Sielanka: An Idyll

The crowds follow the procession, the place around the circus becomes deserted, the parrots cease their chatter, and the monkeys their gymnastics. But “the greatest attractions” do not take part in the procession. The “incomparable artist of the whip,” the manager, the “unconquerable Orso,” and the “Aërial Angel, Jenny,” are all absent. All this is preserved for the evening so as to attract the crowds.

The manager is somewhere in one of the wooden buildings, or looks into the ticket seller’s van, where he pretends to be angry. Orso and Jenny are in the ring practicing some of their feats. Under its canvas roof reigns dust and silence. In the distance, where the seats are arranged, it is totally dark; the greatest part of the light falls through the roof on the ring, with its sand and sawdust covering. With the help of the gray light which filters through the canvas can be seen a horse standing near the parapet. The big horse feels very lonely, whisks the flies with his tail, and often sways his head. Gradually the eye, becoming accustomed to the dim light, discerns other objects – for instance: the mast upon which Orso carries Jenny, the hoops pasted with paper for her to jump through. All these lie on the ground without order, and the half-lighted arena and nearly dark benches give an impression of a deserted building with battened windows. The terrace of seats, only here and there broken with a stray glimmer of light, look like ruins. The horse, standing with drooping head, does not enliven the picture.

Where are Orso and Jenny? One of the rays of light that stream through an aperture of the canvas, in which floats the golden dust, falls on a row of distant seats. This body of light, undulating with the swaying canvas, at last falls upon a group composed of Orso and Jenny.

Orso sits on top of the bench, and near to him is Jenny. Her beautiful childish face leans against the arm of the athlete and her hand rests on his neck. The eyes of the girl are lifted upward, as if listening intently to the words of her companion, who bends over her, moving his head at times, apparently explaining something.

Leaning as they are against each other, you might take them for a pair of lovers, but for the fact that the girl’s uplifted eyes express strong attention and intense thought, rather than any romantic feeling, and that her legs, which are covered with pink fleshings, and her feet in slippers, sway to and fro with a childish abandon. Her figure has just begun to blossom into maidenhood. In everything Jenny is still a child, but so charming and beautiful that, without reflecting upon the ability of Mr. Harvey, who decorated the Palace Hotel, of San Francisco, it would be difficult even for him to imagine anything to equal her. Her delicate face is simply angelic; her large, sad blue eyes have a deep, sweet and confiding expression; her dark eyebrows are penciled with unequaled purity on her forehead, white and reposeful as if in deep thought, and the bright, silky hair, somewhat tossed, throws a shadow on it, of which, not only Master Harvey, but a certain other painter, named Rembrandt, would not have been ashamed. The girl at once reminds you of Cinderella and Gretchen, and the leaning posture which she now maintains suggests timidity and the need of protection.

Her posture, which strongly reminds you of those of Greuz, contrasts strangely with her circus attire, composed of a short, white muslin skirt, embroidered with small silver stars, and pink tights. Sitting in a golden beam of light with the dark, deep background, she looks like some sunny and transparent vision, and her slender form contrasts with the square and sturdy figure of the youth.

Orso, who is dressed in pink tights, appears from afar as if he were naked, and the same ray of light distinctly reveals his immense shoulders, rounded chest, small waist, and legs too short in proportion to the trunk.

His powerful form seems as if it were hewn out with an ax. He has all the features of a circus athlete, but so magnified that they make him noticeable; besides, his face is not handsome. Sometimes, when he raises his head, you can see his face, the lines of which are regular, perhaps too regular, and somewhat rigid, as if carved from marble. The low forehead, with the hair falling on it, like the mane of a horse, straight and black, inherited from his squaw mother, gives to his face a gloomy and threatening expression. He has a similarity to both the bull and the bear, and he personifies a terrible and somewhat evil force. He is not of a good disposition.

When Jenny passes by the horses, those gentle creatures turn their heads and look at her with intelligent eyes, and neigh and whinny, as if wishing to say: “How do you do, darling?” while at the sight of Orso they shudder with fear. He is a reticent and gloomy youth. Mr. Hirsch’s negroes, who are his hostlers, clowns, minstrels, and rope-walkers, do not like Orso and tease him as much as they dare, and because he is half-Indian they think nothing of him, and plague and mock him. Truly, the manager, who offers the hundred dollars to any one who can defeat him, does not risk much; he dislikes and fears him, as the tamer of the wild animals fears a lion, and whips him on the slightest provocation.

Mr. Hirsch feels that, if he does not keep the youth in subjection by constantly beating him, he will be beaten himself, and he follows the principle of the Creole woman, who considered beating a punishment, and no beating a reward.

Such was Orso. Recently he began to be less sullen, because little Jenny had a good influence over him. It happened about a year ago that when Orso, who was then the attendant of the wild animals, was cleaning the cage of the puma, the beast put its paws through the bars of the cage and wounded his head severely. Then he entered the cage, and after a terrible fight between them, he alone remained alive. But he was so badly hurt that he fainted from loss of blood. He was ill a long time, which was greatly aggravated by a severe whipping which the manager gave him for breaking the spine of the puma.

When he was ill Jenny took great care of him, and dressed his wounds, and when she had leisure, read the Bible to him. That is a “good book” which speaks of love, of forgiveness, of mercy – in a word, of things that are never mentioned in Mr. Hirsch’s circus. Orso, listening to this book, pondered long in his Indian head and at last came to the conclusion that if it would be as good in the circus as in this book, perhaps he would not be so bad. He thought also that then he would not be beaten so often, and some one would be found who would love him. But who? Not negroes and not Mr. Hirsch; little Jenny, whose voice sounded as sweetly in his ears as the voice of the mavis, might be the one.

One evening, under the influence of this thought, he began to weep and kiss the small hands of Jenny, and from this time on he loved her very much. During the performance in the evening, when Jenny was riding a horse, he was always in the ring and carefully watching over her to prevent any accident. When he held the paper hoops for her to jump through he smiled on her; when to the sound of the music be balanced her on the top of the high mast, and the audience was hushed with fright, he felt uneasy himself. He knew very well if she should fall that no one from the “good book” would be left in the circus; he never removed his eyes from her, and the evident caution and anxiety expressed in his movements added to the terror of the people. Then, when recalled into the ring by the storm of applause, they would run in together, he would push her forward, as if deserving of all the praise, and murmur from joy. This reticent youth spoke only to Jenny, and to her alone he opened his mind. He hated the circus and Mr. Hirsch, who was entirely different from the people in the “good book.” Something always attracted him to the edge of the horizon, to the woods and plains. When the circus troupe in their constant wanderings chanced to pass through wild, lonely spots, he heard voices awakening the instincts of a captive wolf, who sees the woods and plains for the first time. This propensity he inherited not only from his mother, but also from his father, who had been a frontiersman. He shared all his hopes with Jenny, and often narrated to her how fully and untrammeled live the people of the plains. Most of this he guessed or gleaned from the hunters of the prairies, who came to the circus with wild animals which they had captured for the menagerie, or to try their prowess for the hundred-dollar prize.

Little Jenny listened to these Indian visions, opening widely her blue eyes and falling into deep reveries. For Orso never spoke of going alone to the desert; she was always with him, and it was very good for them there. Every day they saw something new; they possessed all they needed, and it seemed right to make all their plans carefully.

So now they sit in this beam of light, talking to each other, instead of practicing and attempting new feats. The horse stands in the ring and feels lonely. Jenny leans on Orso’s arm, thoughtfully contemplating and looking with wistful, wondering eyes into the dim space, swinging her feet like a child and musing – how it will be on the plains, and asking questions from Orso.

“How do they live there?” says she, raising her eyes to the face of her friend.

“There is plenty of oaks. They take an ax and build a house.”

“Well,” says Jenny, “but until the house is built?”

“It is always warm there. The ‘Grizzly Killer’ says it is very warm.”

Jenny begins to swing her feet more lively, as if the warmth there has settled the question in her mind; but shortly she remembers that she has in the circus a dog and a cat, and that she would like to take them with her. She calls her dog Mister Dog and her cat Mister Cat.

“And will Mr. Dog and Mr. Cat go with us?”

“They will,” answers Orso, looking pleased.

“Will we take with us the ‘good book’?”

“We will,” says Orso, still more pleased.

“Well,” says the girl in her innocence, “Mr. Cat will catch birds for us; Mr. Dog will drive away bad people with his bark; you will be my husband and I will be your wife, and they will be our children.”

Orso feels so happy that he cannot speak, and Jenny continues:

“There, there will be no Mr. Hirsch, no circus, we will not work, and basta! But no!” she adds a moment later, “the ‘good book’ says that we should work, and I sometimes will jump through one – through the two hoops, the three, the four hoops.”

Jenny evidently does not imagine work under any other form than jumping through hoops.

Shortly she says again:

“Orso, will I indeed be always with you?”

“Yes, Jen, for I love you very much.”

His face brightens as he says so, and becomes almost beautiful.

And yet he does not know himself how dear to him has become this small bright head.

He has nothing else in this world but her, and he watches her as the faithful dog guards his mistress. By her fragile side he looks like Hercules, but he is unconscious of this.

“Jen,” says he after a moment, “listen to what I tell you.”

Jenny, who shortly before had got up to look at the horse, now turns and, kneeling down before Orso, puts her two elbows on his knees, crosses her arms and, resting her chin on her wrists, uplifts her face and is all attention.

At this moment, to the consternation of the children, the “artist of the whip” enters the ring in a very bad humor, because his trial with a lion had entirely failed.

This lion, who was bald from old age, desired only to be let alone, had no inclination to attack the “artist,” and hid himself from the lash of the whip in a far corner of the cage. The manager thought with despair that if this loyal disposition remained with the lion until the evening the contest with the whip would be a failure; for to fight a lion who slinks away needs no more art than to eat a lobster from his tail. The bad temper of the proprietor became still worse when he learned from the ticket seller that he was disposing of no seats in the “gods;” that the Cahuillas evidently had spent all their money that they had earned in the vineyards for drinks, and that they came to his window and offered their blankets, marked “U. S.,” or their wives, especially the old ones, in exchange for tickets of admission. The lack of money among the Cahuillas was no small loss for the “artist of the whip;” for he counted on a “crowded house,” and if the seats in the “gods” were not sold no “crowded house” was obtainable; therefore the manager wished at this moment that all the Indians had but one back, and that he might give an exhibition of his skill with the whip on that one back, in the presence of all Anaheim. Thus he felt as he entered the ring, and seeing the horse standing idle under the parapet, he felt like jumping with anger. Where are Orso and Jenny? Shading his eyes with his hand he looked all around the circus, and observed in a bright beam, Orso, and Jenny kneeling before him with her elbows resting on his knees. At this sight he let the lash of his whip trail on the ground.

“Orso!”

If lightning had struck in the midst of the children they could not have been more startled. Orso jumped to his feet and descended in the passageway between the benches with the hasty movement of an animal who comes to his master at his call; behind him followed Jenny with eyes wide open from fright, and clutching the benches as she passed them.