Read Online The Adventures of Hiram Holliday by Paul Gallico - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Gallico
Ads: Link
feet, the fantastic, shadowy roof-lines and the jewelled blanket of lights that lay over the city like a downy covering that followed every contour.
It was Hiram who talked mostly during the wonderful supper. He spoke of the beauty and the tradition of the circus, and particularly of clowning. He said: 'Do you know, Lisette, I would rather be a clown than priest or president. Strange that only the brutal men of the world are remembered and not those who make us laugh, the Marcelines and the Grocs. Groc was a great clown. I saw him once. He never spoke a word, but the audience would laugh so hard that it cried. Can there be anything more beautiful in this grim, troubled world than to make people laugh, or as you do, to delight the eye and the senses and the feeling of rhythm? Never mind the mechanics of it. But certainly, when an arena is rocking with the laughter of human beings, God is more surely there than in the gloomy caverns where we choose to visit Him.... Oh, dear,' finished Hiram Holliday, 'now whatever made me talk like that ... ?'
The circus girl watched him with her dark, shining eyes and suddenly reached across the table and patted his hand. She said: 'You are a strange American. The outside ... yes, it is American. But inside ...'
Later they walked on to the rue des Portes Blanches where she lived, and he thanked her gravely for her kindness. The girl looked up at this man who was not handsome or the figure of a hero, but who seemed to have such strange fire inside him, and said: 'Please do you kiss me good night, Hiram.'
He bent down and kissed her and said: 'Thank you, Lisette, for your great kindness. May we be together again ?' and turned and went away. He wanted very desperately to stay, and she might have let him, but then he was more a romanticist than an opportunist. The curious, searching tenderness of the girl's kiss had set a period to the evening. And besides he had no illusions about himself. He felt that he was hardly the figure for conquest. He was never able to know how much that which was within him blazed through his plainness, how much he was a man.
How Hiram Holliday Killed a Man and Created Laughter in Paris
The next afternoon occurred the absurd episode of the exchanged umbrellas. It had drizzled in the morning and there were low-hanging coppery rainclouds over Paris. Hiram went forth in his mackintosh with his umbrella hung over his arm by the crook of the handle, the handle that in England had been kissed by a princess named Heidi. In the late afternoon he stepped into the Dunhill shop at the top of the rue de la Paix to leave a pipe to be repaired. He left the bowl with his name and the address of his hotel, and selected a new briar, paid for it, turned to go and ran plump into the rear extension of the well-dressed, fatherly-looking gentleman who had been bent over a showcase and was peering into it through gold-rimmed eye-glasses fastened to a black ribbon. There was a thump and a clatter as two umbrellas fell to the marble floor.
'Oh, my dear sir!' said Hiram. 'I beg your pardon.'
'But no! A thousand pardons. It was my fault. How stupid of me to stand so.'
'Permit me ...' said Hiram, and prepared to reach for the floored umbrellas. But the affable gentleman with the spade beard, striped trousers, morning coat, and pleasant, fatherly demeanour, was before him. 'No, no.... Permit me. It is all my fault.'
He bent down quickly, pounced upon the umbrellas and handed Hiram his. The two men lifted their hats to one another and Hiram went out of the store and stepped into a taxi, and said: 'Notre Dame!' to the driver. He wanted to see it in the gloom of the cloudy twilight and in possible rain. He fancied as he drove off that he heard a shout: 'Hola! Hola! M'sieu! 1 but then, Paris is full of shouts and cries and squawking and braying of auto horns, so he paid no attention and was driven off. It was not until they were crossing the Pont Neuf that he noticed that he did not have his
It was Hiram who talked mostly during the wonderful supper. He spoke of the beauty and the tradition of the circus, and particularly of clowning. He said: 'Do you know, Lisette, I would rather be a clown than priest or president. Strange that only the brutal men of the world are remembered and not those who make us laugh, the Marcelines and the Grocs. Groc was a great clown. I saw him once. He never spoke a word, but the audience would laugh so hard that it cried. Can there be anything more beautiful in this grim, troubled world than to make people laugh, or as you do, to delight the eye and the senses and the feeling of rhythm? Never mind the mechanics of it. But certainly, when an arena is rocking with the laughter of human beings, God is more surely there than in the gloomy caverns where we choose to visit Him.... Oh, dear,' finished Hiram Holliday, 'now whatever made me talk like that ... ?'
The circus girl watched him with her dark, shining eyes and suddenly reached across the table and patted his hand. She said: 'You are a strange American. The outside ... yes, it is American. But inside ...'
Later they walked on to the rue des Portes Blanches where she lived, and he thanked her gravely for her kindness. The girl looked up at this man who was not handsome or the figure of a hero, but who seemed to have such strange fire inside him, and said: 'Please do you kiss me good night, Hiram.'
He bent down and kissed her and said: 'Thank you, Lisette, for your great kindness. May we be together again ?' and turned and went away. He wanted very desperately to stay, and she might have let him, but then he was more a romanticist than an opportunist. The curious, searching tenderness of the girl's kiss had set a period to the evening. And besides he had no illusions about himself. He felt that he was hardly the figure for conquest. He was never able to know how much that which was within him blazed through his plainness, how much he was a man.
How Hiram Holliday Killed a Man and Created Laughter in Paris
The next afternoon occurred the absurd episode of the exchanged umbrellas. It had drizzled in the morning and there were low-hanging coppery rainclouds over Paris. Hiram went forth in his mackintosh with his umbrella hung over his arm by the crook of the handle, the handle that in England had been kissed by a princess named Heidi. In the late afternoon he stepped into the Dunhill shop at the top of the rue de la Paix to leave a pipe to be repaired. He left the bowl with his name and the address of his hotel, and selected a new briar, paid for it, turned to go and ran plump into the rear extension of the well-dressed, fatherly-looking gentleman who had been bent over a showcase and was peering into it through gold-rimmed eye-glasses fastened to a black ribbon. There was a thump and a clatter as two umbrellas fell to the marble floor.
'Oh, my dear sir!' said Hiram. 'I beg your pardon.'
'But no! A thousand pardons. It was my fault. How stupid of me to stand so.'
'Permit me ...' said Hiram, and prepared to reach for the floored umbrellas. But the affable gentleman with the spade beard, striped trousers, morning coat, and pleasant, fatherly demeanour, was before him. 'No, no.... Permit me. It is all my fault.'
He bent down quickly, pounced upon the umbrellas and handed Hiram his. The two men lifted their hats to one another and Hiram went out of the store and stepped into a taxi, and said: 'Notre Dame!' to the driver. He wanted to see it in the gloom of the cloudy twilight and in possible rain. He fancied as he drove off that he heard a shout: 'Hola! Hola! M'sieu! 1 but then, Paris is full of shouts and cries and squawking and braying of auto horns, so he paid no attention and was driven off. It was not until they were crossing the Pont Neuf that he noticed that he did not have his
Similar Books
