I am sure, good people, that you would picture to yourselves a Bidel ending his life in a room encumbered with the spoils of the lion of Nemæa and Indian tigers. But you are far from the truth. Do you not know that an ironical law governs all the wishes of man, the wishes of lion-tamers as well as our own? It is called the law of contrasts. In virtue of this rule M. François Bidel has furnished his drawing-room in the purest Louis XV., and the ceiling, panels, and seats are covered with pastoral designs of shepherds; idylls and love flourish in all the four corners of the pretty room.
Mdlle. Bidel’s piano is the sole object bearing a different date.
Perhaps you may have seen this charming young girl with her mother in the ticket office on the day of some great performance. She has just enough romanichel blood in her [p146] veins to give a slightly exotic brilliancy to her brunette beauty. Naturally, this pretty girl is an heiress. Her education and accomplishments are perfect, and she has passed her examinations at the Hôtel de Ville.
“Of course our daughter has no intention of teaching,” Madame Bidel observed to me casually, “but her success was a satisfaction for her father.”
All this comfort and luxury have not been won without some dangerous encounters with the lions. Bidel, like Pezon, has passed under the mill of their claws, and they can both show the scars of serious wounds to those sceptics who may be inclined to deny the risk of their performances.
A number of chimerical stories are current about the lion-tamer’s secret. Here is one of them: that it is usual to mix narcotics with the animals’ food, or even to teach them those bad habits which led the celebrated Charlot to a premature death.
The truth is that a certain number—a very small percentage—of the wild beasts in a menagerie are considerably stupefied. Guy de Maupassant told me that in Rouen a tamer having lost his keeper, engaged a willing man from the port, to whom he confided the duty of cleaning the cages. On the morrow, when he went into the menagerie, the master paused aghast. His new servant had quietly entered the cage as though it were a stall, and was giving the lion some heavy blows with his broom handle to clean between his paws.
At the Folies Bergère a lioness was at one time exhibited by Colonel Bone, who was taking her round the world. This animal was so savage that it was necessary to chain her into [p147] the cage with an iron collar. When the colonel merely passed near the den she would fling herself against the bars with such fury that the whole car trembled. But one day one of the managers of the theatre was inspecting the side scenes and witnessed the following incident: the colonel’s servant was installed in the cage, quietly painting a background of savannah on a canvas stretched over the floor. The lioness was unchained and watched him as a dog watches a fisherman, stealthily licking the green paint from time to time; the result being an attack of colic which nearly sent her to roar in another world.
I, who now address you, have entered a black-maned lion’s cage quite recently. Oh! do not exclaim at my heroism. A great many people have visited this captive king of the desert; first, Tartarin, then all the Marseillais, then Mademoiselle Roselia Rousseil, who on a similar occasion dedicated a poem to Bidel, entitled, La Mort du Lion, ou le Dompteur [p148] par Amour (The Lion’s Death; or, The Tamer by Love), which commenced with these lines:
C’est un vaillant dompteur, jamais il ne recule.
Son corps semble pétri par les dieux; l’on croit voir
La grâce d’Apollon dans la force d’Hercule.
Pour moi, j’aime surtout son grand œil doux si noir.7
I did not visit the lion in order to write verses to him. I merely wished to be introduced to him because I knew that I should have to mention him to you. It was a scruple of professional honesty on my part.
Here is a true account of the interview without any embellishment.
The lion-tamer, with whom I had a short previous conference, answered for the safety of the attempt.
“You must wait,” he said, “in the entrance to the door until I call you.”
He then entered the cage in a familiar way, and as the lion was asleep, he pulled it by the ears. When the beast, who at first grumbled a little, was sitting up and seemed composed again, my companion called to me:
“Come in, now!”
I went in cautiously at the back, taking two steps forward, so that I might still be nearer to the door than to the lion. I must own that the desert king did not honour me by even turning his head. He was talking to his tamer. The two gentlemen left me standing, and I looked rather like a bootmaker waiting for orders from a nobleman. [p149]
Man is a coward. The lion’s contempt gave me courage. I advanced a step so that I could touch the leg of the beast.
“Oh!” I said, “how silky it is!”
It was not silky at all, it was abominably harsh.
Since then I have reflected upon the feeling which could have induced me to utter this falsehood, and the result of this self-examination is so humiliating that I will confide it [p150] to you as a penance. In fact “how silky it is” was prompted by an instinct of base flattery—a courtier’s compliment—the toadyism of a coward who felt himself nearer to the lion than to the door.
The boldest individuals, who put their heads two or three times a day into the lion’s mouth, have told me that the best way to withdraw it from the gulf is, first of all, not to open the acquaintanceship with this experiment; and, secondly, to perform it with great nerve.
Nerve, that is the great secret of the lion-tamer, the sole cause of his authority over his beasts. When he has studied a subject for some time, endeavouring to master its character—and amongst the higher animals the character is very individual, very accentuated—one morning the man quietly walks into the cage. He must astonish the beast and over-awe him at once. As to the training, it consists—and here I quote the words of an expert in such matters—in commanding the lion to perform the exercises which please him; that is to say, to make him execute from fear of the whip those leaps which he would naturally take in his wild state.
There is one fact which no one would suspect—that it is easier to train an adult lion taken in a snare than an animal born in a menagerie. The lion of the booth is in the same position as sporting dogs which play much with children; they are soon spoilt for work. Pezon possesses five or six lions which he has brought up by hand. As a rule they live with the staff of the menagerie on terms of perfect familiarity, but this frequently leads to tragic accidents. [p151]
Lions, even lions in a fair, will devour a man in fine style.
Can I say that the fear of such an accident is ever sufficiently strong to make me pause on the threshold of a menagerie? No. I cherish, and, like me, you also cherish, the hope that some day perhaps we may see a lion-tamer eaten. This contingency sometimes occurs, in fact more often than is usually supposed. For instance, without leaving the Pezon menagerie, it is not a year since the proprietor narrowly escaped being devoured by his bear Groom at Chalons-sur-Marne. He would have perished if his son Adrian Pezon had not thrown himself, sabre in hand, between the two combatants and killed the bear on the spot.8
This act of heroism has been celebrated by the poet Constant Robert in some remarkable Alexandrines, which deserve to be handed down to posterity:— [p152]
L’assistance appelait au secours, et l’horreur
Qui s’empara soudain de chaque spectateur
Ne saurait se décrire! On était dans l’attente,
Sans pouvoir l’éviter, d’une mort imminente!
Lorsqu’au moment critique, intrépide, haletant,
Un lion apparaît sous les traits d’un enfant!
Son fils et son élève! . . . Adrien! Oui, lui-même!9
As to Bidel, every one recollects that in July, 1886, at the fair de Neuilly, a lion mangled all one side of his neck.
Two of my friends were amongst the spectators of this duel—the painter, Edouard Detaille, and my dear comrade Paul Hervieu.
When Detaille reached home, on the same evening, he made a rapid sketch of the conflict between the man and the lion whilst the impression was still fresh in his memory. He has kindly authorized me to reproduce it here. The effect is of a cat playing with a bird. Bidel’s coat was torn into fine shreds by the scratching of the claws from the collar to the waist, showing the flesh underneath. On his side, Paul Hervieu was good enough to send me the valuable notes which you are about to read. He addressed them to me in the form of a letter, which has been published in the Monde Illustre.
“The accident took place on one evening in July, 1886, at the Neuilly fair. The weather was heavy and stormy, and the lion-tamer had one foot bandaged for gout.
[p153]
“However, the performance was nearly over, and it seemed as though everything would soon be safely ended, in spite of the unusually refractory voice and attitudes of Sultan, a fine dark-maned lion (for the lionesses, although I believe they are all blonde like Eve, can choose between dark-or light-coloured manes amongst their large-headed lords).
“Suddenly Bidel fell, having caught himself in his blunt two-pronged iron spear, and in some way tripped over it. Every one present uttered a brief cry. Then, a deadly silence fell upon the huge tent—a silence so intense that the hissing of the gas-lights could be heard.
“I shall never forget the man’s face at the moment he lost his balance. I still see his starting eyes, the white balls vividly contrasting with his features, congested by gout and by his previous efforts. It was the expression of one who feels that he is lost, who is sinking into an abyss. Now the tamer was lying upon the floor of the cage like an inert mass, without a gesture or a cry for help. He never attempted to raise himself, probably through some tactic dictated by his experience, but apparently he had the time to do it in, for the lion still remained crouched a few yards away.
“Perhaps, my dear Le Roux, you have some wish that I should define the nature of the emotion which seizes an eye-witness under these circumstances? This emotion is certainly multiform. Thus, for my own part, you may feel sure that I was distressed, horrified—that I regretted being present on that fatal evening. . . . On the other hand, if you do not object, I will tell you that I was accompanied by a friend, a kind of inseparable, who is very curious about rare sensations.
“Now this friend has since confessed to me that whilst the lion remained immovable he was conscious of one idea . . . . how can I express it? . . . . In short, it was like a ferocious wish that something unexpected should happen, like a monstrous impatience. . . . .
“And, in excuse for my friend, I try to convince myself that he was not alone in feeling an abominable and vague desire; to me it seemed to have imprinted a fugitive expression upon all the blanched faces that rise before me even now: for instance, that of a small, freckled, red-haired woman [p154] clinging to her husband’s arm, who gnawed her lower lip and mercilessly climbed upon my feet—mercilessly, at all events, for my feet.
“At last the lion raised himself upon his four paws, and without advancing, gazed at his inert master with extreme distrust of the mass armed with a whip, ‘who was saying nothing worth hearing.’ One second passed in this way, or one century, I could not be sure which. Then Sultan made, towards what he began to consider a possible prey, two small furtive steps . . . . two cat-like steps, prudent and stealthy . . . . and again, two little steps. Then he laid one of his heavy paws upon his tamer’s shoulder, still not maliciously, rather as a caution, as we should place one hand upon a sheet of paper in danger of blowing away.
“In thus interpreting the ideas passing ‘through the darkness a lion has for soul,’ to quote a line from Victor Hugo, I have at least the satisfaction of knowing that my impressions harmonize with the picture that Edouard Detaille seized with the eye of a great painter.
“But oh, my dear Hugues Le Roux, no pencil of the illustrious artist can depict, all the resources of the pen are powerless to describe, the frightful tumult which, in the hitherto silent theatre, greeted this first act after the gloomy prologue—an infernal din, the noise of falling chairs, of shouts, of screams! . . . .
“If I ventured to write an essay on the physiology of modern wild beasts [p155] in the course of the reflections which I should be forced to devote to the accidents of the show, I should not fail to mention these axioms:—
“1. A female spectator never faints until there is nothing more to see . . . .
“2. The audience in the second places is only waiting for an opportunity to rush into the first seats . . . .
“And, in fact, without a moment’s interval, all the barriers were scaled. Round the cage women were eagerly pushing men aside in their efforts to get a better view. And shrieks!—but the shrieks!
“When the clamour first arose Sultan turned his head towards the multitude, [p156] which he looked at with really sublime tranquillity for an amateur, as my friend pointed out to me. No doubt it was the vivid light and the movement of the crowd which made the lion wink—yes, his eyes twinkled. And in itself that gave a shadow of indulgence to his strength. But now he returned to his captive, tormenting, teasing, mumbling, rather than biting him. It was like the play of a pupil who emancipates himself, but is yet conscious of his fault. But then it was lion’s play! Sultan moved in small jumps, all four paws together, turning his hind quarters to the gallery, tossing his jaws, full of no one knew what . . . . perhaps a human head!
“Here I can guarantee, my dear Le Roux, that those who at first shared my friend’s infamous and fortunately indefinite wish, must, like him, have found themselves almost fainting before such a realization of carnage. . . . It was frightful and senseless. One felt scarcely alive, and no longer heard oneself howl. Suddenly the lion relinquished his prey and steadily watched the back of the cage, behind which he must have caught the sound of some noise only perceptible to a feline ear in the tumult of this bloody orgie. In the midst of the excitement the door was abruptly opened and two men appeared, presenting like bayonets two simple iron bars. [p157]
“When he saw them Sultan timidly drew back like a guilty schoolboy who has failed in respect towards his master, and who is recalled to his duty by the entrance of the monitors. He was already in retreat, backing into the neighbouring cage, spurred on by the vibrations of the partition which the men were handling.
“Already, too, Bidel had been raised, and his first energetic movement was to rush towards the lion, who, now separated from his enemy, watched him through the railing, rather jeeringly moving his head from right to left. A thunder of ‘Bravos’ and shouts of ‘Enough! enough!’ stopped the lion-tamer, who had one half of his neck laid open. From his forehead, just between the eyes, a red strip hung down. The linen showed everywhere beneath the holes in the cloth. The skin on his knees was bare, yet intact.
“After this scene, whilst the wounded man received the first dressing to his wounds in his travelling-van, the general attention was drawn towards Sultan, who had returned to the society of his comrade Nero, the blonde lion, who was languidly stretched out, digesting his daily rations of meat and blows. But the dark-haired lion did not lie down; he restlessly prowled up and down in suppressed excitement, his haughty nostrils sniffing the scent of blood in the air. His tail lashed his sides alternately. And each time that he passed Nero’s jaws, the latter soothingly licked a purple curdled spot, which the taster of human blood still retained upon one of his great toes.
“At this moment a harsh voice in the crowd murmured close to my ear—
“‘Moâ, j’étais pértisan du lione!’ (‘I was for the lion.’)
“Turning round, I found myself facing an emaciated being, tall as a pole, beardless, wrinkled, without any visible marks of age, and very dirty. In the nervous state in which I found myself, a superstitious influence at first led me to believe that I had met the Englishman who makes it his profession to follow lion-tamers about the world until there is not a joint of them left.
“But now I believe that the speaker had no connection with the legendary lord. And the lione of which he was pértisan must have been the most respectable acquaintance that he could hang on to. I have, in fact, met this individual again in the bookmakers’ corner of the racecourse at Longchamps, and this was his trade: imagine a start of six horses; he would go up to six greenhorns, and successively murmur in their ears, as quickly as possible, the name of a different winner to each man. After the race he went up to the individual whom luck had favoured and claimed a reward.
“Let us, then, my dear Hugues Le Roux, distrust all the new acquaintances we may meet, even under the patronage of a lion, and let us rely upon old friendships, such as I feel for you.
“Paul Hervieu.” [p158]
I have quoted, almost as it was written, this letter from an artist, who, like the lion possesses a good eye and velvet paws, first, because I felt sure that it would interest you deeply; secondly, because it delighted me; and thirdly, because it is a good proof that there was some danger in approaching the lion, whom I interviewed in his cage for your satisfaction. I do not wish to pose before you as a Tarasconese hero, but I do not wish either that you should take me for the pantaloon of Italian comedy.
He is a valiant tamer, he never recedes.
His shape combines the gods, in it one seems to see
Apollo’s divine grace, with the strength of Hercules.
But, above all, his soft, dark eyes, are dear to me.
[8] In this summer of 1889 another son, Edmond Pezon, has been twice injured by the lion Brutus.
[9] The audience screamed for help; the great terror Which seized the heart of every spectator No words can picture. Breathless all present wait, Helpless to rescue the man from impending fate, When, at the vital moment, fearless, yet panting, A lion appeared, in guise of a stripling, His son and his pupil! Yes, Adrian himself!
CHAPTER VII. EQUESTRIANS.
I retain amongst the recollections of my provincial childhood, the remembrance of an annual festival, in itself noisy and marvellous, and even now, when I close my eyes, I can recall the brightness of its lamps.
Every year, at Saint Michel, in the month when the clear heaven is spotted with kites, in one square of the old city, by the side of the paved road by which the Paris coaches formerly passed with sonorous smacking of the whip, a palace of new planks would rise in a few days as light as a house of cards. Enormous placards on every wall announced the arrival of a grand circus consisting of fifty horses and one hundred and fifty artists.
For some weeks beforehand our boyish hearts were seriously disturbed. Every day, after school-hours, with [p160] books under our arms, walking like truant schoolboys, we went to enjoy, through the half-open doors of the stables, the intoxicating smell of horses, blended with the scent of fresh sawdust and that perfume of musk which turns the brains of men. And then, peeping through the chinks between the badly fitting planks, we could watch, in the half light of the circus, the rehearsals of the beautiful equestrians for whom our youthful hearts were beating, as naïve and courageous as those of their own horses.
At last some fine morning the passers by would see on the placards the announcement of a gala performance. “The professors of the college and MM. the pupils of the Lycée will honour this entertainment by their presence.”
It was on one of these evenings, now almost twenty years ago, that I first saw and loved poor Émilie Loisset, before her success in Paris and Vienna, when she made her début in the haute école, and played in a pantomime disguised as Prince Charming, with her sister Clotilde, now an Hungarian princess. Her touching story has been related by Philippe Daryl in his charming novel La Petite Lambton. At that time Émilie was not more than eighteen years old, and she was the most charming creature in the world. Still her eyes and her face wore a curiously melancholy expression. I learnt afterwards that the most flattering success could never dispel the instinctive distrust of life, the romantic fancy for gloomy subjects which afterwards led her to take a house exactly opposite the little cemetery of Maisons-Laffitte.
She was buried in it two days after she had been carried from the circus mutilated and crushed by the fall of her horse, which, in refusing a jump, had fallen upon her. [p161]
Forgive me for opening this chapter by evoking the melancholy smile of one who is no more. But I owe this tribute to Émilie Loisset; for it is through her, that, as a child, I received the first revelation of the beauty of a woman on horseback, of the artistic union of the two most perfect curvilineal forms in creation—the horse adding height to the woman by the majesty of its stature, the woman daringly poised on the animal like a wing.
But long and serious work, both for the equestrian and the horse, has preceded this harmonious union. Although the woman and the animal have acquired the habit of conquering difficulties together, and have even attained perfect unison of will and obedience, yet they have each studied alone, slowly [p162] reaching that perfection, that confidence in their own powers, which produce the success of their alliance.
It is important that the various phases of this education should be defined at once. The studies of the equestrians of the haute école, the highest form of training for horse and rider, differ completely from those of the pad equestrian, whilst the lessons given to performing horses differ equally from those of the haute école.
France possesses the legendary trainer of performing horses, M. Loyal. For thirty-five years he has introduced his pupils to the public. M. Franconi possesses an old mare—la mère Tulipe—twenty-two years old, who was trained under his whip. Every year M. Loyal undertakes some new [p163] pupils, and enlarges the sphere of his conquests. He is so certain of his own pre-eminence that he takes no trouble to conceal his method. He has often invited me to his rehearsals, and I have met fellow-workers there who had gone, like myself, to learn from him. One day M. Loyal even gave one of us a short essay on the subject of his work, which has since been published.
The horse, in the opinion of the celebrated trainer, is one of the dullest animals created; it has but one faculty, memory. On this account it must be forced to learn its tricks by the aid of the curb and whip; they are imprinted in its memory by the whip if it resist, and by presents of carrots if it obey. On these terms every horse can be trained, but it is well understood that certain breeds, such as Arabian and German horses from Old Prussia, are easier to teach than any others, and also that the animal’s age is of great importance. It must not be either too young or too old; the best educations are given between five and seven years old. Before that age the horse is too excitable, too nervous; he gets confused. Later than that his muscles are not sufficiently flexible.
The A B C of education consists in rendering the horse familiar with the arena, making it go round regularly and stop at a given signal. To teach it this first lesson, M. Loyal leads the creature into the circus and places it close to the palisade, whilst he goes into the centre of the ring. In his left hand he holds a long leash, which has been passed through the curb or cavesson—every one knows that this is a semicircle of iron armed with a sharp point, which is placed upon the nose of the horse. In his right hand he holds a long whip, whilst an assistant, armed with a strong riding-whip, is concealed behind the animal. In this position the trainer utters a call, then lightly pulling the horse, forces it to walk. If it resist the assistant gives it a blow with the whip, if it obey it receives a carrot from its master as a reward, after three or four turns round the arena. To make it stop, the trainer suddenly cracks the whip in his pupil’s face, whilst the assistant throws himself in front of it. [p165]
The same method is used in teaching a horse to leap. It is placed in front of a barrier, and is encouraged to jump over it by voice and gesture; if it refuse, the assistant gives it a volley of blows on the croup with his whip. If it jump, the ever ready carrot is its reward.
To make it point, the ring-master has simply to place [p166] himself squarely in front of the horse, to shake his riding-whip with the left hand, whilst he cracks his long whip with the right.
But although the horse learns these tricks with comparative facility, a great effort is required before it can be taught to kneel. The trainer is obliged to resort to surprise. A bracelet is attached to the two fore pasterns just above the hoof, and a cord is attached to it by one end, the other being held by the trainer. Suddenly M. Loyal attracts the attention of the horse by a sharp cry; at the same time he shakes its confidence by a pull at the cord and a vigorous blow on its shoulder. In a short time the horse kneels down at the master’s call without being tripped or coerced in any way.
Next to this achievement, the most difficult feat is teaching a horse the trick of changing feet. This requires fully a year of patience. The animal is led into the arena and commences its usual exercise round it. The trainer allows it to settle quietly into its stride, then abruptly, with a touch of the whip cleverly applied, he tries to break its pace; that is to say, to make it change step. If this result is obtained, the horse is allowed to gallop round the ring once or twice, then it is checked again to make it return to its former step. When the animal understands what it ought to do at the touch of the whip, instead of completing the turn round the ring on one foot, it is forced to change at the half round. Afterwards it is only allowed a quarter turn, then only three or four steps without changing, and lastly only two. The horse thus appears to dance the polka when it performs to music, which accompanies and follows its movements.
The ring-master usually chooses a well-bred horse from [p167] amongst the animals trained in this way, and already broken, for initiation into the haute école.
No one will expect me to discuss here the principles of this training, nor even the theories of circus horsemanship. [p168] I refer the reader to the special treatises written upon the subject by men in the profession, particularly to the fine book which the historian of sport, Baron de Vaux, has published under the title of Les Hommes de Cheval.10 I especially recommend the perusal of the chapter consecrated to the Franconi family. It contains an account of how Laurence Franconi taught the present manager of the two circuses the principles of the School of Versailles, whilst freeing good horsemanship from the superfluities in use in the time of Pluvinel. Laurence Franconi wished for a less formal, less studied style of horsemanship. The introduction into France of English horses trained in the hunting-field and on the race-course, and the re-organization of the cavalry, had demonstrated the necessity of preparing horses for greater freedom of action. It was realized that good riding did not consist merely in forcing a horse to show off and tire itself uselessly in obtaining a striking effect, but in well calculating the strength of the steed, in husbanding its forces, and regulating its paces. It was at last recognized that the ideal horse of the haute école should be easy in its balance and in its artificial paces under the guidance of its rider, and that on his side the rider should only use the force necessary to maintain this balance, and to secure the execution of the airs of the haute école.
On these principles Laurence Franconi trained Blanche, Norma, and Hector; Victor Franconi, his son, trained Frisette, Ajax, Waverley, and Brillante; and Charles Franconi, his grandson, educated Régent and Moscou. [p169]
I remember being present at the Cirque d’Été during one of Moscou’s rehearsals, ridden by Mdlle. Marguerite Dudlay. The little empty circus was illumined by a red light, the reflection of the April sun upon the velvet of the benches. Charles Franconi was watching the work of the equestrian and her horse. It was a Russian stallion, beautifully shaped and very elegant; in its veins it showed the vigour of the [p170] Slav-blood, full of revolt, excitement, passion, and violence, veiled by affected gentleness, lost in compliance with its rider’s will.
A ring-master, armed with a whip, held the horse in front of a barrier which he gradually raised. Without any apparent effort Mdlle. Dudlay lifted the grand quivering beast over the bar. The young girl was bareheaded, and her hair had fallen down with the shock. She was a charming picture in her dangerous leaps, with her long wavy hair flowing over her shoulders.
After the rehearsal I went up to her to speak about her horses. She was very fond of them, and would not allow them to be scolded. They were her friends.
“Moscou is so gentlemanly!” she said, showing me the [p172] horse, which an attendant was leading away covered with foam. “He has such good manners!”
And in a low tone she owned to me that she preferred him to Regent, a grey of classic beauty, much more reliable than his comrade—loyal, vigorous, and brave; but he replaced coaxing by a military deportment, the correct stiffness of an officer.
“No doubt I am unjust,” said Mdlle. Dudlay, “but how can I help it? Moscou and I love each other.”
That is the secret of the haute école as well as of everything else. Habit and skill are insufficient—love is necessary too. It is through love of the little hands which caress their necks that these great horses throw all their energies into leaps which exhaust them; it is through love that they humiliate themselves, that they kneel down. For my own part, I know no grander spectacle, no more spiritual combination, no triumph more admirable of mental over physical force.
It is almost unnecessary to add that these instances of perfect harmony are the exception, not the rule. The little “mashers” in white ties and dress-coats who encumber the entrance to the ring, and surround the equestrian as she mounts her saddle, crying “Bravo!” and “Très chic!” at every movement she makes, hope by their eagerness, by these exclamations, to pose as horsey men in the eyes of the crowd; but they never imagine the duplicity of which they are the victims nineteen times out of twenty.
There are, in fact, two very different categories of equestrians of the haute école; first the wives, daughters, and sisters of the circus managers, who are placed on a horse [p173] trained in the establishment at an early age. Let us softly add that these subjects are nearly always, to quote an expression of M. Molier, “Les fruits secs du panneau.”11 It sometimes occurs also that a well-to-do manager, who thinks of marrying his daughter in the bourgeoisie—or even in the aristocracy—hesitates to exhibit the young girl in the semi-nudity of tights. He is afraid of alarming the future husband. This has happened with several accomplished equestrians like the late Émilie Loisset, and, at the present moment, Mdlle. Renz.
As a rule, the equestrian of the haute école is a pretty girl who wishes to appear in a circus, and who has found some one [p174] to minister to her vanity. This “some one” must be rich—very rich. The horsewoman in question must take with her three trained horses—two of the haute école, and one leaper. This trio of horses costs a great deal. It is only in a circus that they can be obtained ready to work [p175] with a woman, and the trade in them is a speciality of German circuses. Old horses trained in the haute école, regular as clocks in their movements, may be found there for sale at from 10,000 to 15,000 francs each. The value of the horse sometimes even rises to 20,000 francs if it has a good tail.
A few weeks’ work suffice to “adapt”—another expression of M. Molier, to whom I owe the revelation of all these secrets—a very mediocre equestrian to one of these mechanical horses. The animal, annoyed by its bad rider, who shuffles on her saddle, does not perform one-half of the work which the man has taught him. But the public does not know this, and the would-be sportsmen who adorn the entrance to the ring open admiring eyes when the pretty girl assures them, from the superior height of her saddle, that she trained the horse herself.
These frank explanations will probably make many pretty enemies for me; but, at least, they ought to assure you of the sincerity of the admiration and respect which I profess for the pad equestrians or standing equestrians.
Apparently, in a circus, a woman’s virtue is in inverse proportion to the length of her skirts; the riding-habit is suspected, whilst muslin petticoats soar above all scandalous aspersions.
The “standing” equestrian is usually married to a circus artiste whilst still very young; she is an excellent housewife and a model mother. As long as maternity does not interfere with her profession, she shares her husband’s dangerous performances during her youth. With him she dislocates herself, and bravely fractures her arms and legs. She has [p176] scarcely recovered before she recommences her work. Her circus education is complete. She was placed on a horse at six years old, and besides her standing-up performances—the [p177] most difficult of all—she has learnt the mimic art, the slack wire, juggling, gymnastics, sometimes even the “carpet.” I am not alluding to the haute école. An equestrian who can ride standing is so sure of her balance, and so much accustomed to her horse, that she can ride on a side saddle with very little instruction. She can therefore appear as an equestrian of the haute école with only a few days’ rehearsal.
But amongst all the necessary studies that form part of the education of a pad equestrian, there is one fundamental and primary one to which she devotes as much time as to the riding-school; this is the art of dancing. The equestrian follows the same classes as a ballet girl. Dancing lessons make her turn her feet and knees out, teach her to carry her arms and head well, and give her equilibrium and grace. There are some instances of dancers who, having injured themselves in the exercise of their art, have learnt to ride standing in less than a year.
The horse ridden by a pad equestrian should be a reliable animal, with smooth even paces. The regularity of its movements is so important that now the most popular equestrians possess their own horses, and insist upon the manager of the circus engaging them too. This is a wise precaution. I remember one day at the Cirque d’Été seeing Mdlle. Adèle Rossi contend with a fine piebald horse which replaced her usual steed. She appeared as a jockey, standing and booted, in a vaulting performance in which she was charmingly jaunty and graceful. She made her spring in the ring, and alighted standing upon the galloping horse. Each time she leaped the animal was startled and changed [p179] its foot; this produced an abrupt movement of the shoulder, which sent Mdlle. Rossi back into the arena. The young girl was obliged to recommence her performance a dozen times before she succeeded in it, amidst the applause of the audience.
This wonderful equilibrium is only acquired by great practice and much patience. You may now see an amusing performance at the Nouveau Cirque styled a “Riding Lesson” on the programme. The stablemen place a large gibbet, which moves on its own axis, in the centre of the arena. From the arm of this apparatus a ring, attached to a cord, hangs above the ring-master, who is on horseback. The other end of the cord is attached to the pupil’s waist. You will at once realize the amusement which is derived from the awkward movements of the gibbet. The man in the black coat, who wished to take a riding-lesson, is left swimming in the air, whilst the horse gallops on the other side of the [p180] arena. But at the rehearsals of an artist, the gibbet manœuvres with more circumspection, and it has very generally replaced the cord, which was formerly fastened on one side to the pupil’s waist-belt and held by the riding-master at the other end, whilst it passed in the middle through a ring hanging from the ceiling.
The first time that an equestrian, supported in this manner, takes a lesson on the pad, she is made to gallop in a sitting posture until she is thoroughly accustomed to the movements of the horse. Then she raises herself upon one knee before she stands upright, her shoulder turned inside the ring, between the horse and the master. The equestrian then gradually rises to her feet, and performs upon the pad all the steps that she has acquired in the dancing academy. The man who has followed the same classes with her, now adds to her work the attitudes and movements of an acrobat; together they perform the pas de deux and the vaulting acts which amateurs delight in.
But although these vaulting acts, this springing through hoops, may charm the public, they are a violent, ungraceful performance, which can rouse the admiration of the ignorant only. Ask the real artists, like Jenny O’Brien, what they think of these acrobatic exercises. They will not hesitate to tell you that if these leaps are a sure way of winning applause, they are the worst method of satisfying the conscience of an artist.
At the same time, if it be true that danger defied adds some dignity to the effort made, then the warmest expressions of public sympathy are due to pad equestrians. Perhaps no one will be surprised to learn that, according to statistics, [p181] circus-riders are more frequently killed than even gymnasts. The reason is that an accident is not produced by an unfortunate physical cause only, or by the distraction of one second: a mistake of the horse may kill the man who is riding it.
During the years that I have frequented the Parisian circuses, I was once present at a cruel accident.
An equestrian, named Prince, was performing at the Cirque d’Été a vaulting act on two horses, which were leaping fixed bars. Suddenly one of the animals fell on its knees, and the man was thrown forward upon his head. The assistants at once rushed towards him and covered the body with a mantle. It was carried out, and M. Loyal, in a choked voice, but with a smile on his lips, came forward and said:
“It is nothing, ladies and gentlemen—a slight accident. M. Prince begs that the public will excuse him.”
The truth was that the rider had been killed on the [p182] spot—he had broken his neck. And whilst a number of clowns tumbled into the ring, reassuring the public by their jokes, Prince’s wife and children were weeping over his body in the great whitewashed room, where the reins of the performing donkeys were hanging on the walls side by side with clowns’ wigs, training whips, and spangled tights.