THE MAGIC RING
Grown-up people really ought to be more careful. Among
themselves it may seem but a small thing to give their word and
take back their word. For them there are so many compensations.
Life lies at their feet, a party-coloured india-rubber ball; they
may kick it this way or kick it that, it turns up blue, yellow,
or green, but always coloured and glistenning. Thus one sees it
happen almost every day, and, with a jest and a laugh, the thing
is over, and the disappointed one turns to fresh pleasure, lying
ready to his hand. But with those who are below them, whose
little globe is swayed by them, who rush to build star-pointing
alhambras on their most casual word, they really ought to be more
careful.
In this case of the circus, for instance, it was not as if we
had led up to the subject. It was they who began it entirely--
prompted thereto by the local newspaper. "What, a circus!" said
they, in their irritating, casual way: "that would be nice to
take the children to. Wednesday would be a good day. Suppose we
go on Wednesday. Oh, and pleats are being worn again, with rows
of deep braid," etc.
What the others thought I know not: what they said, if they
said anything, I did not comprehend. For me the house was
bursting, walls seemed to cramp and to stifle, the roof was
jumping and lifting. Escape was the imperative thing--to escape
into the open air, to shake off bricks and mortar, and to wander
in the unfrequented places of the earth, the more properly to
take in the passion and the promise of the giddy situation.
Nature seemed prim and staid that day, and the globe gave no
hint that it was flying round a circus ring of its own. Could
they really be true. I wondered, all those bewildering things I
had heard tell of circuses? Did long-tailed ponies really walk on
their hind-legs and fire off pistols? Was it humanly possible for
clowns to perform one-half of the bewitching drolleries recorded
in history? And how, oh, how dare I venture to believe that, from
off the backs of creamy Arab steeds, ladies of more than earthly
beauty discharged themselves through paper hoops? No, it was not
altogether possible, there must have been some exaggeration.
Still, I would be content with very little, I would take a low
percentage--a very small proportion of the circus myth would
more than satisfy me. But again, even supposing that history
were, once in a way, no liar, could it be that I myself was
really fated to look upon this thing in the flesh and to live
through it, to survive the rapture? No, it was altogether too
much. Something was bound to happen, one of us would develop
measles, the world would blow up with a loud explosion. I must
not dare, I must not presume, to entertain the smallest hope. I
must endeavour sternly to think of something else.
Needless to say, I thought, I dreamed of nothing else, day or
night. Waking, I walked arm-in-arm with a clown, and cracked a
portentous whip to the brave music of a band. Sleeping, I
pursued--perched astride of a coal-black horse--a princess all
gauze and spangles, who always managed to keep just one
unattainable length ahead. In the early morning Harold and I,
once fully awake, crossexammed each other as to the
possibilities of this or that circus tradition, and exhausted the
lore long ere the first housemaid was stirring. In this state of
exaltation we slipped onward to what promised to be a day of all
white days--which brings me right back to my text, that grown-up
people really ought to be more careful. I had known it could
never
really be; I had said so to myself a dozen times. The vision was
too sweetly ethereal for embodiment. Yet the pang of the
disillusionment was none the less keen and sickening, and the
pain was as that of a corporeal wound. It seemed strange and
foreboding, when we entered the breakfast-room, not to find
everybody cracking whips, jumping over chairs, and whooping In
ecstatic rehearsal of the wild reality to come. The situation
became grim and pallid indeed, when I caught the expressions
"garden-party" and "my mauve tulle," and realized that they both
referred to that very afternoon. And every minute, as I sat
silent and listened, my heart sank lower and lower, descending
relentlessly like a clock-weight into my boot soles.
Throughout my agony I never dreamed of resorting to a direct
question, much less a reproach. Even during the period of joyful
anticipation some fear of breaking the spell had kept me from any
bald circus talk in the presence of them. But Harold, who was
built in quite another way, so soon as he discerned the drift of
their conversation and heard the knell of all his hopes, filled
the room with wail and clamour of bereavement. The grinning
welkin rang with "Circus!" "Cir-cus!" shook the window-panes ;
the mocking walls re-echoed "Circus!" Circus he would have, and
the whole circus, and nothing but the circus. No compromise for
him, no evasions, no fallacious, unsecured promises to pay. He
had drawn his cheque on the Bank of Expectation, and it had got
to be cashed then and there; else he would yell, and yell himself
into a fit, and come out of it and yell again. Yelling should be
his profession, his art, his mission, his career. He was
qualified, he was resolute, and he was in no hurry to retire from
the business.
The noisy ones of the world, if they do not always shout
themselves into the imperial purple, are sure at least of
receiving attention. If they cannot sell everything at their own
price, one thing--silence--must, at any cost, be purchased of
them. Harold accordingly had to be consoled by the employment of
every specious fallacy and base-born trick known to those whose
doom it is to handle children. For me their hollow cajolery had
no interest, I could pluck no consolation out of their bankrupt
though prodigal pledges. I only waited till that hateful, well-
known "Some other time, dear!" told me that hope was finally
dead. Then I left the room without any remark. It made it worse--
if anything could--to hear that stale, worn-out old phrase, still
supposed by those dullards to have some efficacy.
To nature, as usual, I drifted by instinct, and there, out of
the track of humanity, under a friendly hedge-row had my black
hour unseen. The world was a globe no longer, space was no more
filled with whirling circuses of spheres. That day the old
beliefs rose up and asserted themselves, and the earth was flat
again--ditch-riddled, stagnant, and deadly flat. The undeviating
roads crawled straight and white, elms dressed themselves stiffly
along inflexible hedges, all nature, centrifugal no longer,
sprawled flatly in lines out to its farthest edge, and I felt
just like walking out to that terminus, and dropping quietly off.
Then, as I sat there, morosely chewing bits of stick, the
recollection came back to me of certain fascinating
advertisements I had spelled out in the papers--advertisements of
great and happy men, owning big ships of tonnage running into
four figures, who yet craved, to the extent of public
supplication, for the sympathetic co-operation of youths as
apprentices. I did not rightly know what apprentices might be,
nor whether I was yet big enough to be styled a youth; but one
thing seemed clear, that, by some such means as this, whatever
the intervening hardships, I could eventually visit all the
circuses of the world--the circuses of merry France and gaudy
Spain, of Holland and Bohemia, of China and Peru. Here was a plan
worth thinking out in all its bearings; for something had
presently to be done to end this intolerable state of things.
Mid-day, and even feeding-time, passed by gloomily enough, till
a small disturbance occurred which had the effect of releasing
some of the electricity with which the air was charged. Harold,
it should be explained, was of a very different mental mould, and
never brooded, moped, nor ate his heart out over any
disappointment. One wild outburst--one dissolution of a minute
into his original elements of air and water, of tears and outcry
--so much insulted nature claimed. Then he would pull himself
together, iron out his countenance with a smile, and adjust
himself to the new condition of things.
If the gods are ever grateful to man for anything, it is when
he is so good as to display a short memory. The Olympians were
never slow to recognize this quality of Harold's, in which,
indeed, their salvation lay, and on this occasion their gratitude
had taken the practical form of a fine fat orange, tough-rinded
as oranges of those days were wont to be. This he had eviscerated
in the good old-fashioned manner, by biting out a hole in the
shoulder, inserting a lump of sugar therein, and then working it
cannily till the whole soul and body of the orange passed
glorified through the sugar into his being. Thereupon, filled
full of orange-juice and iniquity, he conceived a deadly snare.
Having deftly patted and squeezed the orange-skin till it resumed
its original shape, he filled it up with water, inserted a fresh
lump of sugar in the orifice, and, issuing forth, blandly
proffered it to me as I sat moodily in the doorway dreaming of
strange wild circuses under tropic skies.
Such a stale old dodge as this would hardly have taken me in at
ordinary moments. But Harold had reckoned rightly upon the
disturbing effect of ill-humour, and had guessed, perhaps, that I
thirsted for comfort and consolation, and would not criticize too
closely the source from which they came. Unthinkingly I grasped
the golden fraud, which collapsed at my touch, and squirted its
contents, into my eyes and over my collar, till the nethermost
parts of me were damp with the water that had run down my neck.
In an instant I had Harold down, and, with all the energy of
which I was capable, devoted myself to grinding his head into the
gravel; while he, realizing that the closure was applied, and
that the time for discussion or argument was past, sternly
concentrated his powers on kicking me in the stomach.
Some people can never allow events to work themselves out
quietly. At this juncture one of Them swooped down on the scene,
pouring shrill, misplaced abuse on both of us: on me for
ill-treating my younger brother, whereas it was distinctly I who
was the injured and the deceived; on him for the high offense of
assault and battery on a clean collar--a collar which I had
myself deflowered and defaced, shortly before, in sheer desperate
ill-temper. Disgusted and defiant we fled in different
directions, rejoining each other later in the kitchen-garden; and
as we strolled along together, our short feud forgotten, Harold
observed, gloomily: "I should like to be a cave-man, like Uncle
George was tellin' us about: with a flint hatchet and no clothes,
and live in a cave and not know anybody!"
"And if anyone came to see us we didn't like," I joined in,
catching on to the points of the idea, "we'd hit him on the head
with the hatchet till he dropped down dead."
"And then," said Harold, warming up, "we'd drag him into the
cave and skin him!"
For a space we gloated silently over the fair scene our
imaginations had conjured up. It was blood we felt the need of
just then. We wanted no luxuries, nothing dear-bought nor
far-fetched. Just plain blood, and nothing else, and plenty of
it.
Blood, however, was not to be had. The time was out of joint,
and we had been born too late. So we went off to the greenhouse,
crawled into the heating arrangement underneath, and played at
the dark and dirty and unrestricted life of cave-men till we were
heartily sick of it. Then we emerged once more into historic
times, and went off to the road to look for something living and
sentient to throw stones at.
Nature, so often a cheerful ally, sometimes sulks and refuses
to play. When in this mood she passes the word to her underlings,
and all the little people of fur and feather take the hint and
slip home quietly by back streets. In vain we scouted, lurked,
crept, and ambuscaded. Everything that usually scurried, hopped,
or fluttered--the small society of the undergrowth--seemed to
have engagements elsewhere. The horrid thought that perhaps they
had all gone off to the circus occurred to us simultaneously, and
we humped ourselves up on the fence and felt bad. Even the sound
of approaching wheels failed to stir any interest in us. When you
are bent on throwing stones at something, humanity seems
obtrusive and better away. Then suddenly we both jumped off the
fence together, our faces clearing. For our educated ear had told
us that the approaching rattle could only proceed from a
dog-cart, and we felt sure it must be the funny man.
We called him the funny man because he was sad and serious, and
said little, but gazed right into our souls, and made us tell him
just what was on our minds at the time, and then came out with
some magnificently luminous suggestion that cleared every cloud
away. What was more, he would then go off with us at once and pay
the thing right out to its finish, earnestly and devotedly,
putting all other things aside. So we called him the funny man,
meaning only that he was different from those others who thought
it incumbent on them to play the painful mummer. The ideal as
opposed to the real man was what we meant, only we were not
acquainted with the phrase. Those others, with their laboured
jests and clumsy contortions, doubtless flattered themselves that
they were funny men; we, who had to sit through and applaud the
painful performance, knew better.
He pulled up to a walk as soon as he caught sight of us, and
the dog-cart crawled slowly along till it stopped just opposite.
Then he leant his chin on his hand and regarded us long and
soulfully, yet said he never a word; while we jigged up and down
in the dust, grinning bashfully but with expectation. For you
never knew exactly what this man might say or do.
"You look bored," he remarked presently; "thoroughly bored. Or
else--let me see; you're not married, are you?"
He asked this in such sad earnestness that we hastened to
assure him we were not married, though we felt he ought to have
known that much; we had been intimate for some time.
"Then it's only boredom," he said. "Just satiety and world-
weariness. Well, if you assure me you aren't married you can
climb into this cart and I'll take you for a drive. I'm bored,
too. I want to do something dark and dreadful and exciting."
We clambered in, of course, yapping with delight and treading
all over his toes; and as we set off, Harold demanded of him
imperiously whither he was going.
"My wife," he replied, "has ordered me to go and look up the
curate and bring him home to tea. Does that sound sufficiently
exciting for you?"
Our faces fell. The curate of the hour was not a success, from
our point of view. He was not a funny man, in any sense of the
word.
"--but I'm not going to," he added, cheerfully. "Then I was to
stop at some cottage and ask--what was it? There was nettle-rash
mixed up in it, I'm sure. But never mind, I've forgotten, and it
doesn't matter. Look here, we're three desperate young fellows
who stick at nothing. Suppose we go off to the circus?"
Of certain supreme moments it is not easy to write. The varying
shades and currents of emotion may indeed be put into words by
those specially skilled that way; they often are, at considerable
length. But the sheer, crude article itself--the strong, live
thing that leaps up inside you and swells and strangles you, the
dizziness of revulsion that takes the breath like cold water--who
shall depict this and live? All I knew was that I would have died
then and there, cheerfully, for the funny man; that I longed for
red Indians to spring out from the hedge on the dog-cart, just to
show what I would do; and that, with all this, I could not find
the least little word to say to him.
Harold was less taciturn. With shrill voice, uplifted in solemn
chant, he sang the great spheral circus-song, and the undying
glory of the Ring. Of its timeless beginning he sang, of its
fashioning by cosmic forces, and of its harmony with the stellar
plan. Of horses he sang, of their strength, their swiftness, and
their docility as to tricks. Of clowns again, of the glory of
knavery, and of the eternal type that shall endure. Lastly he
sang of Her--the Woman of the Ring--flawless, complete,
untrammelled in each subtly curving limb; earth's highest output,
time's noblest expression. At least, he doubtless sang all these
things and more--he certainly seemed to; though all that was
distinguishable was, "We're-goin'-to-the-circus!" and then, once
more, "We're-goin'-to-the-circus!"--the sweet rhythmic phrase
repeated again and again. But indeed I cannot be quite sure, for
I heard confusedly, as in a dream. Wings of fire sprang from the
old mare's shoulders. We whirled on our way through purple
clouds, and earth and the rattle of wheels were far away below.
The dream and the dizziness were still in my head when I found
myself, scarce conscious of intermediate steps, seated actually
in the circus at last, and took in the first sniff of that
intoxicating circus smell that will stay by me while this clay
endures. The place was beset by a hum and a glitter and a mist;
suspense brooded large o'er the blank, mysterious arena. Strung
up to the highest pitch of expectation, we knew not from what
quarter, in what divine shape, the first surprise would come.
A thud of unseen hoofs first set us aquiver; then a crash of
cymbals, a jangle of bells, a hoarse applauding roar, and Coralie
was in the midst of us, whirling past 'twixt earth and sky, now
erect, flushed, radiant, now crouched to the flowing mane; swung
and tossed and moulded by the maddening dance-music of the band.
The mighty whip of the count in the frock-coat marked time with
pistol-shots; his war-cry, whooping clear above the music, fired
the blood with a passion for splendid deeds, as Coralie,
laughing, exultant, crashed through the paper hoops. We gripped
the red cloth in front of us, and our souls sped round and round
with Coralie, leaping with her, prone with her, swung by mane or
tail with her. It was not only the ravishment of her delirious
feats, nor her cream-coloured horse of fairy breed, long-tailed,
roe-footed, an enchanted prince surely, if ever there was one! It
was her more than mortal beauty--displayed, too, under conditions
never vouchsafed to us before--that held us spell-bound. What
princess had arms so dazzlingly white, or went delicately clothed
in such pink and spangles? Hitherto we had known the outward
woman as but a drab thing, hour-glass shaped, nearly legless,
bunched here, constricted there; slow of movement, and given to
deprecating lusty action of limb. Here was a revelation! From
henceforth our imaginations would have to be revised and
corrected up to date. In one of those swift rushes the mind makes
in high-strung moments, I saw myself and Coralie, close enfolded,
pacing the world together, o'er hill and plain, through storied
cities, past rows of applauding relations,--I in my Sunday
knickerbockers, she in her pink and spangles.
Summers sicken, flowers fail and die, all beauty but rides
round the ring and out at the portal; even so Coralie passed in
her turn, poised sideways, panting, on her steed; lightly swayed
as a tulip-bloom, bowing on this side and on that as she
disappeared; and with her went my heart and my soul, and all the
light and the glory and the entrancement of the scene.
Harold woke up with a gasp. "Wasn't she beautiful?" he said, in
quite a subdued way for him. I felt a momentary pang. We had been
friendly rivals before, in many an exploit; but here was
altogether a more serious affair. Was this, then, to be the
beginning of strife and coldness, of civil war on the hearthstone
and the sundering of old ties? Then I recollected the true
position of things, and felt very sorry for Harold; for it was
inexorably written that he would have to give way to me, since I
was the elder. Rules were not made for nothing, in a sensibly
constructed universe.
There was little more to wait for, now Coralie had gone; yet I
lingered still, on the chance of her appearing again. Next moment
the clown tripped up and fell flat, with magnificent artifice,
and at once fresh emotions began to stir. Love had endured its
little hour, and stern ambition now asserted itself. Oh, to be a
splendid fellow like this, self-contained, ready of speech, agile
beyond conception, braving the forces of society, his hand
against everyone, yet always getting the best of it! What
freshness of humour, what courtesy to dames, what triumphant
ability to discomfit rivals, frock-coated and moustached though
they might be! And what a grand, self-confident straddle of the
legs! Who could desire a finer career than to go through life
thus gorgeously equipped! Success was his key-note, adroitness
his panoply, and the mellow music of laughter his instant reward.
Even Coralie's image wavered and receded. I would come back to
her in the evening, of course; but I would be a clown all the
working hours of the day.
The short interval was ended: the band, with long-drawn chords,
sounded a prelude touched with significance; and the programme,
in letters overtopping their fellows, proclaimed Zephyrine, the
Bride of the Desert, in her unequalled bareback equestrian
interlude. So sated was I already with beauty and with wit, that
I hardly dared hope for a fresh emotion. Yet her title was tinged
with romance, and Coralie's display had aroused in me an interest
in her sex which even herself had failed to satisfy entirely.
Brayed in by trumpets, Zephyrine swung passionately into the
arena. With a bound she stood erect, one foot upon each of her
supple, plunging Arabs; and at once I knew that my fate was
sealed, my chapter closed, and the Bride of the Desert was the
one bride for me. Black was her raiment, great silver stars shone
through it, caught in the dusky twilight of her gauze; black as
her own hair were the two mighty steeds she bestrode. In a
tempest they thundered by, in a whirlwind, a scirocco of tan; her
cheeks bore the kiss of an Eastern sun, and the sand-storms of
her native desert were her satellites. What was Coralie, with her
pink silk, her golden hair and slender limbs, beside this
magnificent, full-figured Cleopatra? In a twinkling we were
scouring the desert--she and I and the two coal-black horses.
Side by side, keeping pace in our swinging gallop, we distanced
the ostrich, we outstrode the zebra; and, as we went, it seemed
the wilderness blossomed like the rose.
***
I know not rightly how we got home that evening. On the road
there were everywhere strange presences, and the thud of phantom
hoofs encircled us. In my nose was the pungent circus-smell; the
crack of the whip and the frank laugh of the clown were in my
ears. The funny man thoughtfully abstained from conversation, and
left our illusion quite alone, sparing us all jarring criticism
and analysis; and he gave me no chance, when he deposited us at
our gate, to get rid of the clumsy expressions of gratitude I had
been laboriously framing. For the rest of the evening, distraught
and silent, I only heard the march-music of the band, playing on
in some corner of my brain. When at last my head touched the
pillow, in a trice I was with Zephyrine, riding the boundless
Sahara, cheek to cheek, the world well lost; while at times,
through the sand-clouds that encircled us, glimmered the eyes of
Coralie, touched, one fancied, with something of a tender
reproach.
