You Get Pains at the Circus

New Zealand Listener, Volume 20, Issue 500, 21 January 1949, Page 15

You Get Pains at the Circus

Written for "The Listener"

by

M.

B.

goers, others have circusgoing thrust upon them. I accepted the inevitable with impressive reluctance, finding myself almost the only one of my acquaintance who hed not yet taken the kids. I was thus able to benefit from others’ previous experience. "Whatever vou parents are born circus-

do," said my neighbour, "take cushions. And rugs. Such a cold draught at the

back." ‘is "Get up high," said my sister-in-law. "Otherwise the children won’t be able to see past the people on’ the canvas who will kneel up when they're supposed to sit down." "Get there early," said the butcher. "It’s a much better show in the evening, lidy," said the man who was feeding the elephants on one of our frequent preparatory visits to the grounds. "More for your money, like." "Get the 8/- seats," said my husband’s offsider at the office. "In the six bobs all you can see is the backsides of the elephants," . * * E did as we were told. We got there early, our two eight-and-tenpennies and two halves safely pocketed: But we had reckoned without the elephants and the menagerie, lurking, like Scylla and Charybdis, on either side of the entrance to the Big Top. It was almost eight when we presented our tickets to the uniformed guardsman at the head of the lane, and, dripping rugs and wrapped toffees at every step, followed the attendant. Only the lowest rung of eight and tenpennies was empty. "Higher up," I said firmly, We swept ®n, to end up on the canvas in front of the six and eight-pennies. "It could have been worse," I said brightly, swaying my neck from side to side to see beyond the mast in front, We were almost next to the band, who was even now tentatively spinning his

cymbals and dusting off his drum, waiting his cue from the loudspeaker van drawn up beside him. The air was rich’ with expectancy. All eyes were fixed on the Ring, fenced 12 feet with stout steel bars. Alarum Without. Enter Madame Kovar, booted, but not spurred. And from their cage debouch the Lions, five of them, all positively bouncing with joie de yivre and animal spirits. She cracks her whip, makes

threatening gestures with the rod. The lions pad happily round the ring, leap

to their appointed stools, snarl obediently when tapped on the nose. "Exactly like the M.G.M. one!" cooed the Woman in Front ecstatically. It’s a very good act. The lions form pyramids, line up, paws on a bar, to be jumped over, scarcely batting an eyelid when the jumper lands heavy-pawed on a colleague’s shoulder by mistake. One lion refuses to lift his paws at the word of command, and a slanging match ensues between animal and trainer, "She doesn’t dare take her eyes off them," says the Man Behind. The four carnivores sitting neatly on stools behind the trainer fail to seize their strategic advantage and the act moves without mishap to its successful conclusion. Safely caged, the lions are borne away, and Madame Kovar, lioness now herself, takes a tremendous ovation. "Mummy, where have the lions gone?" asks the little girl beside me. "Outside," says her mother. But look, dear, see the pretty lady on the ladder." "To have their dinner?" asks the child. "Yes, dear. Look, she’s hanging by one foot." "Could I do that, Mummy?" "No, dear, you’ve just had it." % * * AM impressed by the smooth staffwork of the performance, The pretty ladies have filled. the audience’s eye long enough for the unobtrusive men in blue (with red trimmings) to remove the iron

railings, the stools and steps, ‘and to set up a simple domestic scene (gramophone couchant surmounted by vase with geranium rampant) for the comic interlude. The clown is wigged, busted and bustled, and this is slapstick and custard pie at its most literal. The children (of all ages, to quote the Ringmaster’s prologue), love it. ick Sime Y husband’s___ colleague was quite right about the elephants, but it is something to have seen’ even the rear view of three elephants forming a triumphal arch for the fourth to crawl through, and the profile of an elephant walking a "tightrope," to say continued on next page)

AT THE CIRCUS (continued trom previous page) nothing of frequent glimpses through arcades of elephant legs of an intrepid soubrette being knelt down on, gently cradled in two trunks, or softly swinging her legs from one, like a fairy esconced in the crescent moon. ("They never forget," says the Man Behind). The horses were much more democratic, spending as much time playing to the six bobs as to the 11/2 reserves. There was something definitely endearing about the horses, though they might well have depended on looks alone. Four beautiful white Arabs, pink and quivering of nostrils, with modest and demure expressions, they tottered manfully on hind legs, swirled to the Blue Danube, often took a wrong -turning and were rewarded with lumps of sugar. ("It’s all done by kindness," said the Man Behind.) Their fallibility was refreshing in a world where men stood on their heads on trapezes as if it were the natural thing to do and contortionists fell effortlessly into impgssible poses, and no sugar at the end of it. % * * ALF-WAY through now, and we're glad we brought the cushions. The children show a tendency to Kneel Up, and have to be called to order by the Man Behind, who doesn’t believe in the sugar technique. I distribute paper toffees and hollow in the sawdust a hole for my hip. And now, with Eastern music pulsing softly from. the loudspeaker, the lights go out ready for the performance of the Great Illusionist. (Muffled curses from the firemen, counting the glowing tips of sly cigarettes). In the centre of the ring a man after their own heart is eating fire. An appreciative hush fills the house. "Mummy," says the little girl beside me, "I want to go outside." "Hush, dear," says Mother. "Look at the funny man pulling streamers out of his mouth." "Why is he?" asks the child. "Hush, dear," says Mother. % * * ND now it’s clowns again, and then the Queen of the Air disports herself within touching distance of the canvas. Then a juggler, one foot on a slack wire and his other limbs a maze of whirling rings. "Mummy!" says the child urgently, "I want to go outside." "Later, dear," says Mother, looking a little frantic. ste

HE Ringmaster has come forward to make an impressive announcement. The last item, Ladies and Gentlemen. The Flying Waynes, fresh from America! Risking their lives for our entertainment. He casts a cold eye on the restive canvas-sitters at ringside edge. ‘The slightest movement, ladies and gentlemen, may distract the artists. You are requested to keep your seats till the performance is- over." The strairfs of the Blue Danube once more take the air, the trapezes are synchronised, the performance begins. "Mummy!" wails ‘the child. "Look," hisses the Mother despairingly. "Look up there at the funny men!" It is over, The audience’s indrawn breath is thankfully released. The Flying Waynes wing netward,

"Now, dear," sighs the harassed mother. "Now can I go outside and see the lions?" asks the child incredulously. "God Save the King," and I stagger to my feet, feeling more than usual kinship for him as I try to restofe the circulation. Two children, three cushions, two rugs’and a deflated balloon. We seem to have everything. * * * QUTSIDE at last. I look at the children, They have the dazed expression of those who have supped too full of delights. (Or it might have been sleep.) "Did you like it?" I asked. "T loved the funny man," said my son, "The fupny man with the red nose and baggy pants?" I asked hopefully. "The funny man who played the drum and those round things. He was there all the time right near me." "T liked the funny man who sold icecreams," lisped my daughter. "Twenty-six and sixpence!" wailed my husband, stooping to retrieve a cushion. In stiff-hipped silence we tottered to the car. ; ‘ ne