the stallion, not on the girl, and, remembering the picture of Carmel on her pony, I smiled to myself. But here the rider did deserve some of the reverence. I knew that all the steps and figures the stallion was now performing so fluidly and easily, tookyears of intensive and patient training to teach. Even though she had not herself done all the training, it took great skill to put a horse through these dressage movements as she did, without any of her own guiding movements being visible. She seemed simply to sit there, part of the horse, light and graceful and motionless, as the white stallion went through his lovely ballet.
Prompted by Timothy’s whisper, I recognised the movements; the slow, skimming, Spanish Walk; the dancing fire of the standing trot, or
piaffe
; the shouldering-in which takes the horse diagonally forward in an incredibly smooth, swimming movement; and then, as she had promised us, the ‘airs above the ground’. The stallion wheeled to the centre of the ring, snorted, laid back his ears, settled his hind hoofs in the sawdust, then liftend himself and his rider into a
lèvade
, the classic rearing pose of the equestrian statues. For two long bars of music he held it, then touched ground again for a moment, and – you could see the bunch and thrust of the muscles – launched himself clean into the air in a standing leap. For one superb moment he was poised there, high in the air, caught and lit dazzlingly white by the great lights, all four legs tucked neatly under him, all his jewels flashing and glancing with a million colours, but not it seemed more brilliant than the gleam of the muscles under the white skin or the lustre of the steady dark eye. One looked for his wings.
Then he was on the ground again, cantering round the ring, nodding and bowing his head to the applause which filled even that half empty tent. Then, still bowing and pawing the ground, he backed out ofthe ring and was lost in the darkness behind the curtain.
I let out a long breath. I felt as if I had been holding it for hours. Timothy and I smiled at one another.
‘What’s the anticlimax?’ I asked him.
He looked at his programme. ‘Oh, here’s your
absolute Star-Attraktion
. . . Sandor Balog, he’s called. It’s “Balog and Nagy”, the high wire.’
‘For goodness’ sake, it always terrifies me.’
‘Me, too,’ said Timothy happily, settling back as the high wire sprang into the light and the two men started their racing climb towards it. The music swung into a waltz, one of the men started out along the wire, and in the carefully wrought tensions of the act all other preoccupations fell away, and tomorrow – Lewis or no Lewis – could take care of itself.
When we came out of the circus tent with the crowd we found it was quite dark.
‘This way,’ said Timothy, leading me round to the left of the big tent. Here, earlier in the day, there had been an orderly crowd of wagons and tents, but many of these had now gone. Already workmen were attacking the big top, the tent-men unhooking the sides or walls of the tent, rolling the canvas to leave for the trailer-men to pick up. Lights were still on in the big top, presumably to help the work of the pull-down. I saw the two high-wire artistes now clad in sweaters and jeans and plimsolls, dismantling their gear from the top of the king-poles. The hum of the big generator had stopped, and a small donkey engine had taken over,fussily supplying the remaining lights by which the circus people worked. Men in overalls hurried past us carrying ladders, boxes, crates, baskets of clothes. A tractor pulling some large trailer churned its way slowly and carefully over the uneven ground towards the gate.
‘The lions, I think,’ said Tim. ‘Can you smell them? The stables are round this way. Mind your foot.’
I dodged a bit of rope trailing from some bundle that a couple of girls were carrying. I recognised one of the dainty young dancers from the tight-rope act
Prompted by Timothy’s whisper, I recognised the movements; the slow, skimming, Spanish Walk; the dancing fire of the standing trot, or
piaffe
; the shouldering-in which takes the horse diagonally forward in an incredibly smooth, swimming movement; and then, as she had promised us, the ‘airs above the ground’. The stallion wheeled to the centre of the ring, snorted, laid back his ears, settled his hind hoofs in the sawdust, then liftend himself and his rider into a
lèvade
, the classic rearing pose of the equestrian statues. For two long bars of music he held it, then touched ground again for a moment, and – you could see the bunch and thrust of the muscles – launched himself clean into the air in a standing leap. For one superb moment he was poised there, high in the air, caught and lit dazzlingly white by the great lights, all four legs tucked neatly under him, all his jewels flashing and glancing with a million colours, but not it seemed more brilliant than the gleam of the muscles under the white skin or the lustre of the steady dark eye. One looked for his wings.
Then he was on the ground again, cantering round the ring, nodding and bowing his head to the applause which filled even that half empty tent. Then, still bowing and pawing the ground, he backed out ofthe ring and was lost in the darkness behind the curtain.
I let out a long breath. I felt as if I had been holding it for hours. Timothy and I smiled at one another.
‘What’s the anticlimax?’ I asked him.
He looked at his programme. ‘Oh, here’s your
absolute Star-Attraktion
. . . Sandor Balog, he’s called. It’s “Balog and Nagy”, the high wire.’
‘For goodness’ sake, it always terrifies me.’
‘Me, too,’ said Timothy happily, settling back as the high wire sprang into the light and the two men started their racing climb towards it. The music swung into a waltz, one of the men started out along the wire, and in the carefully wrought tensions of the act all other preoccupations fell away, and tomorrow – Lewis or no Lewis – could take care of itself.
When we came out of the circus tent with the crowd we found it was quite dark.
‘This way,’ said Timothy, leading me round to the left of the big tent. Here, earlier in the day, there had been an orderly crowd of wagons and tents, but many of these had now gone. Already workmen were attacking the big top, the tent-men unhooking the sides or walls of the tent, rolling the canvas to leave for the trailer-men to pick up. Lights were still on in the big top, presumably to help the work of the pull-down. I saw the two high-wire artistes now clad in sweaters and jeans and plimsolls, dismantling their gear from the top of the king-poles. The hum of the big generator had stopped, and a small donkey engine had taken over,fussily supplying the remaining lights by which the circus people worked. Men in overalls hurried past us carrying ladders, boxes, crates, baskets of clothes. A tractor pulling some large trailer churned its way slowly and carefully over the uneven ground towards the gate.
‘The lions, I think,’ said Tim. ‘Can you smell them? The stables are round this way. Mind your foot.’
I dodged a bit of rope trailing from some bundle that a couple of girls were carrying. I recognised one of the dainty young dancers from the tight-rope act
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