with chance as a partner, for the possession of a little glass chandelier. Here, as at Monaco, you will find the gambler who gets excited and ruins himself—alas! the poor fellow loses all self-restraint if the bystanders gather round him, watching and discussing his luck!
[p044]
I, who know all the secrets of the fair, would charitably whisper to the imprudent gambler that there are always some accomplices in cant—“stallsmen”—amongst the lookers-on. These individuals are particularly addicted to loitering near the rifle saloons, and the games which require strength and skill. They it is who whisper at your back—
“Well shouldered! a little too low! What a pity! It would have broken the egg. Stop, Arthur, perhaps the gentleman will try again.”
The “gentleman” feels flattered, takes some silver from his pocket, and with an innocent air the proprietor of the saloon pours twelve caps into his hand.
The rifle-shooting, the hammers, and the rings are all manly sports. Ladies prefer the hobby-horses and the swinging-boats. You know what perfection has been attained in this last amusement for the gratification of those who, like Hippocrates, believe in the utility of spring remedies. They clear the system. From this point of view the new swinging-boats are serious rivals to all quack medicines. Those who have not travelled round the world can enjoy in these cars all the spasms of sea-sickness and every variety of giddiness. In these respects the old system gave full satisfaction to many worthy people; but it appears that, compared with the new fashion, like the apparatus in the Rue Basse du Rempart, the old swings were mere child’s play. Some travellers descend from this invention in much the same state as the wolf which Baron Munchausen turned inside out like a glove! Where will progress stop? But progress is very inconsiderate when it attempts to substitute velocipedes and wild beasts for the old hobby-horses. Have [p045] the inventors of these machines never spent one quarter of an hour in front of the old roundabouts? Have they never noticed the defiant, haughty glance which the young shopmen and little milliners throw at you as they pass in the course of their revolutions?
Those people are in a dream. For one whole minute they [p046] imagine themselves in a higher sphere, riding in couples through the woods. Intoxicated by the revolving motion which, through the necessary bend of the body nails them to the saddle, they feel like accomplished riders, incomparable horsewomen. Watch them there, ye pioneers of a mistaken progress, who have not taken the instincts of the heart into your calculation and cannot, therefore, understand the philosophy of hobby-horses! A little attention will yet avert the failure which threatens your riding-schools of velocipedes and carnivorous animals.
But these are all noisy amusements which the society people avoid. Do you remember, my dear friend, the drive we took outside the shows and bands, one fine Easter-Tuesday, brilliant with sunshine? You dared not leave your brougham, [p047] you were so alarmed at the hoarse roar of the crowd, the explosion of crackers, the shrieks of the women in the swings. Still you had one great desire that you would not own to me, half dreading a reproof, a wish evoked by a most appetizing odour which made your nostrils dilate.
“I am sure you are longing for some fried potatoes,” I cried triumphantly at last.
Ah! who would ever forget the glance with which your eyes rewarded me for guessing your fancy!
And, much to the disdain of your English coachman and footman, both sitting so correctly on the box, I fetched you some beautiful hot potatoes nicely powdered with salt. And in your satin-lined coupé, touching them daintily with the ends of your lavender-gloved fingers, one by one, you ate them, seasoned with merry laughter.
“Oh, Time, arrest thy flight!” . . . . .
Five o’clock struck: it was the last effort of the fair before [p048] the neighbourhood commenced the evening meal. The clowns joked and shouted louder than usual; the rattles, gongs, pipes, drums, speaking-trumpets, barrel-organs, and whistles of the steam-engines all sounded together in a final tremendous discord. Through the clamour, the crowd, eddying like a stream, ascended the Avenue de Vincennes, going towards the columns erected on the spot where the fire took place.
Between them, the disk of the setting sun was shining like the Pyx upon an altar. And as it suddenly disappeared behind the hill, a cry rose in the air, stifled, agonizing, which threw you trembling upon my shoulder—a cry which pierced above all the clamour of machinery and men—the captive lion’s farewell to the darkened sun!
It is a great mistake to imagine that all fairs are alike. Each of them, although composed of the same booths, assumes such a different character from the locality where it is installed and the people who frequent it, that any one interested in such matters, like myself, could easily make a bet, that carried blindfolded into the midst of any local festival, when his eyes were uncovered, he could at the first glance distinguish which fair was being celebrated. And he could tell, simply through seeing the visitors, who thronged it, and by inspecting the stalls.
Look, for instance, at the old fair held at Versailles, the fair of Saint Louis, which, annually, in the heart of August, placards on the doors of the railway stations, between the lists of circular excursions and the advertisements of summer pleasures, long descriptions of its attractions: water-jousts, fanfares of horns sounded through the alleys of the park, display of fountains in the Neptune basin, shows accompanied [p049] by big drums, the music of the roundabouts, the gaiety of the little booths, side by side with the great empty palace. Is it through the immense width of the alleys that the noise of the bands seems scattered and lost? Or can it be a secret dread of disturbing the king’s slumbers, which still haunts all these small folk, and causes them to subdue the rough music of their orchestras?
Surrounded by barriers, this agglomeration of diminutive white shops resembles a flock of timid sheep huddling close together, not venturing to ring their bells too loudly through fear of the wolf. Here, too, are stalls of rosaries, holy-water vases, and crucifixes, recalling the sacred origin of the fair.
No doubt you will recognize the same faces that you have [p050] seen everywhere else; the same brightly painted caravans, with small muslin curtains in the windows; the same gaufre-seller, mixing the same paste, in the same moulds, with the same gesticulations; and lastly the same horrible trumpery, utterly devoid of any originality: blue-eyed dolls, miniature Zouaves, sixpenny knives, imitation tortoise-shell frames, rabbits playing the drum, reed pipes, and brass trumpets. No one knows why workmen are so entirely bereft of imagination or self-respect as to persevere in the manufacture of these inferior toys for at least a hundred years; yet these “fairings” travel all over the world. You will find them in Algiers as soon as you land; on the threshold of Asia, at Constantinople, shops full of this rubbish are installed side by side with bazaars for Turkish carpets; the ships which bring from Japan the delicious knicknacks which fill our houses, [p051] return to the far East laden with cargoes of plush frames and rabbits playing drums.
But the idiosyncrasy which distinguishes Versailles and its neighbourhood, the chosen retreat of literary men and elderly magistrates, is the presence of the dealer in old books who annually attends this fair. From a little distance the reddish-brown covers of his wares resemble gingerbread paving-stones. Men in spectacles bend lovingly over the stall, the scent of mouldy leather gently tickling their nostrils.
And every year there is one stall at which a woman sells false hair by the pound. Hanging round like horses’ tails, side by side, these poor tresses, collected from the gutter and the hospital, produce a tragic effect. One anxiously wonders where all these dull-looking plaits come from; who will wear them next? One day I lingered about for some time, waiting to see if a customer would appear.
At last a woman drew near.—Ageless, in mourning, basket in hand, unclassable; yet evidently not a happy woman. At first she dared not pause, then she regained courage.
“How much is that?”
“Five francs.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“It is too fair for me. Can you see what I want?” And she raised her veil from her face.
At length she passed on without buying. There was nothing grey enough for her.
The fair at Versailles is a provincial fair, a fair patronized by grandfathers and grandchildren, nursemaids and soldiers.
The typical Parisian fair, the chic fair, is held at Neuilly.
In April, when the Avenue de Vincennes, the Boulevard [p052] Voltaire, and the Faubourg Saint Antoine are decorated with rows of white stalls, the cold winter wind still sweeps over the earth, rushes through the wide streets, carrying with it clouds of dust, blusters through the fair, filling the canvas of the booths like sails on the sea, powdering the gingerbread stalls as it passes; then in rough leaps, as though driven by a whip, forms dusty columns in the air, and rising several feet above the ground triumphantly waves the flags above the booths and roundabouts.
It makes the evenings too chilly for sauntering about, hands in pocket, under the illuminations produced by the waving [p053] lanterns and the flickering gaslights! one feels too cold to care for amusement or refreshments. And therefore when after dinner the frequenters of the cafés on the boulevards hail the club coupés, they never dream, as the door is closed on the still wintry toilettes of their companions, of saying to the coachman, “To the Fair du Trône.”
They turn to the concerts and the circus. There is too much chilly darkness, too long a drive through the deserted boulevards, between the dinner and the suburban fête. The exhilaration produced by champagne and laughter would die on the way.
Neuilly is the evening fair. It opens in the heart of summer, [p054] in the full tide of that excessive heat which renders the drawing-room and theatre equally unbearable to those Parisians who wait for the month of August before they go to the sea, and who live in tea-gowns, fan in hand, sipping ices and lemons, behind their closed Venetian shutters. Like passengers in the tropics, who watch for the setting sun before they go on deck, these pretty women reclining in their bamboo chairs, impatiently follow the course of the clock-hands, so slowly travelling towards five o’clock. At that hour they get up, and in the semi-light of the dressing-room, with lowered blinds and wide-open windows, they leisurely array themselves in fresh and scented toilettes. They are going to dine in the open air, on the terrace of some restaurant in the Bois. Capes and mantles are too heavy during this month, and a young woman can go out without any wrap hiding her charming dress; she only carries a small shawl and one of those parasols, which, itself brilliant as a flower, enhances the effect of the whole toilette and, whilst intercepting the sun’s rays, throws most becoming shadows on the face.
Then about six o’clock, at the doors of the Ministries and all along the Quai d’Orsay, a line of light, open carriages may be seen, in which young women have come to fetch husband or lover, soothing their impatience for the hour of freedom by noting the admiring glances of the passers-by. And when at last the lingerers appear in grey hat, white waistcoat, short coat and smart buttonhole, the couples lounging back in their carriages, drive through the Avenue des Champs Elysées, towards the summer restaurants and the shade of the Bois. The Pavillon d’Armenonville reaps the greatest [p055] advantages from the vicinity of the fair. The orchestra of the Tzigane Rigo, hidden in the gardens of the pavillon, first attracts the notice of the passers-by; they draw near, lean over the hedge, and look in to see if any one is seated at the little tables.
“See, there is so-and-so, and so-and-so, C——— and B———.” Political and literary men, artists, financiers, women of both worlds, the recognized and the unrecognized, the Luxembourg, the Palais Bourbon, the theatre, the newspapers, the drawing-room, and boudoirs. The guests seat themselves under the verandah, to watch the carriages drive up. The table-napkins are dazzling in their snowy whiteness against the green leafy trees, the ice melts in the silver bowls, and the freshly cut cucumbers resemble aquatic leaves, torn from the pond of [p056] water lilies, which we only glimpse at through the hanging branches of the willows.
Hours pass pleasantly, languidly, in this festive scene. The Rakoczy March, the Stephanie Gavotte, give a tinge of gallantry and love to the reverie into which we fall, daydreams vague as the outlines of the landscape before us.
And the spell lasts, until suddenly, lights, which are not reflected from the stars, appear mirrored in the waters of the tiny lake. They shine from the red lamps of the victorias now being lighted.
Night has fallen.
It is time to go to the fair.
[p057]
CHAPTER III. 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.
“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.
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:
“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.
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.
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 31½ 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.
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,