3 In Which We Go To The Circus
IT is the evening of another day; crisp, clear, cool. The town-hall has tolled seven, and all the town, in its Sunday best, is trooping gayly to the great common on the outskirts, where the huge circus tent is erected, where flags fly, and drums beat, and brass instruments blare, and great doings will be done to-night.
A great rope stretches from the center of the common to the top of the tent, quite a giddy height, and the celebrated tight-rope dancer, Mlle. Mimi, is to walk up this before the performance, giving a gratis taste of her qualities to an admiring world.
Other outward and visible signs of the inward and to-be-paid-for graces going on within, are there as well. Every dead wall, every fence all over the town, is placarded with huge posters, announcing in lofty letters of gorgeous colors, the wonderful doings to be beheld for the small sum of fifty cents, children half price, clergymen free!
Pictures of all the animals whose ancestors came over in the Ark with Noah and family, together with portraits of the unparalleled Daughter of the Desert, Madame Olympe, on her fiery steed Whirlwind, of the daring and fearless trapezist and tight-rope dancer, Mlle. Mimi, direct from Paris, of the little Fairy Queen, Snowball, who is to be borne aloft in one hand by the Bounding Brothers of Bohemia, in the thrilling one-act drama of the “Peruvian Princess.”
The portraits of the rival stars attract much admiration and comment—in rather a coarse and highly-colored state of art, it must be admitted, but sweetly pretty and simpering all the same, displaying a great redundancy of salmon-colored bust and arms, and pronounced by those who have seen the fair originals, speaking likenesses.
And now all the town is to see them, the chariot races, the Bounding Brothers, the Fairy Queen, the Daughter of the Desert, the clown, and the rest of the menagerie.
It is a crisp, cool, fresh, yellow twilight; the world looks clean and well washed, after last night’s rain. The sky is turquois blue, there is a comfortable little new moon smiling down, as if it, too, had come out expressly to go to the circus.
Everybody is in fine spirits, there is much laughter and good-humored chaffing, there are troops and troops of children—children of a larger growth, too, who affect to treat the whole affair with off-hand, good-natured contempt—only come to look after the young ones, you know—old boys and girls, who in their secret souls are as keen for the sport as any nine-year-old of them all.
An immense throng is gathered on the common, watching with beating hearts and bated breath, for their first taste of rapture, the free sight of Mlle. Mimi walking up the rope. And amid this throng, in her Sunday “things” quite “of a tremble” with joyous expectancy stands Jemima Ann, waiting with the deepest interest of all for the first glimpse in her public capacity of the fair performer she has the honor of knowing in private life.
The band stands at ease giving the public tantalizing little tastes of its quality, working up the suspense of small boys to an agonizing pitch, laughing and talking to another, as if this magical sort of thing were quite every-day life to them, when suddenly everybody is galvanized, every neck is strained, an indescribable murmur and rush goes through the crowd : “Oh, hush! Here she is! Oh, ma! isn’t she lovely? Oh-h-h!” It is a long-drawn, rapturous breath.
A vision has appeared—a vision all gold and glitter, gauze and spangles, all rosy floating skirts, a little flag in each hand, bare white arms, streaming yellow curls, twinkling pink feet, rosy, smiling face! The band strikes up a spirited strain, and up, and up, and up floats the fairy in rose and spangles.
Every throat stretches, every eye follows, every breath seems suspended, every mouth is agape. Profound stillness reigns. And up, and up, and up still floats the rose-pink vision; and now she stands on the dizzy top, a pink star against the blue sky, waving her flags, and kissing hands to the breathless crowd below! Now, she descends slowly, slowly, and slowly plays the band, and the tension is painful to all these good, simple souls.
A sort of involuntary gasp goes through them as with a light buoyant bound she is on terra firma, bowing right and left, and vanishing into the tent like the fairy she is.
“Oh-h-h! wasn’t it lovely! Oh, ma, she is just too sweet for anything! Oh, pa! do let us hurry in and get a good seat. Was it Olympe? No, it wasn’t, it was the other one, Mamzel Mimi. Oh! I’m being scrooged to death! Pa, do let us hurry in—don’t you see everybody is going?”
Jemima Ann goes with the rest. It is the rarest of rare things for her to be off duty, but Aunt Samantha has relented for once, and her niece is here, fairly palpitating with expectant rapture.
All the boarders, washed and shining with good humor, much friction, and yellow soap, in brave array muster strong, and kindly little Mr. Doolittle has meekly presented “Miss Jim” with a ticket. So she is swept onward and inward, with the crowd into the great canvas arena, and presently finds herself perched on an exquisitely uncomfortable shelf, her knees on a level with her chin, gazing with awe at the vast sawdust ring and the red curtain beyond, whence it is whispered the performers will presently emerge.
Then she glances about her—yes, there are the boarders, there is Mr. Rogers, there is the butcher and his family, there is the undertaker and his wife, there is the family grocer and his seven sons and daughters, there are quite numbers of ladies and gentlemen she knows. And all over the place there are swarms of children, children beyond any possibility of computation. A smell of sawdust and orange-peel, a pervading sense of hilarity and peanuts is in the atmosphere, the band plays as if it would burst itself with enthusiasm, and the evening performance triumphantly begins.
Long after this festive night, Jemima Ann tries to recall, dispassionately, all she has seen in this her first glimpse of wonder-land, but it is all so splendid, so rapid, so bewildering, to a mind used only to underground kitchens, and the society of black beetles, and blacker foundry hands, that her dazzled brain fails to grasp it with any coherence. There are horses—good gracious! such horses as one could hardly imagine existed out of the Arabian Nights; horses that dance polkas and jigs, that put the kettle on, that listen to the clown, and understood every word he said, horses that laughed, horses that made courtesies to the audience, horses that stood on their hind legs, that knelt down, that jumped through hoops, and over banners. Jemima Ann would not have been surprised to see a peg turned in their side, and behold them spread their wings and soar to the ceiling. Only they didn’t. And then the clown, with his startling, curious, and white visage, his huge, grinning mouth, and amazing nose, his funny dress, and funnier retorts to the exasperated ring-master—Jemima Ann nearly died of laughing at him. Only to hear his jovial “Here we are again!” was worth the whole fifty cents; so said the good people about her, laughing till they cried, and so, with all her heart, said Jemima Ann.
But this was only a little of it. When Mlle. Mimi appeared, more gauzy, more spangly, more lovely even than outside, careening round and round, on four fiery bare-backed steeds, in that breathless manner that your head swam, and your respiration came in gasps, then the enthusiasm rose to fever heat, if you like! They shouted, they stamped, they applauded the very knobs off their walking-sticks, and Jemima Ann, faint with bliss, shuts her eyes for a moment, and feels she is in the mad vortex of high life at last, feels that she is living a chapter out of one of her own weekly “dreadfuls.” How beautiful Mimi looks, as she sweeps by, smiling, painted, radiant! and now—it is a moment never to be forgotten—Mimi sees, her smiles at her—yes, in full tilt pauses to smile at her and throw her a kiss from her finger tips! All heads turn, all eyes fix wonderingly, enviously on the crimson visage of Jemima Ann.
“Do you know her?” asks in a tone of awe those nearest, and Jemima Ann glows and responds:
”Yes.”
It is a proud moment; it is a case of “greatness thrust.” People scan her as she sits, and wonder if perchance she too is not a professional lady taking her fifty cents’ worth here for a change, among the common herd.
Madame Olympe comes as the Daughter of the Desert, a big, handsome, bold brunette, with flashing eyes and raven locks. These same raven locks, together with the brief allowance of cloth of gold, and bullion fringe, and a pair of tinkling anklets, comprise nearly all she has about her in the way of costume. She is distinctly indecent; the virtuous maids and matrons blush in their secret souls, and feel that this is worse, very much worse, than the pink gauze. And though the Daughter of the Desert seems to fly through the air, and does some wonderful things, she is coldly received, and the audience break into a laugh when a forward small boy suggests that before she does any more she’d better go in and put something on, else maybe she’ll ketch a cold in her head! It is felt as a relief when she does go, and the Bounding Brothers take her place. One, in the dress of an Indian chief, all feathers, beads, and scarlet cloth, makes a raid in the territory of another, the Prince of Peru, captures the child of that potentate, and rides a break-neck speed with her held aloft in one hand in triumph. And Jemima Ann gasps painfully, for it is little Snowball, all in white, her long fair curls floating, her rosebud lips smiling, the tiny creature stands erect, and is whirled round and round by the Indian chief. She kisses her baby hand, she smiles her sweet baby smile, her dauntless blue eyes wander over the house. If she should fall! Jemima Ann shuts her eyes, sick with the thought, and does not look again, until after a free fight, and a great deal of shooting with bows and arrows, the princess is recaptured, and the Bounding Brothers bound out of sight.
Mlle. Mimi on the trapeze winds up the performance. Her agility, her strength, her daring, here, are something to marvel at. Her springs from one swinging bar to another, look perilous in the extreme. It is wonderful where, in that slight, graceful frame, these delicate hands and wrists, all that steel-like strength of muscle can lie. This also Jemima feels to be more painful than pleasant—it is a relief when it is over, and though it had been an evening of much bliss and great excitement, it is something of a relief to rise and stretch one’s cramped limbs, and breathe the cool fresh night air, and see the sparkling frosty stars. Too much pleasure palls, Jemima Ann’s head swims with so much merry-go-round—she will be glad to get back to the cool attic and flock mattress and think over at her leisure how happy she has been.
“I wonder what time Mlle. Mimi and that dear little Snowball will get home?” she muses; “the dear little love ought to be fit to drop with tiredness. No wonder her ma wanted some supper, I wish Aunt Samanthy hadn’t been so cross.”
A vivid remembrance of the scene of that afternoon flashes through her mind, as she trudges home through the quiet streets. Mlle. Mimi just back from rehearsal, she and Aunt Samantha busy in the Kitchen, Snowball tripping about, asking pretty baby questions—a swish of silk, a waft of strong perfume, and Mimi, bright in silk and velvet, lace and jewelry, presents herself.
“How nice and hot it is here,” she says, coming in, with a shiver; “the rest of the house is as cold as a barn. Why don’t you have a fire in your parlor this October weather, Mrs. Hopkins? And how good you smell!” sniffing the warm air, and seating herself in front of the glowing stove.”What are you cooking, Jemima Ann?”
“Johnny-cake and gingerbread for the men’s teas,” responds, modestly, Jemima Ann; “a pan of each. The men like ’em.”
“Do they?” says Mimi, laughing. “What nice, innocent sort of men yours must be, my dear, judging by their food! I should not like gingerbread and the other thing. Apropos, though (no, Snowball, I don’t want you; run away), I should like a hot supper when I come back to-night. I am always tired, and hungry as a hunter. I always have a hot supper; cold things make me dyspeptic. Will you see to it, Jemima Ann?”
Jemima Ann glances apprehensively at Aunt Samantha. Aunt Samantha draws up her mouth like the mouth of a purse, and stands ominously silent.
“What time would you like it?” timidly ventures Jemima Ann.
“Oh, about eleven; I shall not be later than that. Nothing very elaborate, you know—just a fowl, a chicken or duck, mashed potatoes, one sweet and one savory. Coffee, of course, as strong as you like, and cream if it is to be had for love or money. Something simple like that! And I shall need some boiling water for pun—well, I shall need it. I may bring a friend home to supper. I hate eating alone, so lay covers for two. Don’t serve it in that big, dismal place you call the dining room; let us have it cozily in the parlor. And do light a fire; your black grate is enough to send a chill to the marrow of one’s bones. Snowball will not sit up, of course. You will put her to bed as soon as she comes home. You will not forget anything, will you, Jemima Ann?”
Jemima Ann is too paralyzed to answer; Mrs. Hopkins is literally petrified with indignation. Only for a moment, though; then she faces the audacious Mimi, her eyes flashing, her face peony red, her hands on her hips, war and defiance in every snorting word.
“So! this is all, ‘m, is it? Jest somethin’ simple and easy, like that! And at eleven o’clock at night! Wouldn’t you like a soup, and fish, and oysters, ma’am, and a side-dish and Charley Roose, and ice-cream, and strawberries to top the lot! Why, hang your impidence! ” cries Mrs. Hopkins, waxing suddenly from the bitterly sardonic to the furiously wrathful—”what do you think we are? You come here and fairly force yourself on a respectable house, and try to begin your scandalous goin’s on before you’re twenty-four hours in it! But I ‘ll see you furder first, ‘m, and Rogers, too, I do assure you! No friends is let in this house,” says Mrs. Hopkins, with vindictive emphasis, “after ten o’clock at night—no, not for Queen Victorious, if she begged it on her bended knees!”
“Mlle. Mimi, toasting her little high-heeled French shoes before the fire, turns coolly, and listens, first in surprise, then in amusement, to this tirade.”
“My good soul,” she says, calmly, “don’t lose your temper. You’ll have a fit of some kind, and go off like a shot, if you go on like that. And what do you mean by scandalous proceedings? You really ought to be careful in your talk—people get taken up sometimes for actionable language. It is not scandalous to eat a late supper, is it? I am a very proper person, my dear Mrs. Hopkins, and never scandalize anybody. If I can’t have supper here, I will have it elsewhere—it is much the same to me. You will give me a latch-key, I suppose—or do you allow such a demoralizing thing to your artless black lambkins? Or would you prefer sitting up for me? I like to be obliging, and I will be back by one.”
“Miss Mimi,” begins Mrs. Hopkins, “if that’s your name,”—Mimi laughs—”this house ain’t no place for the likes of you.” Miss Mimi glances disdainfully about, and shrugs her shoulders. “It’s a homely place, and we’re homely people.” Mimi laughs again, and glances amusedly from the hot and angry face of the aunt, to the flushed and distressed face of the niece—a glance that says, “I agree with you.” “Your ways ain’t our ways”—(“No, thank Heaven!” says Mimi, sotto voce)—”and so the sooner we part, the better, I do assure you. You’ll jest be good enough, ma’am, to take yourself, and your traps, and your little girl, out of this as soon as you like—and the sooner the better, I do assure you.”
Mimi looks at her. There is a laugh still on her rose-red mouth; there is a laughing light in her blue eyes; but there is a laughing devil in them, too.”
My good creature,” she says, slowly,” you labor under a mistake. I will not go, and you shall not make me. You agreed to take me in the presence of witnesses. I have paid you a week’s board in advance, and no power on earth will move me out of this hospitable mansion until it suits me to go. And I will keep what hours I please. And I will invite what friends I like. I shall return at once, and you shall shut your doors on me at your peril. And I will see you—no! don’t cry out before you are hurt—inconvenienced is the word I will use,” she breaks off, laughing aloud in genuine amusement at the horror in the face of her hostess, and rises gracefully. ”Now, Jemima Ann, the sooner you bring me up some tea the better, I do assure you,” mimicking perfectly Mrs. Hopkins’ nasal tones;” and if your ginger cake is very good, you may bring me some of that, too. Come, Snowball, and let me curl your hair.”
It is the first time in all her seven years’ experience that Jemima Ann has seen her intrepid chieftainess taken down. She is almost afraid to look at her; but when she does, she finds her gazing after her enemy with a blank and stony stare, and rigid lips and eyeballs, alarmingly suggestive of fits! No fit ensues, however. There is a gasping breath, a stifled, “Well, this does cap the globe!” and then silence. Aunt Samantha has been routed with slaughter, and in her secret soul Jemima Ann rejoices.
She goes home now, through the crisp, starlit night, and finds her stormy kinswoman waiting up with a tongue and temper soured and sharpened by long hours of solitude and stocking-darning. She is first, but the boarders follow close, noisy, hungry, and enthusiastic in the loud praises of the charming Mimi. Olympe is a fine woman, no doubt, and not stingy of herself, but Mimi’s the girl for their money. And thus they have a proud feeling of proprietorship in Mimi. She is one of the family, so to speak. They feel that her beauty and success reflect glory on the house of Hopkins. Aunt Samantha listens to it all with grim scorn; declines snappishly to be entertained with the brilliant doings of the night; declines more snappishly to go to bed, and leave her, Jemima Ann, to wait up for Mlle. Mimi.”
I’ll see it out, if I sit here till I take root,” is her grim ultimatum. “I’ll see that she brings no trollopin’ characters into this house; so, hold your jaw, Jemima Ann Hopkins.”
The door-bell rings as she speaks. Is it Mimi, so soon? No, it is a man from the circus with little Snowball, sleepy and tired. Jemima Ann takes her tenderly, kisses and pets her, undresses and puts her to bed. It is midnight, and still Mimi is not here. Grimmer and grimmer grows the rigid face of Aunt Samantha, colder and colder grows the night, drearier and drearier looks the kitchen, quieter and more quiet seem the lonesome midnight streets. One. Half-past—with her arms on the table, her face lying on them, sleep as a garment drops on Jemima, when, once more, sharp, loud, startling the door-bell rings.”
It’s her!” cries Jemima Ann, and springs, up, “for which, ‘Oh! be joyful!’ ”
She runs up-stairs, Aunt Samantha follows. Outside there are voices, one the voice of a man, and loud laughter. The key is turned, the door is opened, Mimi stands before them. She comes in laughing—aunt and niece fall back. What is the matter? Her fair face is flushed, her blue eyes glassy, there is a smell, strong subtle, spirituous. In horror the truth dawns upon them—she is—(it is the phrase of Jemima Ann)—she is tight!
They fall back. Even Aunt Samantha, prepared for the worst, is not prepared for this. She is absolutely dumb! Mlle. Mimi laughs in their faces—a tipsy laugh.
“Car’ lamp up-stairs,’ Mimy Ann,” she says, indistinctly, “sor’ to keep you up, Miss Hopkins. Goo’night.”
In dead silence Mrs. Hopkins falls back, in dead silence Jemima Ann obeys—words fail them both. She precedes Mimi to her room, where sweet little Snowball sleeps, pure and peaceful, sets the lamp in a place of safety, sees their boarder fling off hat and jacket, and throw herself, dressed as she is, on the bed, too far gone even to undress!
