English fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, English
And after sunset the white flares of acetylene and the red flares of
coal-gas scooped out of the heart of the night a little private day, in
which the fun went on more noisily than ever. And the gaslight striking
up on to the towers mingled half-way up their shafts with the moonlight
from above, so that to me at my window the belfries seemed to belong
half to the earth, half to the pale silence overhead. But gradually, as
the night wore on, earth abandoned its claims; the noise diminished;
one after another the flares were put out, till at last the moon was
left in absolute possession, with only a few dim greenish gas-lamps
here and there, making no attempt to dispute her authority. The towers
were hers down to the roots, the booths and the hooded roundabouts, the
Russian mountains, the swings--all wore the moon’s livery of silver and
black; and audible once more the bells seemed in her honour to sound a
sweeter, clearer, more melancholy note.
But it was not only from my window that I viewed the kermesse. From the
moment that the roundabouts began to turn, which was as soon as the
eleven o’clock Mass on the last Sunday but one in August was over, to
the moment when they finally came to rest, which was at about ten or
eleven on the night of the following Sunday, I moved almost unceasingly
among the delights of the fair. And what a fair it was! I have never
seen its like in England. Such splendour, such mechanical perfection in
the swings, switchbacks, merry-go-rounds, towers, and the like! Such
astonishing richness and variety in the side-shows! And withal such
marvellous cheapness.
When one was tired of sliding and swinging, of being whirled and
jogged, one could go and see for a penny the man who pulled out
handfuls of his skin, to pin it up with safety-pins into ornamental
folds and pleats. Or one could see the woman with no arms who opened a
bottle of champagne with her toes and drank your health, lifting her
glass to her lips with the same members. And then in another booth,
over whose entry there waved--a concrete symbol of good faith--a pair
of enormous female pantaloons, sat the Fat Woman--so fat that she could
(and would, you were told, for four sous extra), in the words of the
Flemish notice at the door, which I prefer to leave in their original
dialectical obscurity, “heur gezicht bet heur tiekes wassen.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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