The Edge of the Desert

by Ianthe M. Dunbar

The setting of the entertainment was meagre in the extreme. The Box Office sat on a chair by a rickety wooden table, and occasionally rushed forth to chase away inquisitive boys who were approaching too near the mysteries. Inside there were three or four tiers of rough seats round the low canvas edging that circled the ring. On one side were the reserved seats, occupied by French officers of the small garrison and their wives, glad of even this simple distraction, shopkeepers, railway officials, and the richer Arabs. On the other side were rows and rows of natives packed as closely as possible along the benches, whilst the children sat on lower seats still, staring round them at the tent and up to the dim gloom of the roof, where a trapeze hung motionless. The ring was uncovered beaten earth, and naphtha lights illuminated the scene with a crude glare.

When all the seats were filled, the band, composed of a violin, a cornet, and a most useful drum, set up a martial air. There was a tightening up of the tense excitement amongst the children, and to a burst of ardour on the part of the drum, a grey horse cantered easily into the arena. His flowing tail almost swept the ground and from his arched neck rippled a long and silky mane. Striding after him came the Master of the Ceremonies, with his long whip and air of distinction. And with him came a scrap of a boy in a fringed khaki costume that strove to give him a Red Indian air. A scarlet handkerchief was knotted round his head. Round and round the ring went the horse, with an easy regular canter, until the crowd broke into exclamations of admiration. Had such an animal ever been seen before in the little town? “Truly it was such a steed as the son of a prince might ride,” said one to another. Then there was a fresh stir of interest as the tiny khaki figure ran to meet it, seemed to cling for a moment against its side, then threw a small leg across its back and sat upright, waving an acknowledgment to the applause. To the crack of the Master’s long whip that rang out like a pistol shot, the horse kept up his easy canter, whilst one by one the boy performed his tricks, standing on one leg, lying full length and picking up flags from the ground as he rode past, jumping over hurdles, etc., his small face set and grave under the folds of the scarlet handkerchief, intent on performing his task correctly. The crowd clapped delighted, till at last he and his steed disappeared in a storm of applause. Then talk rose again in a buzz. “Verily Hassan spoke truth when he said we should see marvels,” and there were murmurs that the turn was over too quickly. In the more expensive seats they discussed the show patronisingly and declared it not at all bad. Someone said it was a small family affair, this French travelling-circus, and that the performers worked hard and made it pay. “A wretched life,” he added.

Meanwhile from my seat near the gangway I could watch the performers as they came on and overhear snatches of talk. As the grey and its rider went out they passed a knot of people talking together. “Canst thou manage it, Etienne?” said a woman’s anxious voice, and at the same moment two clowns appeared laughing and bandying jokes. One of them, the elder, was so drawn and haggard, it seemed with pain, that it could be marked even through the thick white make-up on his face. He was in the usual baggy white costume; whilst the other, tall and young, was dressed absurdly in a short black jacket, with a turndown collar and flowing red bow tie, and wide checked trousers. His face, with its twinkling humorous eyes and wide slit mouth was reddened to the hue of a rosy apple, whilst his fair curly hair stood up in tufts above it. It could easily be seen he clowned for the love of it. He chaffed the audience, even drawing laughter from the Arab part of it, asked absurd questions of the Master of the Ceremonies, tried to perform feats of horsemanship and failed grotesquely, only to do something finally much more difficult than he had at first attempted.

But after a time a certain restlessness began to make itself felt amongst the audience. Good as the clowns were, the crowd was looking for the appearance of the Enchantress, the wonderful Princess of the Air. Expectation, whetted by what had already been seen, became more and more keen.

At last there was a stir outside, a pause, a crashing of chords on the part of the Band, and running forward with quick little steps, smiling to left and right, her dark hair hanging down her back, her candid eyes seeming to beg a kind reception from the crowd, she appeared.

She was dressed in scarlet tights, her arms bare to the shoulder, and by her side trotted a small boy, dressed too in red. With all her bravery of gaudy apparel and in spite of her professional ingratiating smile, there was still so much of the honest bourgeoise wife and mother about her that she struck one as incongruous. What queer chance had shaped her life to this? She came on with an air of competent quiet assurance. She was a large woman, with well-shaped sturdy limbs, and a wedding ring gleamed on her plump hand. She stepped into the arena, smiling all round, and I saw her surreptitiously pat the small boy’s foot as she lifted him into the trapeze and followed him herself.

Then came a really wonderful performance. She swung at a perilous height, knelt on the swaying swing, hung head downwards from it by her knees, her long hair streaming in a straight sweep from her head. The applause was tremendous. Sitting astride the bar she kissed her hand to the audience, then she and the small boy went on with their evolutions in mid air. Sometimes he threw himself into space, to be caught by her hanging hands, or he stood on her shoulders whilst they swung dizzily backwards and forwards above our heads. And all the time she had that air of an honest bourgeoise conscientiously giving the audience full value for their money. This Enchantress of the Air, this wonderful Princess the rumour of whose exploits had set a small town dreaming of romance, about whose scarlet-clad figure in the eyes of the Arab audience still clung the glamour of far-off cities and of unknown lands beyond the sea: for many a night she would haunt the dreams of the wide-eyed children in the audience, with that magic that had been first roused by the music of her high-sounding names, then strengthened by her strange apparel, and the ease and sureness which she displayed. Could one use such a word in connection with her solid person, one might say she had ‘flashed’ upon their consciousness, a being from another world, something jewelled and rare. And still she looked down, smiling, from the height above us.

The haggard looking clown had a part too to take in the acrobatic performance. He came to rub his feet in a heap of chalk near the gangway, and I could see tiny points of perspiration pricking through the make-up on his face. I knew he feared lest he should break down and I watched anxiously as he joined the performers. First he handed a chair up to the woman as she stood on the swing, and balancing it by two legs she sat on it, turning and twisting whilst all eyes were rivetted on her. Her calm and assurance seemed to uphold and steady the man. He and she and the boy did wonderful acrobatic tricks, but even at that distance I could mark the tension about his whitened face. Once or twice he missed his spring, but she remained serene and quiet and smiled encouragement to him.

The performance was gone through steadily, and then came the last pose, that set the nerves tingling. He stood on the swinging bar, she on his shoulder, and above her the small figure of the boy with a foot on either side her head. The veins stood out on the man’s neck from the immense strain, and though it was only for a moment they stayed, arms stretched out like a swaying human ladder, it was a relief when they slid safely to the ground.

Next came a ‘turn’ again with two horses. The Enchantress stood in the gangway next me, resting, her arms folded. She told me the Infant Prodigy was her son, and that she had four other children, one of them the boy rider we had seen. She spoke frankly and pleasantly. Yes, it was a hard life; they went from town to town, staying a few nights in each, but they earned their living, and after all, “il faut travailler, n’est ce pas?” She smiled, and moved away. An honest soul in that large figure, undoubtedly; kindly and conscientious. Her firm cheeks glowed with colour, her dark eyes had a direct gaze, and her bare arms were shapely and white. Her natural setting seemed some small shop in a provincial town, or perhaps the parlour of a country inn.