But my joy over finding the relic of my gymnastic power was short-lived. Even the most ordinary acrobatic work began to tell on me. Every night when the circus day was ended, I suffered the most intense pains. My back became weak. I was in despair.
One day the ringmaster, to whom I had told my physical troubles, said to me:
“Jules, you are a good mimic. Why don’t you try clowning?”
It struck me as a very good idea. I had always been interested in clowns. Their drolleries and fooling had won my child heart, and I could never forget those early kindnesses of the old clown Albro, my first nurse, who was with my mother’s circus. Often during the harsh days of my apprenticeship I would steal away after training and watch the clowns at work or play. They told me stories, but, to my great surprise, they were never funny stories, and I now recall my first sense of surprise over finding the clowns such serious, sober men when they were away from the circus. I had watched them very carefully, and I had an instinct that I was going to succeed as one of them.
To be a good clown, even then, a man had to be a pretty good acrobat, because in his clowning he was called upon to do many arduous physical things. The clowns in those days were what was known as “talking” clowns. They talked as they worked. The circuses were much smaller than now, and it was not difficult to get and hold the interest and attention of the people. One of the clowns’ favorite occupations was to guy the ringmaster. He would engage him in conversation something like this:
“I hear you are a great traveler.”
“Yes,” the ringmaster would reply with great dignity.
“Ever been to Rome?”
“Yes.”