Madame Kabaret's Wandering Circus
by Catherine Pabalate
“Remember to greet her as she enters,” Mother warned, shrugging the dark velvet dress over Anne’s head. “Curtsy at the door and kiss her hand if she extends it. And don’t squabble. If you behave poorly in front of Madame, there will be consequences.”
“That’s unfair,” Margarete whined from the corner of the room. She was taking a brush to her curly mane, wincing as she fought against a ferocious knot. “It was all Anne’s fault last time. She kept pulling on the tablecloth, and she almost knocked the cottage pie into my lap. I shouldn’t be blamed for having perfect manners while she was the one who almost ruined everything.”
“Anne is young. Madame might have forgiven a mess, but she does not condone arguing.” At the sound of her name, Anne reached her chubby hands towards Mother, who lifted her to her chest. Anne clung to Mother’s neck, burying her face in Mother’s long ebony hair. Mother rested one hand on Anne’s back, the other on her pregnant stomach.
“Please, don’t be so harsh, Margarete. I know you don’t get along well with Anne, but she means no harm. She will learn soon. You were not well-mannered when you were young, either.”
“I know,” Margarete grumbled, setting her brush down. Mother gave her a smile, but it was hollow and inauthentic. Mother never forgot the mechanics of a smile—she was a refined lady, after all—but she certainly could not remember the intentions of one. Margaret thought it made her seem rather severe.
Margarete sighed once Mother and Anne had left the room. She stared into the mirror, pulling at the skin around her cheekbones, assessing her facial features. Would Madame believe her to be a refined lady? Margarete had to admit that she looked more like Father than Mother—her hair was tousled rather than sleek, her face was round and freckled, and she was the tallest and broadest of her sisters. Margarete growled, digging a pouf into a tin of powder. Pattering her face, she covered her freckles and sun-splotched skin and prayed silently that Madame would fall for the facade.
“Margarete!” her brother Asa shouted, rushing through the door frame. “What are you doing in here? Madame is arriving!”
Leaping from her seat, Margarete nearly tumbled down the stairs as she made her way to the foyer. When she dropped to the landing, her ankle rolled in her tight oxford shoes, but she smothered the pain with a nervous grin. Her family, too occupied by the carriage outside the window, didn’t seem to notice her misstep.
They stood together in a straight line, with Mother and Father closest to the door, and the children ordered from oldest to youngest. Margarete—the third of five—wormed her way in between Asa and Kathleen. Kathleen was clenching her fists, pressing her nails harshly into her palms. Margarete, noticing the thin crescent cuts blemishing Kathleen’s skin, grabbed her wrist and squeezed tightly. Kathleen understood the warning and unclenched her hands, eyes wide.
The family watched as she approached the door. Madame dressed the same each time she arrived, with her black ringleader’s hat and her silk gloves that reached her elbows. She walked along with a steel cane; her hands wrapped around the crow’s-beak handle. Her gait was slow, each step poised and deliberate. She paused; her eyes sharp behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. Mother gasped, curtsied curtly, and clasped Madame’s hands in hers.
“Madame Kabaret! It is such an honor to have you in our home once more.” Mother did this every time—she armed herself with effusive praise, in the hopes that it would please Madame. She was never sure if it did.
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Harring. I’m glad to see you and your family once more. Come, show me the dining hall, and tell me what you’ve prepared tonight.”
“Oh! Of course.” Mother ushered Madame into the neighboring room, where eight seats had been set with Mother’s favorite poppy-flower chinaware. Madame picked up a spoon and studied it, rubbing her silk gloves along the flawless metal. With a clicking noise from her tongue, she set it back down and followed Mother into the kitchen.
“The main course tonight will be roast cod and potatoes. I hope that is to your liking,” Mother said, rocking back on her heels. “Don’t worry—everything has been prepared with flawless care.”
Madame hummed, causing Mother to wince. “Did any of the children assist you in your cooking?”
“Well, yes—Elise, Margarete, and Kathleen.”
“And you are sure they did not contaminate the dinner?”
Mother’s eyes bore into ours, fierce and forewarning. Elise, the eldest of the four daughters, spoke up. “No, Madame, we washed our hands very well before dealing with the ingredients.”
“Is that so?”
Elise nodded, so Madame probed no further.
“That’s unfair,” Margarete whined from the corner of the room. She was taking a brush to her curly mane, wincing as she fought against a ferocious knot. “It was all Anne’s fault last time. She kept pulling on the tablecloth, and she almost knocked the cottage pie into my lap. I shouldn’t be blamed for having perfect manners while she was the one who almost ruined everything.”
“Anne is young. Madame might have forgiven a mess, but she does not condone arguing.” At the sound of her name, Anne reached her chubby hands towards Mother, who lifted her to her chest. Anne clung to Mother’s neck, burying her face in Mother’s long ebony hair. Mother rested one hand on Anne’s back, the other on her pregnant stomach.
“Please, don’t be so harsh, Margarete. I know you don’t get along well with Anne, but she means no harm. She will learn soon. You were not well-mannered when you were young, either.”
“I know,” Margarete grumbled, setting her brush down. Mother gave her a smile, but it was hollow and inauthentic. Mother never forgot the mechanics of a smile—she was a refined lady, after all—but she certainly could not remember the intentions of one. Margaret thought it made her seem rather severe.
Margarete sighed once Mother and Anne had left the room. She stared into the mirror, pulling at the skin around her cheekbones, assessing her facial features. Would Madame believe her to be a refined lady? Margarete had to admit that she looked more like Father than Mother—her hair was tousled rather than sleek, her face was round and freckled, and she was the tallest and broadest of her sisters. Margarete growled, digging a pouf into a tin of powder. Pattering her face, she covered her freckles and sun-splotched skin and prayed silently that Madame would fall for the facade.
“Margarete!” her brother Asa shouted, rushing through the door frame. “What are you doing in here? Madame is arriving!”
Leaping from her seat, Margarete nearly tumbled down the stairs as she made her way to the foyer. When she dropped to the landing, her ankle rolled in her tight oxford shoes, but she smothered the pain with a nervous grin. Her family, too occupied by the carriage outside the window, didn’t seem to notice her misstep.
They stood together in a straight line, with Mother and Father closest to the door, and the children ordered from oldest to youngest. Margarete—the third of five—wormed her way in between Asa and Kathleen. Kathleen was clenching her fists, pressing her nails harshly into her palms. Margarete, noticing the thin crescent cuts blemishing Kathleen’s skin, grabbed her wrist and squeezed tightly. Kathleen understood the warning and unclenched her hands, eyes wide.
The family watched as she approached the door. Madame dressed the same each time she arrived, with her black ringleader’s hat and her silk gloves that reached her elbows. She walked along with a steel cane; her hands wrapped around the crow’s-beak handle. Her gait was slow, each step poised and deliberate. She paused; her eyes sharp behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. Mother gasped, curtsied curtly, and clasped Madame’s hands in hers.
“Madame Kabaret! It is such an honor to have you in our home once more.” Mother did this every time—she armed herself with effusive praise, in the hopes that it would please Madame. She was never sure if it did.
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Harring. I’m glad to see you and your family once more. Come, show me the dining hall, and tell me what you’ve prepared tonight.”
“Oh! Of course.” Mother ushered Madame into the neighboring room, where eight seats had been set with Mother’s favorite poppy-flower chinaware. Madame picked up a spoon and studied it, rubbing her silk gloves along the flawless metal. With a clicking noise from her tongue, she set it back down and followed Mother into the kitchen.
“The main course tonight will be roast cod and potatoes. I hope that is to your liking,” Mother said, rocking back on her heels. “Don’t worry—everything has been prepared with flawless care.”
Madame hummed, causing Mother to wince. “Did any of the children assist you in your cooking?”
“Well, yes—Elise, Margarete, and Kathleen.”
“And you are sure they did not contaminate the dinner?”
Mother’s eyes bore into ours, fierce and forewarning. Elise, the eldest of the four daughters, spoke up. “No, Madame, we washed our hands very well before dealing with the ingredients.”
“Is that so?”
Elise nodded, so Madame probed no further.
Dinner proceeded as expected: in total silence, interjected only by Madame’s questioning. Each family member answered truthfully, as there was no use lying to Madame. She could tell from their shifting eyes when someone was hiding something from her.
“Asa,” Madame exclaimed, and Asa jolted, hitting his knee against the table. Mother and Father grimaced. “You are in your sixth year of school, is that correct?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Do you find that your classmates are often sick? It seems that children in their prepubescent years are often falling ill to polio and other deadly ailments.”
“No, Madame,” Asa stammered. “No, I don’t believe that is the case.”
“Believe? This is not something to believe; it is something to know. So, tell me, why are you uncertain? Is it because you’re a fool, or is it because you’re a liar?”
Asa gaped and turned to Mother, but she looked away. However, Madame seemed satisfied with the conversation and continued.
“Kathleen, Anne, you two are not yet in school, is that right? Do you spend a lot of time outdoors? I’m sure you enjoy playing in the gardens. Tell me: what is your favorite flower?”
Kathleen, wrought with anxiety, didn’t respond, but Anne, young and enthusiastic, answered, “Peony.”
“Wonderful! What an intelligent young lady. Do you help Mother tend to the flowers each day?”
Anne nodded, glowing with excitement. “Yes, I do! I plant my own too, sometimes.”
“Brilliant,” Madame replied, grinning. Mother leaned forward, bracing herself with the table.
“I know what you’re insinuating, Madame,” she said darkly, and Madame smiled at her, “but Anne is a careful girl. She isn’t like Kirk or William. Don’t get any sinister ideas.”
“Oh, I forgot about Kirk and William! You must be so worried about them. You raised those boys well; I hope you realize. They are perfectly safe in my care. Kirk is a lovely little clown now, and William is a strangely competent lion tamer. I am so grateful to have them in my troupe, so I commend you for your capabilities as a mother.”
The room went silent. Elise wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes. Anne turned to Mother, confused. With his head lowered, Father spoke up. “Give them back.”
Madame Kabaret tittered into her gloved hand. “Oh no, they can’t come back. They have joined my circus, so now they are a part of my community. I couldn’t afford to lose such valuable assets to my troupe. I do hope you understand. If it eases your mind, they quite enjoy it with us. William is a shy child, but Kirk has made friends with all of the other clown boys. Both of them are content. When the rest of you come to the circus, you’ll see we are a family, an united organism.”
“They were only seven!” Mother cried. Startled by the outburst, Kathleen grabbed Margarete’s hand under the table. “They were innocent children! They were stubborn and reckless, yes, but only in the way young boys should be. And you knew they were too young. They should be here, at the dinner table with their family, rather than wearing clown shoes and taming lions!”
“Shouting won’t change their circumstances,” Madame retorted, a sharp edge carving her voice, “and it won’t change Anne’s, either. I’ve decided now that I will bring her along with me to the circus this year. I think she would make a pleasant little clown, or perhaps she can groom the poodles. Regardless, it is time for her to join us in our performance.”
"No,” Mother growled. “Stay away from her.”
“What do you suggest, then? My troupe of wanderers needs a new member.”
Mother paused, then turned to each of her children—Elise, Asa, Margarete, Kathleen, and, finally, little Anne. “Fine. Take me. I’ll join in their place.”
Madame hummed in consideration. “Are you sure? You’re a healthy and promising woman—the circus may not be meant for you.”
“Mona, please,” Father whispered, placing a hand on Mother’s stomach. Mother held his shoulder gently as she planted a kiss on his cheek.
“I’m sure,” Mother replied, standing from her seat at the table. She grabbed Madame Kabaret’s hands, just as she had in the foyer. “Take me, Madame. I am ready to follow you.”
As she followed Madame to the carriage, the children wailed, clinging to her skirt. Anne, still unaware, held out her hands for Mother, her face dropping when Mother wouldn’t pick her up anymore. Father stood in the doorway silently, his brow furrowed and strained. Tears streaming down her face, Mother tried once more to smile, but she still couldn’t perfect it. “Keep well, my loves. When you join Madame in the future, please find me, so I may see you again.”
“Asa,” Madame exclaimed, and Asa jolted, hitting his knee against the table. Mother and Father grimaced. “You are in your sixth year of school, is that correct?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Do you find that your classmates are often sick? It seems that children in their prepubescent years are often falling ill to polio and other deadly ailments.”
“No, Madame,” Asa stammered. “No, I don’t believe that is the case.”
“Believe? This is not something to believe; it is something to know. So, tell me, why are you uncertain? Is it because you’re a fool, or is it because you’re a liar?”
Asa gaped and turned to Mother, but she looked away. However, Madame seemed satisfied with the conversation and continued.
“Kathleen, Anne, you two are not yet in school, is that right? Do you spend a lot of time outdoors? I’m sure you enjoy playing in the gardens. Tell me: what is your favorite flower?”
Kathleen, wrought with anxiety, didn’t respond, but Anne, young and enthusiastic, answered, “Peony.”
“Wonderful! What an intelligent young lady. Do you help Mother tend to the flowers each day?”
Anne nodded, glowing with excitement. “Yes, I do! I plant my own too, sometimes.”
“Brilliant,” Madame replied, grinning. Mother leaned forward, bracing herself with the table.
“I know what you’re insinuating, Madame,” she said darkly, and Madame smiled at her, “but Anne is a careful girl. She isn’t like Kirk or William. Don’t get any sinister ideas.”
“Oh, I forgot about Kirk and William! You must be so worried about them. You raised those boys well; I hope you realize. They are perfectly safe in my care. Kirk is a lovely little clown now, and William is a strangely competent lion tamer. I am so grateful to have them in my troupe, so I commend you for your capabilities as a mother.”
The room went silent. Elise wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes. Anne turned to Mother, confused. With his head lowered, Father spoke up. “Give them back.”
Madame Kabaret tittered into her gloved hand. “Oh no, they can’t come back. They have joined my circus, so now they are a part of my community. I couldn’t afford to lose such valuable assets to my troupe. I do hope you understand. If it eases your mind, they quite enjoy it with us. William is a shy child, but Kirk has made friends with all of the other clown boys. Both of them are content. When the rest of you come to the circus, you’ll see we are a family, an united organism.”
“They were only seven!” Mother cried. Startled by the outburst, Kathleen grabbed Margarete’s hand under the table. “They were innocent children! They were stubborn and reckless, yes, but only in the way young boys should be. And you knew they were too young. They should be here, at the dinner table with their family, rather than wearing clown shoes and taming lions!”
“Shouting won’t change their circumstances,” Madame retorted, a sharp edge carving her voice, “and it won’t change Anne’s, either. I’ve decided now that I will bring her along with me to the circus this year. I think she would make a pleasant little clown, or perhaps she can groom the poodles. Regardless, it is time for her to join us in our performance.”
"No,” Mother growled. “Stay away from her.”
“What do you suggest, then? My troupe of wanderers needs a new member.”
Mother paused, then turned to each of her children—Elise, Asa, Margarete, Kathleen, and, finally, little Anne. “Fine. Take me. I’ll join in their place.”
Madame hummed in consideration. “Are you sure? You’re a healthy and promising woman—the circus may not be meant for you.”
“Mona, please,” Father whispered, placing a hand on Mother’s stomach. Mother held his shoulder gently as she planted a kiss on his cheek.
“I’m sure,” Mother replied, standing from her seat at the table. She grabbed Madame Kabaret’s hands, just as she had in the foyer. “Take me, Madame. I am ready to follow you.”
As she followed Madame to the carriage, the children wailed, clinging to her skirt. Anne, still unaware, held out her hands for Mother, her face dropping when Mother wouldn’t pick her up anymore. Father stood in the doorway silently, his brow furrowed and strained. Tears streaming down her face, Mother tried once more to smile, but she still couldn’t perfect it. “Keep well, my loves. When you join Madame in the future, please find me, so I may see you again.”
A gravestone can be found in the gardens of the Harring residence, neat and pristine in comparison to two moss-covered graves with which it lies. The dirt surrounding the grave was upheaved frequently by six pairs of feet, but the grave itself remained untouched. In the springtime, peony petals sprinkled the base.
The gravestone read: Mona Harring. 1857-1894. Loving wife of Edgar Harring, caring mother of seven. Died in childbirth. May she find solace in her eternal wander.
The gravestone read: Mona Harring. 1857-1894. Loving wife of Edgar Harring, caring mother of seven. Died in childbirth. May she find solace in her eternal wander.
Catherine Pabalate is a second-year student at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and she is currently pursuing degrees in English and biology. She enjoys reading and writing literature with Gothic themes and influences.