Hugh Lofting: Doctor Dolittle's Circus

"Doctor," said he, "this seems to me a grand chance for us to do our play—just your own family—me, Too–Too, Gub–Gub, Toby, Swizzle, and perhaps the white mouse. You know, you said you would let us try it some time—'The Animals' Theatre.' You write a comic play for us—Gub–Gub's is no good—sort of vegetable knockabout. You write a play of your own—for animals—something high class. And we'll act it. I'm sure it will make a great sensation in Manchester. It's a big city. And we'll have a real intelligence audience."

In spite of the lateness of the hour, John Dolittle found, when he went back to his own wagon, that all his pets were sitting up waiting to see him and to hear the story of his day's doings.

Jip immediately told them of the interview with the Manchester manager and his own idea of providing an act by getting up an animal play. This was greeted with tremendous enthusiasm and applause from everyone, down to the white mouse.

"Hooray!" gurgled Gub–Gub. "At last I'm to be an actor. And, just think, I shall make my first appearance in Manchester!"

"Don't go so fast," said the Doctor. "We don't know yet that there will be a play. It may not be possible. It doesn't follow because a play amuses you that it will amuse your audience."

Then began a heated argument among the animals about plots for plays—about what kind of things amused people.

"Let's do Cinderella," cried the white mouse. "Everybody knows that, and then I can be one of the mice that the witch turned into footmen."

"Let's do Little Red Riding Hood," said Swizzle. "Then I can play the wolf."

The discussion became so general and interested that the Doctor thought this would be a good time to break the news to Dab–Dab that he had spent the twenty–six pounds.

This he did. And the evening was spoilt for the housekeeper.

"Doctor, Doctor!" she sighed, shaking her head. "What shall I do with you? You're not to be trusted with money—really, you're not. Oh, dear, we'll never get back to Puddleby, I suppose."

But the others, wrapped up in their new interest, brushed the matter aside as though it were nothing.

"Oh," said Gub–Gub, airily, "we'll soon make some more. What is money? Poof! Look here, Doctor, why don't we do Beauty and the Beast? Then I can act the part of the Beauty."

"Great heavens!" cried Jip. "What an idea! No; listen, Doctor: you write the play yourself—because you know what will interest people."

"Why don't you let the Doctor go to bed?" asked the Dab–Dab angrily. "He has had a long day. And it's time you were all asleep yourselves."

"My gracious!" said the Doctor, looking at his watch. "Do you know what time it is? It is two o'clock in the morning … . Go to bed, all of you."

"Oh, we're traveling to–morrow, Doctor," said Gub–Gub. "It doesn't matter what time we get up. Let us stay a little longer. We have to settle on what play we are going to give."

"No, you don't," said Dab–Dab—"not to–night. The Doctor's tired."

"No, I'm not tired," said John Dolittle.

"Well, it's bad for them to stay up late. There's nothing like early bed as a habit."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the Doctor. "But myself, I don't like getting into habits, you know."

"Well, I do," said Dab–Dab—"when they're good ones. I like regular people."

"Do you, Dab–Dab? That's why you're such an excellent housekeeper. There are two kinds of people: those who like habits and those who don't. They both have their good qualities."

"You know, Doctor," Gub–Gub put in, "me—I always divide people into the pickle–eaters and the plain feeders—those who like chutneys and sauces on their food and those who like everything plain."

"It's the same idea, Gub–Gub," the Doctor laughed. "Those that like change in their lives and those that like sameness. Your chutney–eaters are the change–lovers and your plain–fooders are the er—housekeepers. Myself, I hope to grow more adaptable as I grow older."

"What's adaptable, Doctor?" asked Gub–Gub.

"It would take too long to explain now. Go to bed. We'll talk about the play in the morning."

When the Dolittle household awoke next morning they found that the wagon was moving. This was nothing new for them. It only meant that the circus had got under way very early while they were still asleep—as it often did in moving from town to town. It was a part of the life, this, that Gub–Gub greatly enjoyed—waking in the morning and looking out of the window to see what kind of new scene lay around their moving home.

"It was a part of the life Gub–Gub greatly enjoyed"

Gub–Gub used to boast that this showed he was a born traveler, that he loved change, like the Doctor. As a matter of fact, he was really by nature much more like Dab–Dab; for no one loved regular habits, especially regular meals, more than he. It was just that the gipsy life provided a continuous and safe sort of adventure for him. He liked excitement, but comfortable excitement, without hardship or danger.

Matthew Mugg came in while the family was still at breakfast.

"Doctor," said he, "that Mr. Bellamy is still with the outfit. Said he might as well come along with us, as we was going the same way as him. But, if you ask me, I reckon the real reason is because he's afraid he may lose sight of you. He's just crazy to get you do a turn at his theatre—don't care nothin' about the rest of Blossom's show. But he's willin' to pay any amount to get you to give a performance of your own with animals."

"Well," said the Doctor, "it isn't as easy as it sounds, Matthew. My own pets here are anxious to do a play. I wrote a sort of comedy last night after they had gone to bed. But, of course, it will have to be rehearsed over and over before it is in shape for him to see it. The animals must know their parts properly. You might go forward and tell him, will you, that I will try to rehearse it while we are traveling, and that I will let him see it to–morrow, if we are far enough on with it."

"All right," said Matthew, and he stepped out of the back of the moving wagon and ran forward to overtake the ringmaster's caravan with his message.

Doctor Dolittle had, as you know, written plays before for animals— dozens of them. I have told you of his very famous little book called One–Act Plays for Penguins . He had also written longer dramas for monkeys and others. But all these had been intended for audience of animals and were written in animal languages. The penguin plays were (and are still, so far as I know) performed during the long winter nights in the open–air theatres of the Antarctic, where the vast audience of quaint birds sit around on the rocks in solemn groups, clapping their flipper–like wings when anything said by the actors strikes them as particularly sensible.

The plays for monkeys were of a much lighter kind. They preferred comedies and farces to the more serious and thoughtful drama that the penguins liked. The monkey plays were enacted in clear places in the jungle and the audience sat in the trees all about. The seats in the boughs right over the stage were the most expensive in the monkey theatres. And a family box, which consisted of a whole branch of a tree, cost as much as a hundred nuts. There was a special rule that families occupying these places should not throw their nutshells or banana peels down onto the performers' heads.

So, you see, John Dolittle was quite experienced as a playwright for animals. But the thing needed by Mr. Bellamy, which was to be shown to an audience of people, had to be different, because people don't understand animal languages. And after much thought the Doctor decided to do away with language altogether. The whole play was to be action. And he called it The Puddleby Pantomime.