  I retain amongst the recollections of my provincial childhood, the remembrance of an annual festival, in itself noisy and marvellous, and even now, when I close my eyes, I can recall the brightness of its lamps. Every year, at Saint Michel, in the month when the clear heaven is spotted with kites, in one square of the old city, by the side of the paved road by which the Paris coaches formerly passed with sonorous smacking of the whip, a palace of new planks would rise in a few days as light as a house of cards. Enormous placards on every wall announced the arrival of a grand circus consisting of fifty horses and one hundred and fifty artists. For some weeks beforehand our boyish hearts were seriously disturbed. Every day, after school-hours, with [p160] books under our arms, walking like truant schoolboys, we went to enjoy, through the half-open doors of the stables, the intoxicating smell of horses, blended with the scent of fresh sawdust and that perfume of musk which turns the brains of men. And then, peeping through the chinks between the badly fitting planks, we could watch, in the half light of the circus, the rehearsals of the beautiful equestrians for whom our youthful hearts were beating, as naÏve and courageous as those of their own horses. At last some fine morning the passers by would see on the placards the announcement of a gala performance. “The professors of the college and MM. the pupils of the LycÉe will honour this entertainment by their presence.” It was on one of these evenings, now almost twenty years ago, that I first saw and loved poor Émilie Loisset, before her success in Paris and Vienna, when she made her dÉbut in the haute École, and played in a pantomime disguised as Prince Charming, with her sister Clotilde, now an Hungarian princess. Her touching story has been related by Philippe Daryl in his charming novel La Petite Lambton. At that time Émilie was not more than eighteen years old, and she was the most charming creature in the world. Still her eyes and her face wore a curiously melancholy expression. I learnt afterwards that the most flattering success could never dispel the instinctive distrust of life, the romantic fancy for gloomy subjects which afterwards led her to take a house exactly opposite the little cemetery of Maisons-Laffitte. She was buried in it two days after she had been carried from the circus mutilated and crushed by the fall of her horse, which, in refusing a jump, had fallen upon her. [p161] Forgive me for opening this chapter by evoking the melancholy smile of one who is no more. But I owe this tribute to Émilie Loisset; for it is through her, that, as a child, I received the first revelation of the beauty of a woman on horseback, of the artistic union of the two most perfect curvilineal forms in creation—the horse adding height to the woman by the majesty of its stature, the woman daringly poised on the animal like a wing. But long and serious work, both for the equestrian and the horse, has preceded this harmonious union. Although the woman and the animal have acquired the habit of conquering difficulties together, and have even attained perfect unison of will and obedience, yet they have each studied alone, slowly [p162] reaching that perfection, that confidence in their own powers, which produce the success of their alliance. It is important that the various phases of this education should be defined at once. The studies of the equestrians of the haute École, the highest form of training for horse and rider, differ completely from those of the pad equestrian, whilst the lessons given to performing horses differ equally from those of the haute École. EMILIE LOISSET. France possesses the legendary trainer of performing horses, M. Loyal. For thirty-five years he has introduced his pupils to the public. M. Franconi possesses an old mare—la mÈre Tulipe—twenty-two years old, who was trained under his whip. Every year M. Loyal undertakes some new [p163] pupils, and enlarges the sphere of his conquests. He is so certain of his own pre-eminence that he takes no trouble to conceal his method. He has often invited me to his rehearsals, and I have met fellow-workers there who had gone, like myself, to learn from him. One day M. Loyal even gave one of us a short essay on the subject of his work, which has since been published. [p164] The horse, in the opinion of the celebrated trainer, is one of the dullest animals created; it has but one faculty, memory. On this account it must be forced to learn its tricks by the aid of the curb and whip; they are imprinted in its memory by the whip if it resist, and by presents of carrots if it obey. On these terms every horse can be trained, but it is well understood that certain breeds, such as Arabian and German horses from Old Prussia, are easier to teach than any others, and also that the animal’s age is of great importance. It must not be either too young or too old; the best educations are given between five and seven years old. Before that age the horse is too excitable, too nervous; he gets confused. Later than that his muscles are not sufficiently flexible. The A B C of education consists in rendering the horse familiar with the arena, making it go round regularly and stop at a given signal. To teach it this first lesson, M. Loyal leads the creature into the circus and places it close to the palisade, whilst he goes into the centre of the ring. In his left hand he holds a long leash, which has been passed through the curb or cavesson—every one knows that this is a semicircle of iron armed with a sharp point, which is placed upon the nose of the horse. In his right hand he holds a long whip, whilst an assistant, armed with a strong riding-whip, is concealed behind the animal. In this position the trainer utters a call, then lightly pulling the horse, forces it to walk. If it resist the assistant gives it a blow with the whip, if it obey it receives a carrot from its master as a reward, after three or four turns round the arena. To make it stop, the trainer suddenly cracks the whip in his pupil’s face, whilst the assistant throws himself in front of it. [p165] The same method is used in teaching a horse to leap. It is placed in front of a barrier, and is encouraged to jump over it by voice and gesture; if it refuse, the assistant gives it a volley of blows on the croup with his whip. If it jump, the ever ready carrot is its reward. THE MARE TULIPE To make it point, the ring-master has simply to place [p166] himself squarely in front of the horse, to shake his riding-whip with the left hand, whilst he cracks his long whip with the right. But although the horse learns these tricks with comparative facility, a great effort is required before it can be taught to kneel. The trainer is obliged to resort to surprise. A bracelet is attached to the two fore pasterns just above the hoof, and a cord is attached to it by one end, the other being held by the trainer. Suddenly M. Loyal attracts the attention of the horse by a sharp cry; at the same time he shakes its confidence by a pull at the cord and a vigorous blow on its shoulder. In a short time the horse kneels down at the master’s call without being tripped or coerced in any way. Next to this achievement, the most difficult feat is teaching a horse the trick of changing feet. This requires fully a year of patience. The animal is led into the arena and commences its usual exercise round it. The trainer allows it to settle quietly into its stride, then abruptly, with a touch of the whip cleverly applied, he tries to break its pace; that is to say, to make it change step. If this result is obtained, the horse is allowed to gallop round the ring once or twice, then it is checked again to make it return to its former step. When the animal understands what it ought to do at the touch of the whip, instead of completing the turn round the ring on one foot, it is forced to change at the half round. Afterwards it is only allowed a quarter turn, then only three or four steps without changing, and lastly only two. The horse thus appears to dance the polka when it performs to music, which accompanies and follows its movements. The ring-master usually chooses a well-bred horse from [p167] amongst the animals trained in this way, and already broken, for initiation into the haute École. No one will expect me to discuss here the principles of this training, nor even the theories of circus horsemanship. [p168] I refer the reader to the special treatises written upon the subject by men in the profession, particularly to the fine book which the historian of sport, Baron de Vaux, has published under the title of Les Hommes de Cheval.10 I especially recommend the perusal of the chapter consecrated to the Franconi family. It contains an account of how Laurence Franconi taught the present manager of the two circuses the principles of the School of Versailles, whilst freeing good horsemanship from the superfluities in use in the time of Pluvinel. Laurence Franconi wished for a less formal, less studied style of horsemanship. The introduction into France of English horses trained in the hunting-field and on the race-course, and the re-organization of the cavalry, had demonstrated the necessity of preparing horses for greater freedom of action. It was realized that good riding did not consist merely in forcing a horse to show off and tire itself uselessly in obtaining a striking effect, but in well calculating the strength of the steed, in husbanding its forces, and regulating its paces. It was at last recognized that the ideal horse of the haute École should be easy in its balance and in its artificial paces under the guidance of its rider, and that on his side the rider should only use the force necessary to maintain this balance, and to secure the execution of the airs of the haute École. On these principles Laurence Franconi trained Blanche, Norma, and Hector; Victor Franconi, his son, trained Frisette, Ajax, Waverley, and Brillante; and Charles Franconi, his grandson, educated RÉgent and Moscou. [p169] I remember being present at the Cirque d’ÉtÉ during one of Moscou’s rehearsals, ridden by Mdlle. Marguerite Dudlay. The little empty circus was illumined by a red light, the reflection of the April sun upon the velvet of the benches. Charles Franconi was watching the work of the equestrian and her horse. It was a Russian stallion, beautifully shaped and very elegant; in its veins it showed the vigour of the [p170] Slav-blood, full of revolt, excitement, passion, and violence, veiled by affected gentleness, lost in compliance with its rider’s will. A ring-master, armed with a whip, held the horse in front of a barrier which he gradually raised. Without any apparent effort Mdlle. Dudlay lifted the grand quivering beast over the bar. The young girl was bareheaded, and her hair had fallen down with the shock. She was a charming picture in her dangerous leaps, with her long wavy hair flowing over her shoulders. After the rehearsal I went up to her to speak about her horses. She was very fond of them, and would not allow them to be scolded. They were her friends. “Moscou is so gentlemanly!” she said, showing me the [p172] horse, which an attendant was leading away covered with foam. “He has such good manners!” And in a low tone she owned to me that she preferred him to Regent, a grey of classic beauty, much more reliable than his comrade—loyal, vigorous, and brave; but he replaced coaxing by a military deportment, the correct stiffness of an officer. “No doubt I am unjust,” said Mdlle. Dudlay, “but how can I help it? Moscou and I love each other.” That is the secret of the haute École as well as of everything else. Habit and skill are insufficient—love is necessary too. It is through love of the little hands which caress their necks that these great horses throw all their energies into leaps which exhaust them; it is through love that they humiliate themselves, that they kneel down. For my own part, I know no grander spectacle, no more spiritual combination, no triumph more admirable of mental over physical force. It is almost unnecessary to add that these instances of perfect harmony are the exception, not the rule. The little “mashers” in white ties and dress-coats who encumber the entrance to the ring, and surround the equestrian as she mounts her saddle, crying “Bravo!” and “TrÈs chic!” at every movement she makes, hope by their eagerness, by these exclamations, to pose as horsey men in the eyes of the crowd; but they never imagine the duplicity of which they are the victims nineteen times out of twenty. HAUTE ÉCOLE. There are, in fact, two very different categories of equestrians of the haute École; first the wives, daughters, and sisters of the circus managers, who are placed on a horse [p173] trained in the establishment at an early age. Let us softly add that these subjects are nearly always, to quote an expression of M. Molier, “Les fruits secs du panneau.”11 It sometimes occurs also that a well-to-do manager, who thinks of marrying his daughter in the bourgeoisie—or even in the aristocracy—hesitates to exhibit the young girl in the semi-nudity of tights. He is afraid of alarming the future husband. This has happened with several accomplished equestrians like the late Émilie Loisset, and, at the present moment, Mdlle. Renz. As a rule, the equestrian of the haute École is a pretty girl who wishes to appear in a circus, and who has found some one [p174] to minister to her vanity. This “some one” must be rich—very rich. The horsewoman in question must take with her three trained horses—two of the haute École, and one leaper. This trio of horses costs a great deal. It is only in a circus that they can be obtained ready to work [p175] with a woman, and the trade in them is a speciality of German circuses. Old horses trained in the haute École, regular as clocks in their movements, may be found there for sale at from 10,000 to 15,000 francs each. The value of the horse sometimes even rises to 20,000 francs if it has a good tail. A few weeks’ work suffice to “adapt”—another expression of M. Molier, to whom I owe the revelation of all these secrets—a very mediocre equestrian to one of these mechanical horses. The animal, annoyed by its bad rider, who shuffles on her saddle, does not perform one-half of the work which the man has taught him. But the public does not know this, and the would-be sportsmen who adorn the entrance to the ring open admiring eyes when the pretty girl assures them, from the superior height of her saddle, that she trained the horse herself. These frank explanations will probably make many pretty enemies for me; but, at least, they ought to assure you of the sincerity of the admiration and respect which I profess for the pad equestrians or standing equestrians. Apparently, in a circus, a woman’s virtue is in inverse proportion to the length of her skirts; the riding-habit is suspected, whilst muslin petticoats soar above all scandalous aspersions. The “standing” equestrian is usually married to a circus artiste whilst still very young; she is an excellent housewife and a model mother. As long as maternity does not interfere with her profession, she shares her husband’s dangerous performances during her youth. With him she dislocates herself, and bravely fractures her arms and legs. She has [p176] scarcely recovered before she recommences her work. Her circus education is complete. She was placed on a horse at six years old, and besides her standing-up performances—the [p177] most difficult of all—she has learnt the mimic art, the slack wire, juggling, gymnastics, sometimes even the “carpet.” I am not alluding to the haute École. An equestrian who can ride standing is so sure of her balance, and so much accustomed to her horse, that she can ride on a side saddle with very little instruction. She can therefore appear as an equestrian of the haute École with only a few days’ rehearsal. But amongst all the necessary studies that form part of the education of a pad equestrian, there is one fundamental and primary one to which she devotes as much time as to the riding-school; this is the art of dancing. The equestrian follows the same classes as a ballet girl. Dancing lessons make her turn her feet and knees out, teach her to carry her arms and head well, and give her equilibrium and grace. There are some instances of dancers who, having injured themselves in the exercise of their art, have learnt to ride standing in less than a year. The horse ridden by a pad equestrian should be a reliable animal, with smooth even paces. The regularity of its movements is so important that now the most popular equestrians possess their own horses, and insist upon the manager of the circus engaging them too. This is a wise precaution. I remember one day at the Cirque d’ÉtÉ seeing Mdlle. AdÈle Rossi contend with a fine piebald horse which replaced her usual steed. She appeared as a jockey, standing and booted, in a vaulting performance in which she was charmingly jaunty and graceful. She made her spring in the ring, and alighted standing upon the galloping horse. Each time she leaped the animal was startled and changed [p179] its foot; this produced an abrupt movement of the shoulder, which sent Mdlle. Rossi back into the arena. The young girl was obliged to recommence her performance a dozen times before she succeeded in it, amidst the applause of the audience. This wonderful equilibrium is only acquired by great practice and much patience. You may now see an amusing performance at the Nouveau Cirque styled a “Riding Lesson” on the programme. The stablemen place a large gibbet, which moves on its own axis, in the centre of the arena. From the arm of this apparatus a ring, attached to a cord, hangs above the ring-master, who is on horseback. The other end of the cord is attached to the pupil’s waist. You will at once realize the amusement which is derived from the awkward movements of the gibbet. The man in the black coat, who wished to take a riding-lesson, is left swimming in the air, whilst the horse gallops on the other side of the [p180] arena. But at the rehearsals of an artist, the gibbet manoeuvres with more circumspection, and it has very generally replaced the cord, which was formerly fastened on one side to the pupil’s waist-belt and held by the riding-master at the other end, whilst it passed in the middle through a ring hanging from the ceiling. The first time that an equestrian, supported in this manner, takes a lesson on the pad, she is made to gallop in a sitting posture until she is thoroughly accustomed to the movements of the horse. Then she raises herself upon one knee before she stands upright, her shoulder turned inside the ring, between the horse and the master. The equestrian then gradually rises to her feet, and performs upon the pad all the steps that she has acquired in the dancing academy. The man who has followed the same classes with her, now adds to her work the attitudes and movements of an acrobat; together they perform the pas de deux and the vaulting acts which amateurs delight in. But although these vaulting acts, this springing through hoops, may charm the public, they are a violent, ungraceful performance, which can rouse the admiration of the ignorant only. Ask the real artists, like Jenny O’Brien, what they think of these acrobatic exercises. They will not hesitate to tell you that if these leaps are a sure way of winning applause, they are the worst method of satisfying the conscience of an artist. At the same time, if it be true that danger defied adds some dignity to the effort made, then the warmest expressions of public sympathy are due to pad equestrians. Perhaps no one will be surprised to learn that, according to statistics, [p181] circus-riders are more frequently killed than even gymnasts. The reason is that an accident is not produced by an unfortunate physical cause only, or by the distraction of one second: a mistake of the horse may kill the man who is riding it. During the years that I have frequented the Parisian circuses, I was once present at a cruel accident. An equestrian, named Prince, was performing at the Cirque d’ÉtÉ a vaulting act on two horses, which were leaping fixed bars. Suddenly one of the animals fell on its knees, and the man was thrown forward upon his head. The assistants at once rushed towards him and covered the body with a mantle. It was carried out, and M. Loyal, in a choked voice, but with a smile on his lips, came forward and said: “It is nothing, ladies and gentlemen—a slight accident. M. Prince begs that the public will excuse him.” The truth was that the rider had been killed on the [p182] spot—he had broken his neck. And whilst a number of clowns tumbled into the ring, reassuring the public by their jokes, Prince’s wife and children were weeping over his body in the great whitewashed room, where the reins of the performing donkeys were hanging on the walls side by side with clowns’ wigs, training whips, and spangled tights. [p183]
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