On The Gallery

When some decrepit, lung addicted art rider in the arena on a swaying horse in front of an indefatigable audience of the whip-wielding merciless boss for months without a break would be driven around in circles, buzzing on the horse, throwing kisses, swaying at the waist, and when this game continued under the non-stop roar of the orchestra and the fans into the ever-opening gray future, accompanied by the passing and newly swelling Applause from the hands, which are actually steam hammers - maybe a young gallery visitor hurried down the long stairsdown all the ranks, rushed into the ring, shouted: Stop! through the fanfare of the always adapting orchestra.

But since it is not so; a beautiful lady, white and red, flies in between the curtains which the proud liveried open before her; the director, looking devotedly to her eyes, breathes towards her while keeping animals; as a precaution she lifts her up on the white horse as if she were his beloved granddaughter who is embarking on a dangerous journey; not yourself can resolve to give the whip mark; finally in self-conquest there is popping; runs alongside the horse with an open mouth; followed the rider's leaps with a keen eye; can barely comprehend their craftsmanship; tried to warn with English exclamations; the grooms holding the tires furiously exhorting them to be extremely careful; in front of the great Saltomortale, the orchestra, with raised hands, implores it to be silent; finally theLifts the little one from the trembling horse, kisses on both cheeks, and does not consider any homage from the public to be sufficient; while she herself, supported by him, high on tiptoe, blown by the dust, with outstretched arms and leaning head, wants to share her happiness with the whole circus - since this is so, the gallery visitor puts his face on the parapet and, in the final march, like sinking into a heavy dream, he cries without knowing it.