‘The child on the Esmeralda! Lili Alouette!’
I tried to smile through my tears. ‘You could maybe help me? I am alone now. Maman and Papa …’ I choked on the words, but took a breath to continue. ‘I can learn very quickly, Madame, you saw how I could balance and leap …’
My tumbling words were halted by Madame’s raised hand. The lady clutched the shawl closer, looked around quickly to see who might be watching and then drew me inside and kicked the door shut.
The riot of colour inside the little cabin was reassuring. I touched a string of glass beads and set it chiming. There was the wooden horse, crammed into a corner, next to the peacock-painted trunk. The bed was covered with a silken shawl woven in red and yellow. The single tiny window had a glass star glued to one corner; beads of every colour, hanging from a nail above the bed, clashed and sparkled in the disturbance caused by the slammed door.
Madame Tournear fell back on the bed, groaning. She clutched at her belly, rocked back and forth. ‘Ah! Ah! Oh what a curse it is to be a woman! How are we supposed to bear all this? Oh Lili, what we artistes must suffer!’
I never found out what gave Madame Tournear such misery. One might guess … Perhaps she had found a way to end the life of an unwanted or embarrassing baby. Perhaps it was a simpler affliction. But the mysterious ailment was to my advantage — and to hers. She told me that the circus was about to travel on to Ballarat and then to New Zealand. Mr Foley was a great organiser and had it all planned. He was not, however, one to carry passengers. When Madame Tournear, his ballerina on horseback, missed two performances in a row, and still seemed severely under the weather, he proposed to leave her behind and seek a more dependable replacement. Madame determined that I should be the replacement and she should train me up, since she understood the horses involved. Through her groans and writhings — she was really in pain, poor soul — she hatched the plan while I chewed on bread and raisins and made her a pot of hot sweet tea on the little spirit stove.
‘Eat, eat,’ she demanded. ‘You must regain your strength! Mr Foley must be persuaded! And more to the point,’ she added darkly, ‘Mrs Foley, the wretch. It will be all her doing, my dismissal. She is jealous of my good looks and my superior performance. Mr Foley, the dear man, would never send me away.’
The problem of course was that I had no skill with horses. I could balance and dance and tumble, but on horseback — that was another matter. Out came the wooden horse, and for the next few hours I was given instruction — in between moans and curses — on the difficult art of staying atop a moving animal.
In the end I simply fell down in a faint and we were both afforded a welcome rest.
It might seem strange that I was able to work, and even take pleasure in a new pursuit, so soon after the death of my parents. But consider this: I am an artiste. Even more so, I believe, than Maman and Papa were. I was born with the desire to perform. I hated those months in the goldfields — so drab and dour. I longed for the golden days when we had tumbled for the crowds on the Riviera. Applause — the cheers and bravos, the admiration of an audience — are meat and drink to a true artiste. Without such sustenance, even at that early age, my life was blighted. I had the talent, yes, but also that vital ingredient for any artiste: fortitude. I was prepared to work my body to the bone for a chance to enter Mr Foley’s circus. Suddenly my life had purpose. I would impress Mr Foley and his difficult wife or die in the attempt!
By the next day, Maria was able to walk with the aid of a stick. (Madame Tournear was not her real name at all, but a stage name. I’m not at all sure that Maria was her name either; others called her Martha. But to me she was always Maria.)
[Archivist’s Note: I have been able to verify that the Madame Tournear, of Foley’s Royal Victoria Circus, was in fact Martha O’Neill of London, England. E. de M.]
I helped her over to the circus ring, which was now open to the air, the wooden railing still in place. Some men were taking apart the benches and stacking them into a cart. Maria had draped a silken scarf over my old skirt, brushed and beribboned my hair. It was the best we could do.
The tall man in the ring with a pair of horses was Mr Foley himself. He stood quite still in the centre, gently trailing a whip this way and that, while two small black ponies trotted forward and back, stopping, turning, slowing and walking, seeming to understand what the master with the whip desired. It was so clever I clapped my hands and laughed out loud.
Mr Foley stopped when he saw us, laid his whip on the ground and the ponies stood stock still. He walked over to where we stood, by the rail. Mr Foley was tall and very dashing. Even in his shirtsleeves and braces he managed to look smart. He laid a gentle hand on Maria’s arm and led her to a bench. I left them to their talking and stared at the ponies, wondering if there was any way I could mount them without showing my lack of training. By the time Mr Foley came back into the ring, I was near paralysed with anxiety. I believe he understood this. Like many horsemen, he was sensitive about moods; I saw it later during his troubles. He could not bear to hurt anyone, strict manager though he was.
‘So, young miss, you would like to join my troupe?’ He spoke kindly enough, but his eyes were shrewd. I knew he would not accept a dud or a fool. I nodded, casting a wary eye at the two ponies. They were restless now, beginning to paw the ground, their tails swishing back and forth.
‘Maria says you never rode a horse but will be a quick learner.’
Maria, still sitting hunched and ill on the bench, sent me a nod and a smile. My stomach was churning; would I disgrace myself at this crucial moment?
‘Hey there, my dear, hey there.’ He spoke softly and stroked my arm as if I were a horse myself. Oh how eagerly I responded to that simple friendly gesture! It was as if a tiny flower unfurled in my heart. How I wanted to please this gentle man!
‘Forget the animals for a moment,’ he said. ‘Show what you can do on the rail.’ He gestured to the rail that surrounded the ring. It was wooden and narrow, about waist-high to a man, with only one opening over at the far side, where, I supposed, the animals would enter and exit.
I needed no further encouragement. Papa had taught me always to shout as I began a movement — a short happy cry to attract the attention of the crowd. ‘Hopla!’ I cried, and ran at the fence. This would be much easier than the parapet back in Menton. Up I leapt, running a few yards along the narrow rail to get the feel of it under my feet. Then I flipped to a handstand, held it for a moment, flipped back to the ground, went up again — hands then feet — onto the rail and danced its length. I pirouetted and pointed this way and that, using my arms and toes as prettily as I dared, as if a large audience sat all around instead of Mr Foley, Maria and a pair of ponies.
At the break in the rail, I dived to the ground, flipped across the gap and leaped for the rail again. Alas, I missed my footing and fell in a stupid heap, all my antics gone for naught. To be an acrobat one must practise every day; I was sorely out of condition. But across the other side of the ring, Mr Foley and Maria were applauding! I made my bow and ran to them, my chest heaving with the effort and my legs suddenly turned to jelly.
‘Well, now,’ said that great man, beaming at me, ‘the crowds do love a juvenile. What say we give Maria here a week to get you up on horseback, eh?’ He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face. ‘Tears? Now, here is your first circus lesson: tears are not welcome. We all have our trials.’ Here he looked over at Maria; there was a closeness between them and an understanding that even in those early times I recognised. ‘Even a clown like me has his moments.’ He dragged his mouth down in a mockery of a sad face, sobbed dramatically, then laughed out loud, slapping his thigh with his whip.
As soon as he had me laughing with him he turned serious again. ‘Can you juggle?’
I didn’t understand the word and looked to Maria for help. She mimed for me. I shook my head.
‘High wire? Slack wire?’
I had learned the meaning of slack wire from Master Bir
d. Again I shook my head. ‘I think high wire I might …’
Mr Foley nodded sternly. ‘We are a small troupe, my dear. All must have at least two skills. Sing? Do you sing?’
I knew the word. I nodded, hoping he would not ask for proof.
‘Sing, then. Sing for me.’
Sometimes I had sung for the crowds back in France: gay little folk songs, nothing dramatic or stirring. I thought of the songs the diggers sang in the evenings, but couldn’t remember the complicated words of those. I took a breath and sang a verse or two of ‘Les Petits Amis d’Alsace’, taking a little step this way and that, acting out the simple story, hoping that a smile and a gesture might disguise the frailty of my voice.
My piping was interrupted by a booming voice. A rather terrifying woman was advancing across the ring. She wore a beautifully cut and stitched dark green dress and jacket, a large, flowered hat, gloves and even carried a rolled parasol. Where Maria dressed in a flamboyant, circus style, this woman appeared almost aggressively fashionable. Her figure was tightly corseted, her waist tiny, her bosom generous and her bustle enormous.
Her voice was deep and pitched to carry across vast spaces. ‘Who is this singing? Whatever are you up to, Foley?’
I turned to Mr Foley. Maria had disappeared. Gone between one moment and the next. I felt a creeping despair. This woman would not welcome me. And who would interpret for me now?
Mr Foley explained that he was interested in hiring me; that with Maria unwell they had need of fresh blood; that I had potential. I noticed that the lady’s visage darkened at the mention of Maria, and that Mr Foley didn’t mention any suggestion that Maria should train me.
‘Singing,’ boomed the lady, ‘is my department.’
Mr Foley tapped her gently on the shoulder with his whip. ‘And mine, my dear, and mine. We sing together.’
‘We do. Please to remember that. We do not need fresh young blood in that department.’ She glared at me. Her eyes were beautiful and dangerous. ‘Well. Give her to Mr Rossiter. If she’s as good as you say, he can get her up on the high wire. That and the horses will do. No singing.’
‘Exactly my view,’ said Mr Foley, smiling. But I could see that he was angry at her tone; his smile dropped the minute she turned and stalked away.
That was my first encounter with the great Mrs W.H. Foley. She was to be both my mentor and my enemy. No one much liked her in the circus. No one even knew her first name. She was that sort of person: too aware of her own talent, too self-absorbed to take an interest in other people. She always thought herself a cut above and let us know it.
SCENE: Castlecliff, Whanganui, New Zealand
Enter the horseman
[Archivist’s Note: All references in the journals have spelt the town or the river’s name Wanganui, as it often was in Lily’s day but, in the interests of the modern and enlightened reader, I have taken the liberty of changing this to Whanganui, except where the name of the Wanganui Chronicle is mentioned. E. de M.]
Here is the bareback artiste, fifteen years old, beautiful, dark-haired, adept on horseback and on the high wire, capable of riding two horses at once, one pretty foot on each, while twirling a parasol. She speaks fluent English now — has even changed the spelling of her name from Lili to Lily — and is known on billboards and in the ring as Miss Tournear.
[Archivist’s Note: I query the age Lily gives here, but the entry does clear up an old historical puzzle: why did the early newspaper advertisements sometimes refer to Miss Tournear and at others Madame Tournear? Sometimes the top billing is for Madame Tournear and sometimes for Miss. The answer is simple: there were two Tournears! Both Lily and Maria ‘borrowed’ the name from the famous French circus performer, Louise Tourniaire. Taking a stage name was as common a practice in those times as it is today: a practice which tends to muddy the waters for the researcher. E. de M.]
Those wonderful wide-eyed audiences! They loved both Tournears — Madame and Miss. After two years with the circus, travelling through New Zealand, to Australia, and back to New Zealand again, I was a seasoned performer earning top billing. In Wellington, Mr Foley, bless him, granted me a special benefit: my first. That night still glows in my memory. Master Bird had had a couple, as of course had Mr Foley. And Madame Tournear. Then at last, a benefit for Miss Tournear! I performed on the horses, the high wire, and sang on my own and with Mr Foley himself! (Mrs W.H. was playing in the regular theatre that night.) On my benefit night the garrison officers from the Yorkshires came to the circus. The circle of kerosene lamps lit a sea of scarlet coats and gold frogging. The garrison band played an interlude. A colonel and various town dignitaries sat and applauded alongside the usual mechanicals. That night I collected a handsome extra purse (my benefit) from Mr Foley. Oh how I loved my new life! The circus was my family: all I had in the world.
But this night, summertime, at Castlecliff, Whanganui, my life would change in more ways than one. Picture me, in rose-pink bodice and wide, flounced skirt (which showed more than a little of my ankle), waiting outside the tent while Mr Foley warmed up the audience with some high-jinks incorporating a bucket and mop and a broken stool. I had seen it all before, of course, but the audience was captivated, roaring with laughter at his tumbling. Master Bird limbered up beside me, stretching and twisting his amazingly elastic limbs. He winked at me, making a rude imitation of the circus master. By this time we were good friends — if rivals for audience favours — and were often in trouble over our antics. We both giggled, earning a stern tap from Mrs Foley’s be-ringed hand. Soon the great Mrs W.H. Foley would grace the performance with a comic song or two between the circus acts. Feet solidly planted like a man, she sat on a little chair, just outside the entrance, so she could pass judgement on everything inside. (It was much more fun when Mrs Foley was away on one of her many trips ‘to perform in real theatre’.)
Tommy ran into the ring, leading Lucy, Mr Foley’s prize mare. She was snow-white and beautiful. We all loved the gentle creature but would never dare mount her. That privilege belonged to Mr Foley alone. For him, she would perform every trick in the book and more. He was a brilliant horseman, Mr Foley, kind to all animals, but possessing a special feeling for horses. He had even tamed, to a certain degree, a pair of zebras, and claimed to be the only person in the world to have done so. Perhaps he was.
The hoarse shouts and hoots of laughter from the audience faded as Mr Foley made Lucy dance sideways, rear on her hind feet and paw the air, or weave complicated patterns across the ring, while he sat upright on her back with never a command or flick of his whip to show that he was controlling her.
‘Oi,’ whispered Tommy. ‘That fellow is here again tonight. Over there in the front row. See? That horseman from down the coast.’ He dug me in the ribs and snickered. ‘Is he after the horses or you I wonder?’
Last week the circus had stopped at Foxton Beach for a single open air performance. We were heading for Auckland after a long stay in Wellington. Travel was a long and difficult process for us. The steamer that transported the circus from Wellington had business at all the local ports. Sometimes they stopped for a day, sometimes for weeks. Clever Mr Foley arranged a performance whenever possible. At Foxton the local Maori crowded into the tent, blanketed against the cold, their dark eyes wide with excitement. This was the first time a circus had come to town — or any entertainment for that matter. To start with they’d sat in silence; the two-headed goat had them murmuring in fear. Mr Foley, for all his clowning, had a hard time getting a laugh out of them. Then suddenly, as beautiful Lucy trotted out her tricks, one of the English settlers shouted with amazed laughter and burst into applause. After that the tent was abuzz with applause and chatter.
The Englishman — he was Scottish, actually — stayed long after the others had left, chatting to Mr Foley about his horses. From time to time he glanced over to where I was brushing down the ponies and giving them their feed.
‘You’ve an admirer there,’ said Mr Foley later, smiling at me. �
�He knows his horses, I’ll say that for the lad.’ He winked. ‘And knows what he likes in a human filly.’ He paused then and looked at me sternly. ‘Watch your step, young miss, we don’t want to lose you.’
I laughed happily. There was nothing in the world that would induce me to leave my circus family. To hear Mr Foley say that he needed me was music to my young ears.
At any rate the young man had galloped off into the night without a word to me. I had not thought about him since.
But here he was again, in Whanganui, sitting in the front row. I sneaked a look. He was dressed smartly enough: not as splendidly as the garrison officers last month in Wellington, but in frock coat and cravat, tall, clean-shaven and bare-headed. He was watching the horse and rider in the ring with great concentration.
‘Make sure you curtsey for him,’ whispered Tommy Bird. ‘He’s good for a shilling or two, I reckon.’
Mrs Foley frowned at us and cleared her throat. She motioned for Tommy to run out and bring Lucy off.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ trumpeted Mr Foley. ‘I have much honour in presenting, direct from the Royal Victoria Theatre in Wellington, the incomparable, the world-famous, the darling of Australian theatre — Mrs W.H. Foley!’
Mrs Foley sailed into the ring, her arms high and proud, casting her brilliant smile this way and that. I watched carefully. Mrs Foley could draw applause from the crowd as easy as milking a cow. Like her or not, she was a true performer. Mr Foley bent an arm to her and she took it graciously. An hour ago they had been shouting and clawing at each other like two cats, but none of that was allowed to show in the ring. They stood near the biggest lamp, so that Mrs Foley’s handsome face was well lit. As she burst into ‘Villikins and his Dinah’, sung in a rollicking Devon accent, the crowd shouted their pleasure. Mr Foley joined in the chorus, jigging his feet and arms comically. Mrs Foley stood firm as a rock, letting her voice sail high and clear. I watched and learned. One day … One day …
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