The Shining World

Part I. The Overturned Arena. 

I, II, III, IV …. 

 

 

V 

 

The last act, that was to be followed by “The Double Star,” was called “The Failure of Fetters.” It presented a short and stout, deep-chested man, who was bound hand and foot with arm-thick ropes and hoppled with wire; to crown it all (on top of it all), shackles begirded his wrists and ankles. He was then hidden under a sheet; he fidgeted under it for a minute or two and rose completely free; the fetters were lying about in the sand. He left. Deep, poignant silence broke down. The music started and stopped. The circus was breathing inaudibly. Infectious anticipation travelled from heart to heart, stringing up all senses; the stares were piercing the curtain, silently calling out the promised apparition. Musicians were leafing through their notes. Five minutes have passed; the tension was growing. The tops, having rattled higgledy-piggledy, burst into a salvo of remonstrating plaudits; the midst joined them; the downstairs conversed quietly, fluttered fans, exchanged smiles.  

Then, reinstalling silence over the noise of impatience, a man entered from the gateway; he was of middle height, straight as a candle flame, with manners simple and artless. He walked to the center of the arena - soft, steady steps; once stopped, he gave a glance around the sparkling bowl of the circus and lifted his head towards the orchestra.   

• Play, - said he, after a thought, the sound of his words quiet but so distinct that they reached everyone – play something slow and liquid, “Mexican Waltz”, for example. 

The horns started growlingly; the wind of the melody whirled around ensnaring the human hearts with the measure of rhythm; its singing, its chimes and trills dispersed that unconceivable magic of sound that lends life festive glare and makes one bid farewells inside and feel with utmost intensity. 

 “The Double Star” – as he was known to his audience at the moment – was a man of some thirty years old. His attire consisted of a white blouse, with sleeves tied up at the wrists, black pantaloons, blue stockings and black sandals; a wide silver belt was enfolding his waist. His forehead, bright and high as a cupola, was descending towards his dark eyes along the fine line of his high eyebrows; their arch endowed his otherwise sharp features the arrogant clarity of ancient portraits. On this pale face, full of complacent power, hidden between the shadow of the dark mustache and the slit of his hard chin, a small, stern mouth was wrying contemptuously. The smile with which he entered the arena was dubious, however not without a poise and full of mysterious promise. His hair, beaver-black, were slightly curly at the nape of his neck and in front were falling softly on his forehead; his hands were small, shoulders gently thrown back. 

He walked back to the ring fence, lightly stamped the ground and started running. He ran calmly, pressing his elbows to his chest, committing nothing of extraordinary nature. But soon the second row exclaimed: “Look, look.” The audience was cramming in the entrances; the performers and the staff swarmed forth. The runner’s motions became distorted; he was making giant leaps which seemed to cost him no effort. His feet were lightly touching the ground and seemed to be hardly in pace with the unstoppable rush of the body. Already several times they swept (in) the air, as if pushing the void. Thus skirred he, having finished a circle, and then, after a brief run of a regular human motion, he suddenly rose up into the air, to the level of a man’s height, and froze there, as if standing on a transparent pillar.   

He stayed there only an instance longer than the natural suspense of a fall allows – a trifle, maybe one-third of a second – but on the scales of the crowd’s attention it was a kettlebell against a troy ounce, - so odd was the impression/effect of this unfathomable phenomenon. However, it brought not the heat or the chill of rapture, but the stir of the secret excitement: something beyond human nature entered the world. Many leaped up from their seats; others, having lost their view, were shouting through the chaos and noise, asking their neighbours, what happened? The senses were struck and overwhelmed, but not overthrown, not yet defeated; people in the audience were exchanging remarks. A ballet reviewer Fogard said: - “Here is the titan of elevation; nothing of the kind since Agness Duport. In ballet, however, in its firework of motions, she is not as astounding.” On the other side one could overhear: - “In Uganda, I saw Negroes jump; they can hardly match…” – “Faquir tricks, hypnosis!” – “No! It’s mirrors and light effects,” – asserted a voice of authority.  

Meanwhile, in a restful or thoughtful motion, “The Double Star” was crossing the arena at a calm pace. This view planted the seeds of disturbance that quickly sprouted anticipation. What were they expecting, in excitement and fear? No one could answer, but each was as if in a grip of two invisible hands, suspended, unable to predict whether they would let go or drop one’s pale and shaky self, taken by a strange anxiety. Those were the feelings confessed later by the utmost maniacs and addicts of nerve-shaking experiences, the people who’d tried everything. Not for the first time a high “Ah!” soared over the ladies’ heads, colored with rather grim tones, unusual for this universal exclamation. The tops, seeing nothing, were bellowing “bravo!” 

It was over ten minutes since “The Double Star” entered the arena. He was growing speed, apparently taking a run (on). His face was glowing, his eyes - laughing. Suddenly a child’s voice rent triumphantly: - “Mama, mama! He is flying. – Look his feet aren’t touching!” 

All glances were chained at once to the sudden discovery. As if scales fell off their eyes; the deception of the steady motion of his legs disappeared. “The Double Star” was severing the air one foot above the ground, rising still steeper and higher. 

At this very moment, the public’s attention, crashed and crippled, started tossing about behind the intangible line it had cowardly crossed; behind this line the show had outtravelled the limits of a magical trick and became a miracle. It became that very thing we spend our lives longing for, but scream and hide at the faintest shimmer of it. Drude (dru:d) left the arena and was floating towards the chandeliers, his hands enveloping(-ed) the back of his head. Instantly, all imagined weight of his body pressed the strain of the viewer’s internal labour, but it was soon gone, and everyone saw a man flying over the galleries and above the aerial bars, his head thrown back, and his silhouette crossing the dome with a smooth grace of a bird – now he was terrifying. And his shadow, diving among the rows of spectators, rushed about below.      

The orchestra, distraught, fell silent; a lone oboe howled a wrong note and dropped its bronze sound as if brought down by a bullet.