  The re-opening of the Hippodrome and the first performance of its pantomime are a great event in each year; a festival for “society,” which for this occasion makes a large outlay in spring toilettes, and a festival for the Parisians of the “fifth floor” and the shop parlour too. The number of those who cannot escape to the sea or the country during the heat of the dog-days, of those whom work and economy hold prisoners, is greater than one usually feigns to believe. During the whole summer these people have no other oasis of refreshment within a walk than the great hall with its movable glass roof, which gives the Hippodrome a ceiling of stars. It is important to those Parisians who from July to September will go at least once a week to the Hippodrome, to know that each time they will see the new pantomime with renewed pleasure. [p184] I have frequently overheard the following definition given by very superficial people: [p185] “The Hippodrome is a circus, of larger size than the others...” There are some degrees of ignorance which should be sent back to learnABCD. On the other hand, some amateurs may be found who are convinced they are right because they do not quite know what difference exists between the two. A circus is a circular arena of fourteen yards nine inches in diameter, surrounded by benches. Travel with a yard measure, measure the diameter of the Cirque d’Hiver, of the Cirque d’ÉtÉ, and of the Nouveau Cirque. Cross the sea towards America, follow Barnum and measure across his arena, continue your journey round the world by exploring Australia and Asia; lastly, return to Europe by the Caucasus, raise the canvas of one of the numerous travelling circuses which erect their tents at Astrakan in the fair time—you will not discover the difference of a fraction of an inch from the rule of fourteen yards nine inches in diameter. Fourteen yards nine inches is the regulation size. A superstition, perhaps? Do not believe it. The unvarying dimensions of the arena respond to a double necessity: the exigency of the man and the exigency of the animal. You already know that the banquiste is instinctively nomad, both through disposition and interest. It is therefore most important that, although he continually changes his locality he should find the scene of his performance unvaried. This rule is extremely convenient for men, but it is indispensable for animals. A performing horse must find, in whatever spot he appears before the public, a ring of fourteen [p186] yards nine inches sanded to a depth of three inches and a quarter, surrounded by a palisade opening in two places only, and low enough to enable it to walk round it, with the fore hoofs on the red cushion and the hind legs in the arena. The Hippodrome is not restricted to these dimensions. Its arena is an elastic parallelogram, rounded at the four angles to assist the horses in turning. Its shape excludes all acts of equestrian vaulting, based upon the support given by the centrifugal force to circus acrobats. It is not only the name but the principles of art which the Hippodrome has borrowed from Greece. No doubt the circus gives us an opportunity of admiring the human body, after the education of the ancients has restored it to the forms chosen by them for the eternal life of marble; but the purest lessons in Greek Æsthetics are to be found at the Hippodrome. [p187] You know that one of the most important differences which distinguish our conception of human beauty from that formed by Greek art lies in this principle: the subordination of the body to the head. Christian civilization has taught us that we must seize [p188] every opportunity of mortifying and humiliating the flesh to secure the predominance of the superior and spiritual principle—the soul. No doubt the passions and emotions of this soul manifest themselves by gesture to some extent; but they are chiefly revealed in the expression of the face, of the mouth and eyes. Hence the preponderance given to the head, which, at the first appearance of Christianity, when the art of the ancients escaped from the Byzantine bonds, led the early painters to represent hydrocephalic Christs and angels, with the enormous eyes of batrachians, and emaciated, anchylosis, meagre bodies. Hence also the habit that we all have at the present time of judging beauty—and particularly feminine beauty, which is more expressive than the other—from the features of the face. Greece never despised corporeal beauty in this way. She taught that if the soul be divine, the body is the temple of a god. And on the same principle that she decorated the houses of the Olympians, so that it might please them to dwell therein, she also commanded the body, the habitation of the soul, to be embellished by gymnastics. She placed the musikÈ, the tutor of the soul, and the gumnastikÈ, the tutor of the body, on the same level in the practical education of her heroes. This is why the artists who embodied her ideal of beauty did not give more expression to the face than to the torso. Suppose that the Venus had lost her head instead of an arm; she would not appear more mutilated. One of the most beautiful legacies that Greek sculpture has bequeathed to us is a headless Victory. The immense extent of the Hippodrome prevents the [p189] spectator from seeing the details of the features, and transfers his habitual attention to the observation of the whole figure. I noticed this effect a short time ago, when watching the classic poses of a group of young Italian girls—the sisters Chiesi. To increase their resemblance to statues, and to produce as far as possible the illusion of nudes in marble, these young models wear tights whitened with flour. Thus moulded, the Chiesi mount upon each other, and pause in bold yet classic attitudes, which combine the poses of the acrobat and the academy. I did not for one second dream of looking at the beauty of their faces, not even when they were triumphantly driven round the ring under my eyes in the gilded carriage of the late Duke of Brunswick. [p190] This is an exceptional case. But given equal talent, we always prefer a woman’s performance to that of a man. It gives us, besides the peculiar pleasure which acrobatic feats always produce, the general pleasure which the exhibition of a perfectly-formed woman never fails to excite. And to us moderns this is not merely an intellectual and moral enjoyment; in it there mingles a little voluptuous emotion... This fascination, which Greek art knew nothing of, does not affect us at the Hippodrome. The latent sentiment is [p191] in abeyance, like the pity which the Spaniards never feel at their bull-fights, probably because the arenas are too vast. A true pagan would probably congratulate himself upon the freedom from emotion which, at the Hippodrome, leaves him free to enjoy the essence of beauty. But we cannot all raise ourselves to the level of this Olympian indifference; we do not care to be cured of the pleasure we enjoy—contenting ourselves with deploring, like ThÉophile Gauthier, “d’Être si fort corrompus de Christianisme.” [p192] The Hippodrome regains all its advantages when it leaves to the circus the exhibition of “expressive novelties,” which must be seen close at hand, and contents itself with its speciality of races: foot and horse races, chariot races, “Berberini races,” processions, and pantomimes. The race of riderless horses is one of the most attractive spectacles one can possibly see, and it is easily understood why the Italians with their artistic genius elected to close the festivities of their carnival by this exciting contest. Every one has read some descriptions of this hippique fÊte which so greatly delighted papal Rome. For a fortnight before the race the horses which were entered for it were led out every morning to accustom them to the course, and corn was given to them at the end of the Corso, near the winning post. On the day of the race, at four o’clock in the afternoon, two cannon shots gave the signal. All the carriages at once turned out of the road, the spectators fell back into two lines, and a detachment of dragoons cleared the Corso at a rapid gallop. The murmur of the crowd died away into a profound silence. The horses chosen for the race were held in a line behind a cord stretched towards the column of the People’s Gate. Their foreheads were decorated with plumes, which worried their eyes by waving in front of them; golden spangles were plaited into their tails and manes. Small copper plates and leaden balls armed with steel points were attached to their flanks and croups to goad them on their way; and the effort to frighten them even led to light sheets of tin and stiff paper being fastened on their backs, which, rustling and quivering, [p193] produced the discomfort of a rider without the drawback of weight. Before the cord fell, the animals, impatient to start, excited by the crowd, uttered loud neighs, pranced about, and produced a clamour which filled the Corso. It frequently happened that one of them would knock its groom down and rush amongst the crowd. At last the senator of Rome gave the signal. A trumpet sounded, the cord fell, the half-maddened horses started wildly, urged on by the applause of the people as though by whips. Usually the “Berberies” traversed the 800 fathoms of the course in two minutes twenty-one seconds, that is to say that they ran thirty-seven feet per second. In the confusion, if one horse could overtake the competitor which preceded it, it would bite it, kick it, and use every artifice to impede its progress. The arrival of the horses was announced by firing two cannon; to stop them carpets were extended across the end of the street. In later years the Corso was only a speculation of the horsedealers. The Hippodrome revives the best days of this Roman institution; the epoch when the first families of Rome, the Barberini, the Santa-Croce, the Colonna, and the Borghese entered their horses for the race, the champions of their rivalries and of their colours. Since the managers of the Hippodrome object to injuring the valuable beasts they place in the arena, they have abandoned the practice of harnessing them with spurs and spangles. It is really bare-backed horses, free from all carnival disguise, which they produce in the lists. The animals have been trained for a long time, placed [p194] before the barriers with a whip to urge them to jump, guided all round the ring by sentinels, who punished any deviation from the course. Now they know what they are expected to do, and as soon as the bell rings they all start. They reach the barrier, their manes flowing in the wind, their hoofs flying, terrible as the tide, white as the surge which rises on the waves. ?pp?? et?????, said Pindar, describing a horse rearing. It is a brilliant meteor which flies over the barrier, but it is also a crest of foam. And the pleasure of watching these riderless races is augmented by the good faith, the honesty of the beast, which cannot be suspected of corruption, which strives for victory only. Neither crime nor death can stop them. M. Houcke has told me that he has known some horses to be killed in the [p195] ring by their jealous rivals, and others after the victory have died from fits of apoplexy when they had gone back to the stables. If the riderless horse is superb, it is certain that the chariot, the ancient Greek chariot, immortalized by Homer, is the most Æsthetic frame for it. The other day I read a commonplace remark from Madame Dacier, who has only, and quite justly, seized the meaning of words in Greek. “I do not understand,” she said, “why the Greeks, who were so wise, should have used the chariot for so long a time—why they did not see its great inconvenience. I am not speaking of the difficulty of managing a chariot, although it is far greater than of managing a horse; nor of the space occupied by it: I only say that there were two men to each chariot. These two men were important individuals, both fit for war. Yet only one of them could fight. Moreover, some chariots required not only two, but even three or four horses for a single warrior—another loss which merits attention.” [p196] The excellent Madame Dacier has forgotten one thing, that the Greeks were devoted to beauty before everything else. They liked the chariot, because the quadriga was a superbly Æsthetic picture—a moving pedestal for the hero. So that the chariot was not only an engine of war in their eyes; it was an object of luxurious pleasure. Do you remember the beautiful descriptions of chariot-races which fill the literature of Greece, and particularly the plays of Sophocles? Do you remember, amongst others, the account of the tutor of Orestes? For my own part, I never witness one of these heroic displays without the lines of the divine poet recurring to my memory. “At sunrise the chariot-races took place. Orestes appeared, and with him many charioteers. One was Achean, another from Sparta; two came from Lybia, true masters of the reins. Orestes was fifth, with mares from Thessaly. The sixth brought light chestnuts from Etolia. The seventh was from Magnesia. The eighth, a son of Enia, advanced with white horses. The divine Athene had sent the ninth. Lastly, a Beotian mounted the tenth chariot. “The heroes were standing, and when the lots had been drawn and their places were assigned to them, they sprang forward at the blast of the brazen trumpets. All together they raised the beasts; they shook the reins; the arena was full of the roll of their ringing chariots. And all mingled, confused, lavished the whip to pass by the axle of some opponent. And the breath of the horses, covered with foam, the backs of the drivers, and the wheels of the chariots. [p197] “When they reached the last post Orestes grazed it slightly with his axle. He slackened the reins, and gave the wheeler his head. With his right hand he restrained the other....He was preparing for the finish of the race. But when he saw that only the Athenian was left, he made his [p198] whip whistle round the ears of his steeds, and sprang forward behind his rival. The two chariots rolled on in front. Alternately they passed and re-passed each other by the length of a head. Upright in his uninjured chariot, Orestes had successfully run in every race; but in giving the left rein to the horse rounding the post, he struck the column. His axle was broken; from the height of his chariot he rolled entangled in the reins, whilst the frightened horses tumultuously rushed into the arena.” Pantomime—another ancient amusement—is the glory of the Hippodrome as well as the races. All who saw it will still remember the splendours of the Chasse. It seemed difficult to find anything more brilliant, for there are not many subjects which can be used for these grand spectacular shows. When a Roman Triumph has been displayed, a Nero with chariot races, a FÊte amongst the Rajahs with rivulets of precious stones, an Arab Fantasia, a fairy piece, and a genuine Congo, the management must fall back upon military pieces. But we live upon former triumphs, and the Hippodrome dare no longer produce old-fashioned effects from its storehouses. The embarrassment of M. Houcke the manager, who arranges his own plays, was therefore very great. The resources of a large place like the Hippodrome vary from one season to the other. Sometimes acrobats form the great novelty, sometimes a troupe of vaulting clowns is the central attraction. Lastly, the horses were there to be exhibited, so that the director found himself obliged to select a military pantomime. M. Houcke is a type, a true child of the stage. He has [p199] five or six brothers scattered through the world, all managers of riding establishments. His father, under the name of Leonard, was formerly proprietor of the Deux-Cirques before the Franconi. He has taken M. Loyal’s place in the ring in Russia, Germany, and Scandinavia. This will tell you, if [p200] heredity is not an empty word, that he is gifted with a large amount of professional genius. Moreover—and this does not spoil it—Houcke is very knowing. His choice of the name of Skobelef, as the hero of his last military fÊte, appears to me an excellent proof of this acuteness. You may vainly search contemporary history without finding the name of any other victorious general who would command the sympathy of the Parisians.... Skobelef and Plevna, the Russians and the Turks! Houcke had grasped his pantomime. The chief outlines of the plot were quickly arranged, and M. Thomas, the former decorator of the ThÉÂtre FranÇais and the Opera Comique, Houcke’s right hand man left for Russia, with a great deal of money in his pockets to buy weapons, costumes, sledges, moujiks, drovskies, and snow. He returned with all Russia in his trunks. CHARIOT RACES AT THE HIPPODROME. Picture to yourself, from one end of the arena to the other, a parquet floor laid down, over which sledges and skaters glided as though upon the Neva. In the first tableau the parqueterie represented a high road, a post-station in the steppe. The orchestra, which had reinforced its musicians by a choir of genuine moujiks, was suspended above the buildings of the Isba. The good people sang with those deep voices which Agrenieff had already enabled us to hear, in their national songs, some years previously at the Trocadero. They were placed in a suitably decorated gallery, and when, accompanied by bells, the moujiks chanted their national hymn— BojÉ tsara krani Silni der jarni Stsar stvouyna slavouna, slavounam.... one [p201] really felt carried far away on the wings of the music. During the singing I looked over towards the third places, filled with the poorer people, who are less sceptical than the others. Many of them were quite touched, their eyes were glistening, their breasts heaving.... Whilst the bells and the moujiks were singing in unison, the processions commenced to pass over the road. First came the singers and wandering dancers, who followed the army to the scene of war; then groups of officers, convoys of prisoners, the fantastic gallop of an orderly; then, with a bustle, a troÏka, containing a tall man enveloped in a grey pelisse. This was Skobelef, who had arrived to take command of the army. Then we were transported before Plevna. The country people were taking refuge in the town, carrying all their wealth in their carts. They were just in time! the Russian soldiers were at their heels! But they are only scouts. The Turkish sentinels have seen them from the walls of Plevna. [p202] The alarm is given. A sortie is made, and they are surrounded. Their case is not quite clear; their reconnaissance has a fatal look of spying. The Turks prepare to shoot them, when a thundering gallop shakes the floor. The Cossacks have arrived at furious speed to rescue the prisoners. Ah, the brave men! I always thought that a candle diet developed heroism. With the thrust of a lance, the [p203] Turks are properly settled; a few of them run away in great style, and succeed in re-entering the town. They merely postpone the moment of surrender, for the whole Russian army is advancing. It rushes to the assault of the practicable places in the fort. In the midst of the engagement and smoke the whole end of the Hippodrome becomes [p204] illumined with the lurid light of fire. Vive Skobelef! vive Ruggieri! Plevna is burning! Plevna is burnt! And the victors have nothing to do but rejoice! In a moment a painted canvas has been unrolled round the arena, which represents St. Petersburg in perspective; the parqueterie has changed into the frozen Neva. The whole town has come out to greet the victorious soldiers! A fine evening for skaters! With the point of their skates, on the ice, in English, in Italics, in Gothic, they write the name of Skobelef. Lamps suspended to the arches reproduce the glorious word. The sound of the clarions and fifes playing the triumphal march is already heard. The moment has come! The leader of the orchestra lowers his baton. One, two, three! And as though the whole army, the whole people had been stopped spellbound at this signal, the cannon thundered, the orchestra bellowed, the fireworks, are let off, the bells ring, and high above all the clamour the national hymn rises for the last time— BOJÉ TSARA KRANI. Although Buffalo Bill’s company has not appeared at the Hippodrome, this seems to be a fitting place in which to chronicle the magnificent equestrian spectacle with which they have delighted the Parisians during the Exhibition. The innumerable readers of Cooper’s American novels have seen the prairie of the Sioux transported, with its actors and its decorative accessories, to the Porte Maillot. All were there: the Red Skins—genuine Red Skins, the mustangs, [p206] buffaloes, cowboys, vaqueros, waggons, tents, bows, arrows, rifles, dogs, squaws, and papooses. This extraordinary troupe was taken to Paris by Nael Salsbury, a manager who is celebrated in every English-speaking country. It is commanded by an extraordinary man, Colonel W. F. Cody. Picture to yourself the most perfect type of trapper that you can imagine after reading The Spy and The Mohicans. Born on the frontier, brought up on horseback, of chimerical courage, and unequalled skill in the management of horses and firearms, Colonel Cody is six feet high, and this fine body is crowned by the head of a stage musketeer. His curling hair falls upon his shoulders, and he has the moustache of an Aramis beneath the straight classical nose of an American. Colonel Cody’s warrior troupe has its female star, Miss Annie Oakley, called the “infallible little shot.” She is also a child of the frontier, where her name is as much feared as her bullet. And in fact she has accomplished wonders. One [p207] day at Tiffin (Ohio) she hit a fifty-centime piece held between a man’s finger and thumb at a distance of thirty feet. In February, 1885, she fired at 5,000 glass balls, which three projectiles threw up for her fifteen yards high; she broke 4,772 of them in nine hours, although loading the guns herself. Miss Oakley manages a horse quite as well as a gun. At a New Jersey fair she won four races out of five. “And Miss Oakley is rendered still more interesting,” says a biography from which I am copying, “by the fact that she is short, and only weighs 106 lbs.” Not one word more. The young girl is still unmarried. [p209]
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