The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder Read online

  “Do let me take over tonight,” he begged. “I’m yours as long as it’s necessary—for a week, a month, six months. It will give me pleasure, that’s the truth. You won’t say no, hein?”

  Some hours later Auguste was seated before the mirror, studying his face. It had been his habit, before applying the paint each night, to sit and stare at himself for long intervals. It was his way of preparing himself for the performance. He would sit looking at his own sad face and then suddenly he would begin erasing this image and impose a new one, one which every one knew and which was accepted everywhere as Auguste. The real Auguste no one knew, not even his friends, for with fame he had become a solitary.

  Seated thus, invaded by memories of thousands of other nights before the mirror, Auguste began to realize that this life apart, this life which he had jealously guarded as his own, this secret existence which supposedly preserved his identity, was not a life at all, was nothing in fact, not even a shadow life. He had only begun to live from the day he had taken up with the troupe, from the moment he had begun to serve in the capacity of the humblest. That secret life had vanished almost without his knowing it; he was a man again like other men, doing all the foolish, trifling, necessary things which others did—and he had been happy thus, his days had been full. Tonight he would appear not as Auguste, the world-celebrated clown, but as Antoine, whom nobody had heard of. Because he had neither name nor fame, Antoine was accepted each night as a matter of course. No wild applause followed his exit from the ring; people simply smiled indulgently, showing no more appreciation of his art than they did of the amazing stunts of the seals.

  At this point a disturbing thought suddenly shattered his reverie. Heretofore it was that private, empty life which he had struggled to shield from the public eye. But what if this evening someone should recognize him, recognize the clown Auguste? That would indeed be a calamity! Never again would he have any peace; he would he pursued from town to town, pressed to explain his strange behavior, importuned to resume his proper place in the world of vedettes. In some vague way he sensed that they might even accuse him of murdering Auguste. Auguste had become an idol; he belonged to the world. No telling to what lengths they would go to harass him …

  There was a knock at the door. Someone had popped in just to see if everything was going all right. After a few words Auguste inquired how Antoine was doing. “Improving, I hope?”

  “No,” said the other gravely, “he seems to be getting worse. No one knows just what’s wrong with him. Perhaps you would say a word to him before you go on, yes?”

  “Certainly,” said Auguste, “I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” and he proceeded with his make-up.

  Antoine was tossing about feverishly when Auguste entered. Bending over the sick man. Auguste took Antoine’s moist hand in his. “Poor fellow,” he murmured, “what can I do for you?”

  Antoine stared up at him blankly for several long minutes. He was staring with the expression of one looking at himself in a mirror. Auguste slowly understood what was passing through Antoine’s mind. “It’s me, Auguste,” he said softly.

  “I know,” said Antoine. “It’s you … but it could also be me. Nobody will know the difference. And you are great and I have never been anybody.”

  “I was thinking that very thing myself just a few moments ago,” said Auguste with a wistful smile. “It’s droll, what! A little grease paint, a bladder, a funny costume—how little it takes to make oneself into a nobody! That’s what we are—nobodies. And everybody at the same time. It’s not us they applaud, it’s themselves. My dear fellow, I must be going in a moment, but first let me tell you a little thing I learned recently…. To be yourself, just yourself, is a great thing. And how does one do it, how does one bring it about? Ah, that’s the most difficult trick of all. It’s difficult just because it involves no effort. You try neither to be one thing nor another, neither great nor small, neither clever nor maladroit … you follow me? You do whatever comes to hand. You do it with good grace, bien entendu. Because nothing is unimportant. Nothing. Instead of laughter and applause you receive smiles. Contented little smiles—that’s all. But it’s everything … more than one could ask for. You go about doing the dirty work, relieving people of their burdens. It makes them happy, but it makes you much happier, do you see? Of course you must do it inconspicuously, so to say. You must never let them know what pleasure it gives you. Once they catch on to you, once they learn your secret, you are lost to them. They will call you selfish, no matter how much you do for them. You can do everything for them—literally kill yourself in harness—so long as they do not suspect that they are enriching you, giving you a joy you could never give yourself…. Well, excuse me, Antoine, I didn’t mean to make a long speech. Anyway, tonight it is you who are making me a gift. Tonight I can be myself in being you. That is even better than being yourself, compris?”

  Here Auguste checked himself, for in giving expression to this last thought he had suddenly hit upon a genial idea. It was not one to be imparted to Antoine then and there, however. There was a certain risk involved, an element of danger possibly. But he wouldn’t think of that. He must hurry now, work it out as quickly as possible … this very night perhaps.

  “Look, Antoine,” he said almost gruffly, making ready to leave, “I will go on tonight, and maybe tomorrow night too, but after that you had better be up and about. I’m not eager to become a clown again, you understand? I’ll drop in on you in the morning. There’s something more I want to tell you, something that will buck you up!” He paused a moment, cleared his throat. “You always wanted to be a big shot, didn’t you? Just remember that! I’m nursing an idea: it’s for you to take advantage of. So long now, sleep well!” He patted Antoine roughly, as if to push him into well-being. Moving towards the door he caught the faint suggestion of a smile stealing over Antoine’s lips. He closed the door softly and tiptoed out into the darkness.

  As he strode towards the big tent, humming to himself, the idea which had seized him a few moments ago began to formulate itself more distinctly. He could scarcely wait for his cue, so keen was he to bring his plan to fruition. “Tonight,” he said to himself, as he stood champing at the bit, “I shall give a performance such as no one has ever seen. Just wait, my buckos, just wait till Auguste takes over.”

  He whipped himself into such a frenzy of impatience that when he emerged into the spotlight, accompanied by a few thin squeaks from the violin, he was cavorting like a crazy goat. From the moment his feet touched the sawdust it was sheer improvisation. Not one of these wild, senseless capers had he ever thought of before, much less rehearsed. He had given himself a clean slate and on it he was writing Antoine’s name in indelible letters. If only Antoine were there, could witness his own début as a world figure!

  In the space of a few minutes Auguste was aware that he held the audience in the palm of his hand. And he had hardly unlimbered, so to speak. “Wait, wait, my lads!” he kept mumbling as he flung himself about, “this is nothing yet. Antoine is only just being born, he hasn’t even begun to kick his legs.”

  The preliminary skit over, he immediately found himself surrounded by an excited group. Among them was the boss. “But you must be mad!” were the latter’s first words. “Are you trying to ruin Antoine?”

  “Have no fear,” said Auguste, flushing with joy. “I am making Antoine. Be patient. I assure you all will end well.”

  “But it’s too good already, that’s what I’m growling about. After this performance Antoine will be finished.”

  There was no time for more words. The ring had to be cleared for the trapeze artists. As the troupe was a small one, everyone had to pitch in.

  When it came time for the clowns to appear again there was a prolonged burst of applause. Auguste had scarcely shown his head when the audience burst into cheers. “Antoine! Antoine!” they shouted, stamping their feet, whistling, clapping their hands with joy. “Give us Antoine!”

  It was at this point in the eve
ning’s entertainment that Antoine usually gave a solo performance, a rather worn little act from which the last breath of invention had evaporated years ago. Observing this routine night after night, Auguste had often thought to himself just how he would alter each little turn, were he obliged to do it himself. He now found himself executing the gags which he had so often rehearsed, sometimes in his sleep. He felt very much like a master putting the finishing touches to a portrait which a negligent pupil had abandoned. Except for the subject, there would be nothing left of the original. One began by touching it up here and there, and one ended by creating something wholly new.

  Auguste went to it like an inspired maniac. There was nothing to lose. On the contrary, there was everything to gain. Each new twist or wrinkle meant a fresh lease on life, for Antoine. As he proceeded to perfect the turn from one phase to the next, Auguste made mental notes to explain to Antoine exactly how to reproduce the effects he was achieving. He was hopping about like three different beings at once: Auguste the master, Auguste as Antoine, and Antoine as Auguste. And above and beyond these there hovered a fourth entity which would crystallize and become more manifest with time: Antoine as Antoine. A new-born Antoine, to be sure, an Antoine in excelsis. The more he thought of this Antoine (it was amazing how much speculation he could indulge in while holding forth) the more considerate he was of the limits and susceptibilities of the figure he was recreating. It was Antoine he kept thinking of, not Auguste. Auguste was dead. He had not the slightest desire to see him reincarnated as the world-renowned Antoine. His whole concern was to make Antoine so famous that there would nevermore be mention of Auguste.

  Next morning the papers were full of Antoine’s praises. Auguste had, of course, explained his project to the boss before retiring that night. It was agreed that every precaution would be taken to keep the plan a secret. Since none but the members of the troupe knew of Antoine’s illness, and since Antoine himself was still in ignorance of the glorious future which had been prepared for him, the outlook seemed relatively cheerful.

  Auguste, of course, could scarcely wait to pay the promised visit to Antoine. He had decided not to show him the newspapers immediately but to simply let him know what he hoped to accomplish during the few brief days in which Antoine would be incapacitated. He had to win Antoine over before revealing to him the full extent of his accomplishment, otherwise Antoine might be intimidated by a success which he had acquired ready-made. All this Auguste rehearsed step by step before heading for Antoine’s quarters. Not once did it occur to him that what he was about to propose was beyond Antoine’s power of acceptance.

  He held himself back until almost noon, hoping that by that time Antoine would be in the proper mood to receive him. When he set forth he was jubilant. He was certain he could convince Antoine that the heritage he was leaving him was a legitimate one. “After all,” he said to himself, “it’s just a little push I’m giving him. Life is full of little dodges which we must avail ourselves of. No man gets there alone, unaided.” With this off his chest, he almost began to trot. “I’m not cheating or robbing him,” he continued. “He always wanted to be famous, now he is famous! or he will be a week from now. Antoine will be Antoine … only more so. That’s all there is to it. All it needs sometimes is just a little accident, a trick of fortune, a push from the beyond, and there you are—out in the limelight and on all fours.”

  Here he recalled his own sudden rise to fame. What had he, Auguste, to do with it? What had been a mere accident was acclaimed overnight as a stroke of genius. How little the public understood! How little any one understood, where fate was concerned. To be a clown was to be fate’s pawn. The life in the arena was a dumb show consisting of falls, slaps, kicks—an endless shuffling and booting about. And it was by means of this disgraceful rigolade that one found favor with the public. The beloved clown! It was his special privilege to reenact the errors, the follies, the stupidities, all the misunderstandings which plague human kind. To be ineptitude itself, that was something even the dullest oaf could grasp. Not to understand, when all is clear as daylight; not to catch on, though the trick be repeated a thousand times for you; to grope about like a blind man, when all signs point the right direction; to insist on opening the wrong door, though it is marked Danger!; to walk head on into the mirror, instead of going around it; to look through the wrong end of a rifle, a loaded rifle!—people never tired of these absurdities because for millennia humans have traversed all the wrong roads, because for millennia all their seeking and questioning have landed them in a cul-de-sac. The master of ineptitude has all time as his domain. He surrenders only in the face of eternity….

  It was in the midst of such strange preoccupations that he caught sight of Aniline’s roulette. It startled him somewhat, though he knew not why, to observe the boss coming towards him, obviously from Aniline’s bedside. He was even more startled when the boss raised his hand, motioning him to stop where he was. The expression on the man’s face awakened in August a distinct feeling of alarm. He stood where he was, obediently, waiting for the other to open his mouth.

  When within a few feet of August, the man suddenly threw up both arms in a gesture of despair and resignation. August had no need to hear a word, he knew then what to expect.

  “But when did it happen?” asked August, after they had walked a few yards.

  “Only a few minutes ago. Like that, it happened. Right in my arms.”

  “I don’t understand,” mumbled Auguste. “What was it that could have killed him? He was not so ill as all that last night when I spoke to him.”

  “Exactly,” said the other.

  There was something about this “exactly” which made Auguste jump.

  “You don’t mean …?” He broke off; it was too fantastic, he refused to harbor the thought. But the next instant he broke out with it just the same. “You don’t mean,” and here he faltered again, “you don’t mean that he heard …?”

  “Precisely.”

  Again Auguste jumped.

  “If I were asked my candid opinion,” continued the boss in the same rasping tone, “I would say that he died of a broken heart.”

  With this they both halted abruptly.

  “Look,” said the boss, “it is not your fault. Don’t take it too much to heart. I know, we all know, that you are innocent. In any case it’s a fact that Antoine would never have made a great clown. Antoine had given up long ago.” He mumbled something under his breath, then continued with a sigh: “The question is, how will we explain last night’s performance? It will be hard to conceal the truth now, you agree, do you not? We never counted on his dying suddenly, did we?”

  There was an interval of silence, then Auguste said quietly: “I think 1 would like to be alone for a while, do you mind?”

  “Righto!” said the boss. “Think it out by yourself. There is still time …” He did not add for what.

  Distraught, dejected, Auguste wandered off in the direction of the town. He walked for quite a long time with not a thought in his head, just a sort of dull, numb pain permeating his whole body. Finally he took a seat on the edge of a terrasse and ordered a drink. No, decidedly he had never reckoned with this eventuality. Another trick of fate. One thing was very clear—either he would have to become Auguste again or Antoine. He could no longer remain anonymous. He fell to thinking of Antoine, of the Antoine whom he had impersonated the night before. Would he be able to go through it again, this evening, with anything like the same verve and gusto? He forgot all about Antoine lying cold and dead in the wagon. Without realizing it, he had stepped into Antoine’s shoes. He rehearsed the part with exactitude, analyzing it, picking it to pieces, patching it up, improving it here and there … he went on and on, from one turn to another, one audience to another, night after night, town after town. And then suddenly he came to. Suddenly he sat up in his seat, began talking to himself in earnest. “So you’re going to become a clown again, is that it? Haven’t had enough yet, eh? You killed off Auguste, you mur
dered Antoine … what next? Only two days ago you were a happy man, a free man. Now you’re trapped, and a murderer to boot. And you suppose, do you, that with a guilty conscience you can make people laugh? Ah no, that’s carrying it a little too far!” Auguste brought his fist down on the marble-topped table, as if to convince himself of the seriousness of his words. “A great performance last night. And why? Because no one suspected that the man who made it great was the famous Auguste. It was talent, genius, they were applauding. Not a soul could have known. Perfect. Full triumph. And—Q.E.D.” Once again he pulled himself up, like a horse. “How’s that—Q.E.D.? Ah, so that’s it! That’s why Auguste was so eager to substitute for Antoine. Auguste never cared a button whether Antoine would become great or not, did he? Yes or No? Auguste cared only to make certain that the reputation he had created really belonged to him. Auguste jumped to the bait like a fish. Bah!” He spat out a bit of saliva disgustedly.

  His throat had become so parched from excitement that he clapped his hands and ordered another drink. “My God,” he resumed, after he had wet his palate, “to think that a man can lay such traps for himself! Happy one day, miserable the next. What a fool! What a fool I am!” Here he reflected a moment very soberly. “Well, there’s one thing I understand now—my happiness was real but unfounded. I have to recapture it, but honestly this time. I have to hold on to it with two hands, as though it were a precious jewel. I must learn to be happy as Auguste, as the clown that I am.”

  He took another sip of wine, then shook himself like a dog. “Maybe this is my last chance, I shall start from the bottom once more.” With this he fell to speculating on a new name for himself. This game took him far afield. “Yes,” he resumed, having forgotten already the name he had decided on, “I’ll work out something new, something totally new. If it doesn’t make me happy it will at least keep me on the alert. Perhaps South America….”