Page 19 - Sorrow of the Earth: Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull and the Tragedy of Show Business

come to see this, and only this: his solitude.

Previously, no American or any Westerner in the world had ever seen
anything. Up until now, all they had seen was their dreams. Yes, until now,
from the distant depths of History, they had heard only of Jugurtha and his
Numidians, Arabs on horseback, Chinamen with excessively long plaits,
distant enemies. But now the crystal ball has exploded, and the future has
vanished in a cloud of dust. The old fable has ended. The first episode of the
soap opera is beginning, the season of our triumphs. The veil is rent, the robe

is in flames. In the time it takes to count to one, we shall be masters of the
world.

This is when the booing and the catcalls start to fly. Sitting Bull remains
impassive, he does his lap of the arena. Not for one moment did anyone think
to get him to perform an episode from the Indian wars or from some other
time his life: a simple parade would suffice. There is no scope for History.
The past is surrounded by bleachers, and the spectators want to see its ghosts.

But nothing else. They don’t want to hear them. They don’t want to talk to
them. They just want to see them. They want to draw back the curtain for a
moment and see the Indian.
And what do we see? What do we hear? What lie is being spelled out in
that cadaverous mouth? What is this voice that speaks? What are these false
words that dictate our feelings? They seem to come from somewhere deep
down, from the very bowels of the half-formed creatures that we are. We

listen distractedly, and we allow ourselves be carried along helplessly towards
the precipice.
The crowd roars and shouts abuse at him. The people spit. There it is, the
unprecedented thing, the Red Indian we came to see, the strange beast that
prowled around our farmsteads, or so they say. “That’s him!” From the wings

Buffalo Bill signs to Frank Richmond who tries to quiet the spectators. But
it’s no use, the Indian chief will have to complete his lap under the hail of
abuse, until he reaches the end. The hubbub is extraordinary. The journalists
take photographs. Children stare wide-eyed. And Sitting Bull slowly leaves
the arena.