Chapter 3 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 Fran?ois, 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. Fran?ois, 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 Fran?ois?"

"Twenty."

"I am older than you are, M. Fran?ois; yet, as you know, I am not celebrated." [p061]

M. Fran?ois 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. Fran?ois 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. Fran?ois 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 31? 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 ?sthetic 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 Prince3

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,

ètant par plaisir un jour mise,

Avec robe, jupe et chemize,

Et de plus sa coiffure encor,

Tout ne pezait qu'un louis d'or."

[p067]

"Princess Paulina," says the voluble individual who advertises her to the public, "is eleven years old. She is of Dutch origin, and measures 15? inches, and weighs ten pounds; she is introduced by her brother who is with her."

And the robust stripling lifts the little doll like an ounce: he holds out one arm and, in the pleasantest manner, the little princess performs a few acrobatic feats over it. She is very [p068] proud of this little social talent. When I was introduced to her behind the scenes, she courteously said:

"Shall I turn a somersault for monsieur?"

And in an instant she was standing on her hands, head down, feet in air, like a clown. With her tiny dress of coral-coloured muslin and satin flying out around her, Princess Paulina did not look any larger than a bouquet of roses enveloped in white paper.

I asked her all the questions that etiquette requires when speaking to a dwarf.

"Princess Paulina, have you a doll?"

"As large as this, Monsieur."

She raised her hand above her head, but even then it only reached the medium size of the Bébés Hurel.

"Princess Paulina, what did you eat for dinner?"

"Six oysters and some breast of chicken."

"Princess Paulina, do you speak English?"

"Very well."

"Princess Paulina, can you speak German?"

"Sehr gut."

"Princess Paulina, will you give me a kiss?"

"Kiss a gentleman!" cried the little princess, quite alarmed.

And she consulted her tall brother with a look. The tall brother gave an affirmative nod of the head, and the princess submitted to the caress-this is how I am able to inform those who may not be aware of the fact, that, like new-born babies, a little dwarf smells like a grey mouse.

But there is no need for sensitive souls to distress themselves about these fragile beings. Vanity is quite as strong [p069] in a dwarf as in a man, and every "Princess Paulina" in the world is pleased to be exhibited. Besides, the parents of these goslings with golden eggs are too much interested in prolonging their lives ever to maltreat them. Those who should be pitied are the poor children sold once for all to a speculator. One of these dwarfs met with a tragic fate some years ago.

He was named Joseph. At seventeen he measured only 27 inches, and had a thin, woebegone face rendered grotesque by an enormous nose which, like his hands and feet, was abnormally large. [p070]

His parents, small agriculturists at Saintes, sold him in 1882 to a mountebank, who endeavoured to increase the popularity of his show by making this scrap of a man become an animal-tamer.

By dint of great patience six cats were painted to resemble tigers, with yellow and black stripes. The animals were shut into a cage with the dwarf, and the unlucky Joseph, half dead with fear, was forced, with the aid of a riding-whip, to make the cats perform.

The attempt succeeded for some time, when on July 12th, 1882, at the fair of Beaupré-sur-Sa?ne, one of the cats suddenly flew at the dwarf's throat and threw him down by its weight.

In one second all the other cats had rushed upon Joseph, and before any one could intervene, the cat-tamer was strangled, his eyes torn out, his face covered with blood.

The mountebank fled: a few days later he was arrested at Lille.

I was lately discussing this tragic accident with M. Fran?ois, and my friend, who was drawing on his riding-boots, paused in the effort to utter these melancholy words:-

"We were certainly happier under the old régime."

When one is satiated with the abnormal and monstrous, the thoughts naturally tend towards those entertainments which exhibit the perfection of human beauty.

It must be admitted that in this respect the public taste has improved. The infantine and Oriental admiration which the crowd displayed for enormous women, the "fat lady" who weighed 250 lbs., is declining so quickly [p071] that the "colossus" has nearly disappeared from the fair. And really pretty girls are now exhibited in the "Halls of Mystery."

[p072] The success of the "Beautiful Fatma," hastened this revolution. No fair of any importance is now held without some imitation of the "Beautiful Fatma" being on the ground. I noticed the Pavillon Marocain amongst the most successful of these imitations.

"Walk in, walk in! ladies and gentlemen," cries the showman at the top of his voice; "walk in and see the danse du ventre, as danced at Bardo before the Bey of Tunis! Walk in, walk in! Hurry up!"

We enter. The booth is clean and prettily decorated; at one end three women in Oriental dresses are singing a harsh melody accompanied by the traditional thrumming on the bamboo drums, which look like butter pots. They are called, if names are asked for, A?cha, Dora, and Hardiendja. But there is a Fatma in the house. She is a negress about twenty years old, a fine specimen of her race: at its base the nose is almost as wide as her thick lips, and by this detail Fatma shocks all our ideas of classic proportions; still, when looking at this tall, well-made girl, I, for the first time, understood what travellers mean when they speak of the beauty and exquisite grace of negro women. In spite of all defects there is a pleasant harmony in the dark face, brightened by the modest mischievous eyes. And when Fatma dances before the negro Bouillabaisse,-first comic actor to the Sultan of Zanzibar,-her graceful swaying movements, her languid attitudes and smiling gestures rouse in her audience that innate sympathy with Oriental views of women, the gentle, soulless creature of the East, which lies dormant in the heart of every man.

LA BELLE FATMA.

Another "Hall of Mystery" worth visiting is the "House [p073] of Metamorphosis," Manager Stenegry, at the sign of the "Secret des Dieux."

The real attraction of this establishment is Mdlle. Stenegry herself, a Romanische of rare beauty, who with her golden sequins and Egyptian diadem forms the most perfect "Esmeralda" that you ever dreamed of at sixteen. Inside we find a second young lady, equally lovely, a charming blonde-Mademoiselle Lutèce. She fills the r?le of Galatea, "the marble statue that acquired life beneath the burning kisses of Pygmalion."

[p074] "Pygmalion" does not appear, but in a darkened room, by some device of slanting mirrors, the beautiful head of Mdlle. Lutèce changes into a death's-head before the eyes of the spectators. Then from the youthful polished ivory skull a rose bush suddenly appears. This eminently philosophical contrast has inspired M. Stenegry, the father, with some wonderful variations of the original idea. I recommend his "Programme of visible and mysterious apparitions" to all collectors of comicalities.

"Everything pales. . ," he says, "everything dissolves, everything blends. Come and see the chef-d'?uvre produced by my researches upon metempsychosis; it will submit its revelations and revolutions to the judgment of the spectators, who will become its sincere admirers."

But just now the most ?sthetic entertainment in the fair is the series of tableaux vivants presented to the public by M. Melchior Bonnefois.

M. Bonnefois is an artist and a literary man. Last year he published a very pathetic article in the Union Mutuelle, "Les Drames de la Vie Foraine," and I have read some very skilful verses written by him for some of the small reviews published in the South.

This man has tastefully grouped a limited number of models, youths and girls, who are not only well trained in their profession, but also good-looking. Amongst them are Suzanne Bertini, the model from the studio of J. P. Laurens; Arabelle, the model from the Bouguereau studio; Jeanne Laurence, the model from the Baudry studio; Antonio Vega, from the Academy of Madrid; Rose Linon, one of the favourite models from the Gervex studio; Berthe Biéville, [p075] Serge Worouzof, from the Academy of Moscow; last and chief, the star of the troupe, the beautiful Mireille, from the Academy of Marseilles. This little Phocean is crowned with beautiful blue-black hair, and has the profile of Pallas Athene, with all the Olympian coldness, the absence of expression, and the gravity which distinguished the goddess.

Perhaps, since it is a question of perfection, her arms, like her bust, are a little thin, but Mireille's statuesque divinity reappears in her legs from the hips to the feet. One lady, whose views upon questions of dress are extremely accurate, and in whose society I was lucky enough to witness this [p076] artistic exhibition, made an observation upon Mdlle. Mireille's attire which I faithfully transmit to this pretty girl and her directors-directors of conscience and others.

An error on the part of the costumier is the cause of the apparent want of harmony in the fine proportions of Mdlle. Mireille's figure, giving undue importance to the legs. A scarf has been draped across the hips over the salmon-coloured fleshings; it is about the width of a bath-towel, and is so inartistically puffed that its whiteness destroys the harmony of the outlines, and by its vague resemblance to the short breeches worn with trunk hose, it transforms a nude into a travesty. Above the trousers of the page one looks for the shoulders of the man, and because they are missing, Mdlle. Mireille looks too thin.

What remedy can be applied to this serious error which spoils our pleasure? There is some difficulty in the matter, I know, but it has been frequently overcome with greater skill: for instance, by the artist who designed a costume for Madame Théo, as Eve before the Fall, which won the approval of all admirers of plastic beauty, without shocking the susceptible. I shall send a photograph of Madame Théo to M. Bonnefois.

It is a sad proof of our physical decadence that beauty is no longer found allied with strength; the two qualities, formerly blended like metals in an alloy, are now entirely separated, and M. Bonnefois and M. Marseille each presides over representatives of the two attributes, which, when united, produced the most perfect types of humanity. At M. Bonnefois's establishment beauty is cultivated without strength, and at M. Marseille's entertainment, strength is [p077] found without beauty. Yesterday I could not stifle these painful thoughts when I took my seat on the velvet benches provided by the celebrated manager of the athletic show, to watch a wrestling match.

Full of recollections of Plutarch, one remembers that in the palestrea, Lycurgus made the young girls rub themselves with oil and contend with the Spartan ephebes; the lines of Theocritus on the fight between Castor and Pollux are haunting the lips; the eyes are full of visions of the beautiful forms of the wrestlers of the tribune-the young men of Cephissodote, so beautiful that they were taken for the sons of Niobe, of whom Apollo was jealous. One enters the canvas booth, the movable temple of the heroic Hercules, with a religious shiver, and, alas! what do you see? Stout, [p078] heavy men, their hair shining with pomatum, with abnormally developed chests-this is the glorious phalange; on the other hand, amateurs without either masks or black coats, but who are nearly all in the service of the Compagnie Lasage, men who have served their time, or porters in the Great Market. No well-bred figures, no delicate limbs. Compare these bloated Vitellii to the gods? There, my good fellows, go home to your lock-picking and your work.

Yet I remember one tragic anecdote of wrestling. It happened at the fair at Loges about fifteen years ago. We had gone into a booth to witness a fight with single-sticks between a fencing-master's assistant from St. Germains and the proprietor of the establishment. The soldier and the mountebank evidently knew and disliked each other; they were engaged for some time, and seemed less like holding a [p079] match than settling a quarrel; a good many people had followed the soldier into the booth.

The mountebank was completely beaten. He foamed at the mouth, rolling his eyes terribly, whilst the fencing-master, swinging himself to and fro, made his cane whistle above his head.

When the applause ended, the wrestler demanded:

"My revenge! take a belt!"

A woman intervened-a tall dark girl, a gipsy, who had juggled before us with weights and knives.

"Do not fight," she cried to the soldier in a voice full of pain. "He is furious! he will hurt you!"

The mountebank sneered:

"Madame fears that I might break you! Are you a man?"

The soldier turned white. He was a tall lissom man, but he did not look strong. However, he quietly unbuttoned the waistcoat that he had put on, and picked up the belt.

The other waited, his arms crossed, a smile on his lips.

They grasped each other, but the struggle did not last long. The soldier was immediately thrown underneath the other; the mountebank put one knee on his neck, seized his head with both hands, and turned it completely round. We heard a crack. The soldier uttered a horrible cry-the wrestler had broken his neck like a rabbit's back. I did not want to see any more and rushed out, whilst the crowd threw itself upon the mountebank. But in the evening an accidental turn in my walk brought me in front of the booth.

In the midst of all the gaiety, of songs, of meals in the [p080] open air, of the illuminations and noise of the shows, the wrestler's booth, silent and closed, was the only dark spot in the fair. An indistinct form cowered on the wooden steps. I went a little nearer to it. It was the gipsy, the juggler with weights. She was sobbing bitterly, her head buried in her apron-weeping for the prisoner or for the dead.

FOOTNOTES [3]

No king nor prince did ever see

Such a tiny dwarf as she.

When a flea to bite her tried,

The feast intended she denied,

And tried to crush him; then she found

With ease he threw her to the ground.

The summer breeze, a zephyr's sigh,

Would blow her down in passing by.

In fact, she was so slim and small

(Although in no way beautiful),

That when she stood in merry play,

Upon a tiny scale, one day-

Of brass, of copper, or of steel-

With dress and petticoat and frill,

And with her coiffure, furthermore-

The whole weighed but one louis d'or.

[p081]