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]