New Studies—A Comic Journal—Invention of Second Sight—Curious Experiments—An enthusiastic Spectator—Danger of being a Sorcerer—A Philter or your Life—Way to get rid of Bores—An Electric Touch—I perform at the Vaudeville—Struggles with the Incredulous—Interesting Details.
FONTENELLE says, somewhere or other, “There is no success, however merited, in which luck does not have a share;” and, although I was of the same opinion as the illustrious Academician, I determined by sheer toil to diminish as much as in me lay the share luck could claim in my success. In the first place, I redoubled my efforts to improve the execution of my tricks, and when I believed I had attained that result, I tried to correct a fault which, I felt, must injure my performance. This was speaking too rapidly; and my “patter,” recited in a schoolboy tone, thus lost much of its effect. I was drawn in this false direction by my natural vivacity, and I had great trouble in correcting it; however, by resolutely attacking my enemy, I managed to conquer it.
This victory was doubly profitable to me: I performed with much less fatigue, and had the pleasure of noticing, in the calmness of my audience, that I had realized the scenic truth, “the more slowly a story is told, the shorter it seems.” In fact, if you pronounce slowly, the public, judging from your calmness that you take an interest in what you are saying, yield to your influence and listen to you with sustained attention. If, on the contrary, your words reveal a desire to finish quickly, your auditors gradually submit to the influence of this restlessness, and they are as anxious as yourself to hear the end of your story.
I have said that people of the first rank came to my theatre, but I noticed, on the other hand, to my regret, that my pit was scantily filled. As I was ambitious to have my room thronged, I thought I could not effect this more easily than by making my theatre better known than I had hitherto done.
From time immemorial it has been the custom, at conjuring performances, to distribute small presents to the audience, in order to “maintain their friendship.” Toys were generally selected, which spectators of all ages contended for; and this often made Comte say at the moment of distribution, “Here are toys for great children and small.” These toys had a very ephemeral existence, and as nothing indicated their origin, they could attract no attention to the giver. While, then, I was as liberal as my predecessors, I wished that my little presents should keep up for a longer period the remembrance of my name and experiments. Instead of dolls and other similar objects, I distributed to my spectators, under the form of presents produced by magic, illustrated comic journals, elegant fans, albums, and rebuses, all accompanied by bouquets and excellent bonbons. Each article bore, not only the inscription “Recollections of Robert-Houdin’s fantastic soirées,” but also details of my performances, according to the nature of the article. These were generally presented in the shape of verses. The thing that caused me the most trouble was my comic journal, the “Cagliostro,” which I was forced to edit at the expense of my night’s rest. The audience were amused by my jests, and the perusal of the paper between the acts gave me a little time to make my preparations.
The experiment, however, to which I owed my reputation was one inspired by that fantastic god to whom Pascal attributes all the discoveries of this sublunary world: chance led me straight to the invention of second sight.
My two children were playing one day in the drawing-room at a game they had invented for their own amusement. The younger had bandaged his elder brother’s eyes, and made him guess the objects he touched, and when the latter happened to guess right, they changed places. This simple game suggested to me the most complicated idea that ever crossed my mind.
Pursued by the notion, I ran and shut myself up in my workroom, and was fortunately in that happy state when the mind follows easily the combinations traced by fancy. I rested my head in my hands, and, in my excitement, laid down the first principles of second sight.
It would require a whole volume to describe the numberless combinations of this experiment; but this description, far too serious for these memoirs, will find a place in a special work, which will also contain the explanation of my theatrical tricks. Still, I cannot resist the desire of cursorily explaining some of the preliminary experiments to which I had recourse before I could make the trick perfect.
My readers will remember the experiment suggested to me formerly by the pianist’s dexterity, and the strange faculty I succeeded in attaining: I could read while juggling with four balls. Thinking seriously of this, I fancied that this “perception by appreciation” might be susceptible of equal development, if I applied its principles to the memory and the mind.
I resolved, therefore, on making some experiments with my son Emile, and, in order to make my young assistant understand the nature of the exercise we were going to learn, I took a domino, the cinq-quatre for instance, and laid it before him. Instead of letting him count the points of the two numbers, I requested the boy to tell me the total at once.
“Nine,” he said.
Then I added another domino, the quarter-tray.
“That makes sixteen,” he said, without any hesitation.
I stopped the first lesson here; the next day we succeeded in counting at a single glance four dominoes, the day after six, and thus we at length were enabled to give instantaneously the product of a dozen dominoes.
This result obtained, we applied ourselves to a far more difficult task, over which we spent a month. My son and I passed rapidly before a toy-shop, or any other displaying a variety of wares, and cast an attentive glance upon it. A few steps further on we drew paper and pencil from our pockets, and tried which could describe the greater number of objects seen in passing. I must own that my son reached a perfection far greater than mine, for he could often write down forty objects, while I could scarce reach thirty. Often feeling vexed at this defeat, I would return to the shop and verify his statement, but he rarely made a mistake.
My male readers will certainly understand the possibility of this, but they will recognize the difficulty. As for my lady readers, I am convinced beforehand they will not be of the same opinion, for they daily perform far more astounding feats. Thus, for instance, I can safely assert that a lady seeing another pass at full speed in a carriage, will have had time to analyze her toilette from her bonnet to her shoes, and be able to describe not only the fashion and quality of the stuffs, but also say if the lace be real, or only machine made. I have known ladies do this.
This natural, or acquired, faculty among ladies, but which my son and I had only gained by constant practice, was of great service in my performances, for while I was executing my tricks, I could see everything that passed around me, and thus prepare to foil any difficulties presented me. This exercise had given me, so to speak, the power of following two ideas simultaneously, and nothing is more favorable in conjuring than to be able to think at the same time both of what you are saying and of what you are doing. I eventually acquired such a knack in this, that I frequently invented new tricks while going through my performances. One day, even, I made a bet I would solve a problem in mechanics while taking my part in conversation. We were talking of the pleasure of a country life, and I calculated during this time the quantity of wheels and pinions, as well as the necessary cogs, to produce certain revolutions required, without once failing in my reply.
This slight explanation will be sufficient to show what is the essential basis of second sight, and I will add that a secret and unnoticeable correspondence existed between my son and myself, by which I could announce to him the name, nature, and bulk of objects handed me by spectators.
As none understood my mode of action, they were tempted to believe in something extraordinary, and, indeed, my son Emile, then aged twelve, possessed all the essential qualities to produce this opinion, for his pale, intellectual, and ever thoughtful face represented the type of a boy gifted with some supernatural power.
Two months were incessantly employed in erecting the scaffolding of our tricks, and when we were quite confident of being able to contend against the difficulties of such an undertaking, we announced the first representation of second sight. On the 12th of February, 1846, I printed in the centre of my bill the following singular announcement:
“In this performance M. Robert-Houdin’s son, who is gifted with a marvellous second sight, after his eyes have been covered with a thick bandage, will designate every object presented to him by the audience.”
I cannot say whether this announcement attracted any spectators, for my room was constantly crowded, still I may affirm, what may seem very extraordinary, that the experiment of second sight, which afterwards became so fashionable, produced no effect on the first performance. I am inclined to believe that the spectators fancied themselves the dupes of accomplices, but I was much annoyed by the result, as I had built on the surprise I should produce; still, having no reason to doubt its ultimate success, I was tempted to make a second trial, which turned out well.
The next evening I noticed in my room several persons who had been present on the previous night, and I felt they had come a second time to assure themselves of the reality of the experiment. It seems they were convinced, for my success was complete, and amply compensated for my former disappointment.
I especially remember a mark of singular approval with which one of my pit audience favored me. My son had named to him several objects he offered in succession; but not feeling satisfied, my incredulous friend, rising, as if to give more importance to the difficulty he was about to present, handed me an instrument peculiar to cloth merchants, and employed to count the number of threads. Acquiescing in his wish, I said to my boy, “What do I hold in my hand?”
“It is an instrument to judge the fineness of cloth, and called a thread counter.”
“By Jove!” my spectator said, energetically, “it is marvellous. If I had paid ten francs to see it, I should not begrudge them.”
From this moment my room was much too small, and was crowded every evening.
Still, success is not entirely rose-colored, and I could easily narrate many disagreeable scenes produced by the reputation I had of being a sorcerer; but I will only mention one, which forms a résumé of all I pass over:
A young lady of elegant manners paid me a visit one day, and although her face was hidden by a thick veil, my practised eyes perfectly distinguished her features. She was very pretty.
My incognita would not consent to sit down till she was assured we were alone, and that I was the real Robert-Houdin. I also seated myself, and assuming the attitude of a man prepared to listen, I bent slightly to my visitor, as if awaiting her pleasure to explain to me the object of her mysterious visit. To my great surprise, the young lady, whose manner betrayed extreme emotion, maintained the most profound silence, and I began to find the visit very strange, and was on the point of forcing an explanation, at any hazard, when the fair unknown timidly ventured these words:
“Good Heavens! sir, I know not how you will interpret my visit.”
Here she stopped, and let her eyes sink with a very embarrassed air; then, making a violent effort, she continued:
“What I have to ask of you, sir, is very difficult to explain.”
“Speak, madam, I beg,” I said, politely, “and I will try to guess what you cannot explain to me.”
And I began asking myself what this reserve meant.
“In the first place,” the young lady said, in a low voice, and looking round her, “I must tell you confidentially that I loved, my love was returned, and I—I am betrayed.”
At the last word the lady raised her head, overcame the timidity she felt, and said, in a firm and assured voice,
“Yes, sir—yes, I am betrayed, and for that reason I have come to you.”
“Really, madam,” I said, much surprised at this strange confession, “I do not see how I can help you in such a matter.”
“Oh, sir, I entreat you,” said my fair visitor, clasping her hands—“I implore you not to abandon me!”
I had great difficulty in keeping my countenance, and yet I felt an extreme curiosity to know the history concealed behind this mystery.
“Calm yourself, madam,” I remarked, in a tone of tender sympathy; “tell me what you would of me, and if it be in my power——“
“If it be in your power!” the young lady said, quickly; “why, nothing is more easy, sir.”
“Explain yourself, madam.”
“Well, sir, I wish to be avenged.”
“How, you know better than I, sir; must I teach you? You have in your power means to——“
“I, madam?”
“Yes, sir, you! for you are a sorcerer, and cannot deny it.”
At this word sorcerer, I was much inclined to laugh; but I was restrained by the incognita’s evident emotion. Still, wishing to put an end to a scene which was growing ridiculous, I said, in a politely ironical tone:
“Unfortunately, madam, you give me a title I never possessed.”
“How, sir!” the young woman exclaimed, in a quick tone, “you will not allow you are——“
“A sorcerer, madam? Oh no, I will not.”
“You will not?”
“No, a thousand times no, madam.”
At these words my visitor rose hastily, muttered a few incoherent words, appeared suffering from terrible emotion, and then drawing near me with flaming eyes and passionate gestures, repeated:
“Ah, you will not! Very good; I now know what I have to do.”
Stupefied by such an outbreak, I looked at her fixedly, and began to suspect the cause of her extraordinary conduct.
“There are two modes of acting,” she said, with terrible volubility, “towards people who devote themselves to magic arts—entreaty and menaces. You would not yield to the first of these means, hence, I must employ the second. Stay,” she added, “perhaps this will induce you to speak.”
And, lifting up her cloak, she laid her hand on the hilt of a dagger passed through her girdle. At the same time she suddenly threw back her veil, and displayed features in which all the signs of rage and madness could be traced. No longer having a doubt as to the person I had to deal with, my first movement was to rise and stand on my guard; but this first feeling overcome, I repented the thought of a struggle with the unhappy woman, and determined on employing a method almost always successful with those deprived of reason. I pretended to accede to her wishes.
“If it be so, madam, I yield to your request. Tell me what you require.”
“I have told you, sir; I wish for vengeance, and there is only one method to——“
Here there was a fresh interruption, and the young lady, calmed by my apparent submission, as well as embarrassed by the request she had to make of me, became again timid and confused.
“Well, madam?”
“Well, sir, I know not how to tell you—how to explain to you—but I fancy there are certain means—certain spells—which render it impossible—impossible for a man to be—unfaithful.”
“I now understand what you wish, madam. It is a certain magic practice employed in the middle ages. Nothing is easier, and I will satisfy you.”
Decided on playing the farce to the end, I took down the largest book I could find in my library, turned over the leaves, stopped at a page which I pretended to scan with profound attention, and then addressing the lady, who followed all my movements anxiously,
“Madam,” I said, confidentially, “the spell I am going to perform renders it necessary for me to know the name of the person; have the kindness, then, to tell it me.”
“Julian!” she said, in a faint voice.
With all the gravity of a real sorcerer, I solemnly thrust a pin through a lighted candle, and pronounced some cabalistic words. After which, blowing out the candle, and turning to the poor creature, I said:
“Madam, it is done; your wish is accomplished.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she replied, with the expression of the profoundest gratitude; and at the same moment she laid a purse on the table and rushed away. I ordered my servant to follow her to her house, and obtain all the information he could about her, and I learned she had been a widow for a short time, and that the loss of an adored husband had disturbed her reason. The next day I visited her relatives, and, returning them the purse, I told them the scene the details of which the reader has just perused.
This scene, with some others that preceded and followed it, compelled me to take measures to guard myself against bores of every description. I could not dream, as formerly, of exiling myself in the country, but I employed a similar resource: this was to shut myself up in my workroom, and organize around me a system of defence against those whom I called, in my ill-temper, thieves of time.
I daily received visits from persons who were utter strangers to me; some were worth knowing, but the majority, gaining an introduction under the most futile pretexts, only came to kill a portion of their leisure time with me. It was necessary to distinguish the tares from the wheat, and this is the arrangement I made:
When one of these gentlemen rang at my door, an electric communication struck a bell in my workroom; I was thus warned and put on my guard. My servant opened the door, and, as is customary, inquired the visitor’s name, while I, for my part, laid my ear to a tube, arranged for the purpose, which conveyed to me every word. If, according to his reply, I thought it as well not to receive him, I pressed a button, and a white mark that appeared in a certain part of the hall announced I was not at home to him. My servant then stated I was out, and begged the visitor to apply to the manager.
Sometimes it happened that I erred in my judgment, and regretted having granted an audience; but I had another mode of shortening a bore’s visit. I had placed behind the sofa on which I set an electric spring, communicating with a bell my servant could hear. In case of need, and while talking, I threw my arm carelessly over the back of the sofa, touching the spring, and the bell rang. Then my servant, playing a little farce, opened the front door, rang the bell, which could be heard from the room where I sat, and came to tell me that M. X—— (a name invented for the occasion) wished to speak to me. I ordered M. X—— to be shown into an adjoining room, and it was very rare that my bore did not raise the siege. No one can form an idea how much time I gained by this happy arrangement, or how many times I blessed my imagination and the celebrated savant to whom the discovery of galvanism is due!
This feeling can be easily explained, for my time was of inestimable value. I husbanded it like a treasure, and never sacrificed it, unless the sacrifice might help me to discover new experiments destined to stimulate public curiosity.
To support my determination in making my researches, I had ever before me this maxim:
It is more difficult to support admiration than to excite it.
And this other, an apparent corollary of the preceding:
The fashion an artiste enjoys can only last as his talent daily increases.
Nothing increases a professional man’s merit so much as the possession of an independent fortune; this truth may be coarse, but it is indubitable. Not only was I convinced of these principles of high economy, but I also knew that a man must strive to profit by the fickle favor of the public, which equally descends if it does not rise. Hence I worked my reputation as much as I could. In spite of my numerous engagements, I found means to give performances in all the principal theatres, though great difficulties frequently arose, as my performance did not end till half-past ten, and I could only fulfil my other engagements after that hour.
Eleven o’clock was generally the hour fixed for my appearance on a strange stage, and my readers may judge of the speed required to proceed to the theatre in so short a time and make my preparations. It is true that the moments were as well counted as employed, and my curtain had hardly fallen than, rushing towards the stairs, I got before my audience, and jumped into a vehicle that bore me off at full speed.
But this fatigue was as nothing compared to the emotion occasionally produced by an error in the time that was to elapse between my two performances. I remember that, one night, having to wind up the performances at the Vaudeville, the stage-manager miscalculated the time the pieces would take in performing, and found himself much in advance. He sent off an express to warn me that the curtain had fallen, and I was anxiously expected. Can my readers comprehend my wretchedness? My experiments, of which I could omit none, would occupy another quarter of an hour; but instead of indulging in useless recriminations, I resigned myself and continued my performance, though I was a prey to frightful anxiety. While speaking, I fancied I could hear that cadenced yell of the public to which the famous song, “Des lampions, des lampions,” was set. Thus, either through preoccupation, or a desire to end sooner, I found when my performance was over I had gained five minutes out of the quarter of an hour. Assuredly, it might be called the quarter of an hour’s grace.
To jump into a carriage and drive to the Place de la Bourse was the affair of an instant; still, twenty minutes had elapsed since the curtain fell, and that was an enormous time. My son Emile and I proceeded up the actors’ stairs at full speed, but on the first step, we had heard the cries, whistling, and stamping of the impatient audience. What a prospect! I knew that frequently, either right or wrong, the public treated an artiste, no matter whom, very harshly, to remind him of punctuality. That sovereign always appears to have on its lips the words of another monarch: “I was obliged to wait.” However, we hurried up the steps leading to the stage.
The stage-manager, who had been watching, on hearing our hurried steps, cried from the landing:
“Is that you, M. Houdin?”
“Yes, sir—yes.”
“Raise the curtain!” the same voice shouted.
“Wait, wait, it is imp——“
My breath would not allow me to finish my objection; I fell on a chair, unable to move.
“Come, M. Houdin,” the manager said, “do go on the stage, the curtain is up, and the public are so impatient.”
The door at the back of the stage was open, but I could not pass through it, fatigue and emotion nailed me to the spot. Still, an idea occurred to me, which saved me from the popular wrath.
“Go on to the stage, my boy,” I said to my son, “and prepare all that is wanting for the second-sight trick.”
The public allowed themselves to be disarmed by this youth, whose face inspired a sympathizing interest; and my son, after gravely bowing to the audience, quietly made his slight preparations, that is to say, he carried an ottoman to the front of the stage, and placed on a neighboring table a slate, some chalk, a pack of cards, and a bandage.
This slight delay enabled me to recover my breath and calm my nerves, and I advanced in my turn with an attempt to assume the stereotyped smile, in which I signally failed, as I was so agitated. The audience at first remained silent, then their faces gradually unwrinkled, and soon, one or two claps having been ventured, they were carried away and peace was made. I was well rewarded, however, for this terrible ordeal, as my “second-sight” never gained a more brilliant triumph.
An incident greatly enlivened the termination of my performance.
A spectator, who had evidently come on purpose to embarrass us, had tried in vain for some minutes to baffle my son’s clairvoyance, when turning to me, he said, laying marked stress on his words:
“As your son is a soothsayer, of course he can guess the number of my stall?”
The importunate spectator doubtlessly hoped to force us into a confession of our impotence, for he covered his number and the adjacent seats being occupied, it was apparently impossible to read the numbers. But I was on my guard against all surprises, and my reply was ready. Still, in order to profit as much as possible by the situation, I feigned to draw back.
“You know, sir,” I said, feigning an embarrassed air, “that my son is neither sorcerer nor diviner; he reads through my eyes, and hence I have given this experiment the name of second-sight. As I cannot see the number of your stall, and the seats close to you are occupied, my son cannot tell it you.”
“Ah! I was certain of it,” my persecutor said, in triumph, and turning to his neighbors: “I told you I would pin him.”
“Oh, sir! you are not generous in your victory,” I said, in my turn, in a tone of mockery. “Take care; if you pique my son’s vanity too sharply, he may solve your problem, though it is so difficult.”
“I defy him,” said the spectator, leaning firmly against the back of his seat, to hide the number better—“yes, yes—I defy him!”
“You believe it to be difficult, then?”
“I will grant more: it is impossible.”
“Well, then, sir, that is a stronger reason for us to try it. You will not be angry if we triumph in our turn?” I added, with a petulant smile.
“Come, sir; we understand evasions of that sort. I repeat it—I challenge you both.”
The public found great amusement in this debate, and patiently awaited its issue.
“Emile,” I said to my son, “prove to this gentleman that nothing can escape your second sight.”
“It is number sixty-nine,” the boy answered, immediately.
Noisy and hearty applause rose from every part of the theatre, in which our opponent joined, for, confessing his defeat, he exclaimed, as he clapped his hands, “It is astounding—magnificent!”
The way I succeeded in finding out the number of the stall was this: I knew beforehand that in all theatres where the stalls are divided down the centre by a passage, the uneven numbers are on the right, and the even on the left. As at the Vaudeville each row was composed of ten stalls, it followed that on the right hand the several rows must begin with one, twenty-one, forty-one, and so on, increasing by twenty each. Guided by this, I had no difficulty in discovering that my opponent was seated in number sixty-nine, representing the fifth stall in the fourth row. I had prolonged the conversation for the double purpose of giving more brilliancy to my experiment, and gaining time to make my researches. Thus I applied my process of two simultaneous thoughts, to which I have already alluded.
As I am now explaining matters, I may as well tell my readers some of the artifices that added material brilliancy to the second sight. I have already said this experiment was the result of a material communication between myself and my son, which no one could detect. Its combinations enabled us to describe any conceivable object; but, though this was a splendid result, I saw that I should soon encounter unheard-of difficulties in executing it.
The experiment of second sight always formed the termination of my performance. Each evening I saw unbelievers arrive with all sorts of articles to triumph over a secret which they could not unravel. Before going to see Robert-Houdin’s son a council was held, in which an object that must embarrass the father was chosen. Among these were half-effaced antique medals, minerals, books printed in characters of every description (living and dead languages), coats-of-arms, microscopic objects, &c.
But what caused me the greatest difficulty was in finding out the contents of parcels, often tied with a string, or even sealed up. But I had managed to contend successfully against all these attempts to embarrass me. I opened boxes, purses, pocket-books, &c., with great ease, and unnoticed, while appearing to be engaged on something quite different. Were a sealed parcel offered me, I cut a small slit in the paper with the nail of my left thumb, which I always purposely kept very long and sharp, and thus discovered what it contained. One essential condition was excellent sight, and that I possessed to perfection. I owed it originally to my old trade, and practice daily improved it. An equally indispensable necessity was to know the name of every object offered me. It was not enough to say, for instance, “It is a coin;” but my son must give its technical name, its value, the country in which it was current, and the year in which it was struck. Thus, for instance, if an English crown were handed me, my son was expected to state that it was struck in the reign of George IV., and had an intrinsic value of six francs eighteen centimes.
Aided by an excellent memory, we had managed to classify in our heads the name and value of all foreign money. We could also describe a coat-of-arms in heraldic terms. Thus, on the arms of the house of X—— being handed me, my son would reply: “Field gules, with two croziers argent in pale.” This knowledge was very useful to us in the salons of the Faubourg Saint Germain, where we were frequently summoned.
I had also learned the characters—though unable to translate a word—of an infinity of languages, such as Chinese, Russian, Turkish, Greek, Hebrew, &c. We knew, too, the names of all surgical instruments, so that a surgical pocket-book, however complicated it might be, could not embarrass us. Lastly, I had a very sufficient knowledge of mineralogy, precious stones, antiquities, and curiosities; but I had at my command every possible resource for acquiring these studies, as one of my dearest and best friends, Aristide le Carpentier, a learned antiquary, and uncle of the talented composer of the same name, had, and still has, a cabinet of antique curiosities, which makes the keepers of the imperial museums fierce with envy. My son and I spent many long days in learning here names and dates, of which we afterwards made a learned display. Le Carpentier taught me many things, and, among others, he described various signs by which to recognise old coins when the die is worn off. Thus, a Trajan, a Tiberius, or a Marcus Aurelius became as familiar to me as a five-franc piece.
Owing to my old trade, I could open a watch with ease, and do it with one hand, so as to be able to read the maker’s name without the public suspecting it: then I shut up the watch again and the trick was ready; my son managed the rest of the business.
But that power of memory which my son possessed in an eminent degree certainly did us the greatest service. When we went to private houses, he needed only a very rapid inspection, in order to know all the objects in a room, as well as the various ornaments worn by the spectators, such as châtelaines, pins, eye-glasses, fans, brooches, rings, bouquets, &c. He thus could describe these objects with the greatest ease, when I pointed them out to him by our secret communication. Here is an instance:
One evening, at a house in the Chaussée d’Antin, and at the end of a performance which had been as successful as it was loudly applauded, I remembered that, while passing through the next room to the one we were now in, I had begged my son to cast a glance at a library and remember the titles of some of the books, as well as the order they were arranged in. No one had noticed this rapid examination.
“To end the second sight experiment, sir,” I said to the master of the house, “I will prove to you that my son can read through a wall. Will you lend me a book?”
I was naturally conducted to the library in question, which I pretended now to see for the first time, and I laid my finger on a book.
“Emile,” I said to my son, “What is the name of this work?”
“It is Buffon,” he replied, quickly.
“And the one by its side?” an incredulous spectator hastened to ask.
“On the right or left?” my son asked.
“On the right,” the speaker said, having a good reason for choosing this book, for the lettering was very small.
“The Travels of Anacharsis the Younger,” the boy replied. “But,” he added, “had you asked the name of the book on the left, sir, I should have said Lamartine’s Poetry. A little to the right of this row, I see Crébillon’s works; below, two volumes of Fleury’s Memoirs;” and my son thus named a dozen books before he stopped.
The spectators had not said a word during this description, as they felt so amazed; but when the experiment had ended, all complimented us by clapping their hands.
Seductions of a Theatrical Agent—How to gain One Hundred Thousand Francs—I start for Brussels—A lucky Two-Sou Piece—Miseries of professional Travelling—The Park Theatre—Tyranny of a Porter—Full House—Small Receipts—Deceptions—Return to Paris.
HAD it not been for my constant toil and the inconveniences attached to it, I should have been quite happy and satisfied with the daily profit my performances brought me in. But one fine day the demon of seduction presented himself before me in the obsequious form of a theatrical agent.
“Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he said, with a smile on his lips, as if we were old friends, “I am commissioned by M. X——, manager of the royal theatres of Brussels, to offer you an engagement for the summer season.”
My first answer was a refusal, which I based on excellent reasons. As I was very successful, it would not be prudent to break the vein, while I saw no occasion to go a long distance in search of advantages I could secure at home. This reasoning would have settled any one but a theatrical agent; but nothing, it is well known, can shake off the grip of these skillful crimps.
“Permit me, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, not to be quite of your opinion. I allow, of course, that with your talents you are always secure of good receipts, but you should bear in mind that the dog-days are approaching, and your room is stifling in summer. This consideration might induce the Parisian public to defer till autumn the pleasure of witnessing your performances, while, by going to Brussels, where the theatres are large and airy, you would have no reason to fear such a result. Come,” the plenipotentiary continued, in a most candid tone, “I must tell you, without wishing to flatter you the least in the world, that everybody is talking about you in Belgium; I may add, even, that the manager has been urged to make you offers by a great number of his subscribers.”
This flattering insinuation began to shake my decision, and I offered in my defence reasons whose weakness only attested to my indecision. My clever touter noticed this, and thinking the moment arrived to strike his great blow, said:
“Do you know, sir, the probable proceeds of my offer?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, make an estimate.”
“It is impossible.”
“Then, approximate.”
“I must decline; for I understand nothing of such calculations.”
“Well, then, I understand them, and am rarely mistaken,” said the agent, stroking his chin, “and I tell you it is an affair to you” (here my seducer stopped, as if to make a most accurate calculation)—“an affair of one hundred thousand francs.”
“One hundred thousand francs!” I exclaimed, dazzled at such a prospect, “you cannot mean it.”
“It is precisely because I mean it that I tell you, and repeat it again: you will clear one hundred thousand francs by your trip. Add to this, the advantage of having seen a splendid country, and being received with all the attention due to an artist of your merit. You will then return to your impatient spectators, whose curiosity, heightened by their long privation, will produce you receipts far more brilliant than any you might have expected by remaining in Paris.”
Being little conversant at that period with theatrical matters, and having no reason to doubt the honesty of my eloquent “humbugger,” I easily believed his fine promises. The chink of one hundred thousand francs still ringing in my ears fascinated me; and I gave way unconsciously to the same mode of reasoning the inkstand inventor had employed.
“And, really,” I said to myself, “supposing, for instance, that——“ And, leaping from supposition to supposition, my calculations exceeded those of the agent. But, in order to be reasonable, I concluded, like my friend the inventor, in this way: “Well, to prevent any misunderstanding, suppose we say only fifty thousand francs—surely nobody can accuse me with exaggeration.”
Though dazzled by this brilliant calculation, I strove to conceal my desire of accepting the offer.
“It is all very well,” I said, in my turn, after the style of a perfect man of business, “but what are the conditions?”
“Oh, most simple!” the crafty fellow said; “the same as are made with all distinguished artists. Monsieur X—— will pay all the expenses, but to cover those, he will deduct three hundred francs from the gross receipts, exclusive of the claim of the poor, and the rest will be fairly divided between him and yourself.”
“Still, I should like to know how much the sum to be divided will amount to?”
“How is it possible to say?” the agent exclaimed, with an aspect of the greatest sincerity. “With such success as awaits you, it will be enormous.”
In spite of my pressing, the agent always entrenched himself in his exclamations, and the impossibility of making such an estimate. Tired of the struggle, I at length formed my decision.
“I will go to Brussels,” I said, in a resolute tone.
The theatrical agent immediately drew from his pocket a printed form, which he had brought in case of our coming to terms, and we had only to add the stipulations to it.
“Tell me, sir,” the manager’s representative said, in a conscientious tone, “will you have any objection to a forfeit of six thousand francs? As the engagement is reciprocal, you must find this but fair.”
I only saw in the agent’s request a very natural desire to defend his employer’s interests; and I drew this conclusion from it: if the agreement was advantageous for the manager, it must be equally so for me, as we were to share the receipts. I consented to the clause, and affixed my signature. The agent could not repress his satisfaction, but he cleverly ascribed it to the interest he felt in me.
“I congratulate you sincerely on the engagement you have just made,” he said, as he offered me his hand; “you will soon be able to tell me of the results you will draw from it. By the way,” he added, in a friendly tone, after a pause, “will you now permit me to give you a piece of advice?”
“Certainly, sir—certainly.”
“I would recommend you, then, to take a collection of showy bills and posters with you to Belgium. They do not know how to get them up in Brussels, and they will produce a prodigious effect. It would be also as well to have a handsome lithograph, representing your stage; it can be put up in the various picture-shops, and you will obtain increased publicity.”
These counsels, and the familiar, almost protecting, tone in which they were given, appeared to me strange; and I could not refrain from expressing my surprise to the man of business.
“What need of all these precautions? I fancied I understood you that——“
“Good gracious me! all professionals are alike,” the giver of advice interrupted me; “absorbed in their art, they understand nothing of business. But tell me, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, would you feel annoyed at netting one hundred and fifty thousand francs, instead of the one hundred thousand I promised you?”
“On my word, no,” I said, with a smile; “and I confess that, far from feeling vexed, I should be very pleased at it.”
“Well, then, the more you make yourself known, the more you will add to the amount I stated.”
“But I thought that notoriety was generally the business of managers.”
“Certainly, ordinary publicity, but not extraordinary. You must see that is unlikely, as it will be all for your advantage.”
Though little conversant with business, as the agent had just remarked, I saw that his arguments were not always in accordance with logic. However, I consented to the posters and the lithograph, in consideration of the promised results.
“That is right,” the agent said, his familiarity sensibly increasing since the signature of the contract—“that is right: that is what I call managing things properly.”
And my man left me, after complimenting me once more on the arrangement I had made.
When left to myself, I indulged at my ease in daydreams about the magnificent result promised me, and this anticipated joy was probably all I tasted from the moment of signing this engagement to its termination. The first unpleasantness it occasioned me was a slight discussion with my cashier, that is to say, my wife, who, in consideration of her employment, had a deliberative voice in all theatrical matters. I could not certainly have found an employée of greater probity, or a more devoted clerk, but I am bound to say that this clerk, probably through her intimate connexion with her employer, sometimes ventured to contradict him. Thus I feared when I described to that functionary the brilliant perspective of my agreement.
Although I finished my statement with this harmonious phrase, on every word of which I laid a heavy stress, in order to give it more value, “and we shall return to France with one—hundred—thousand—francs clear profit,” my wife, or rather my cashier, coolly said to me:
“Well, in your place, I should not have made such a bargain.”
“But why not?” I said, piqued by this unexpected opposition.
“Why? because nothing guarantees you the promised profits, while you are perfectly certain as to your expenses.”
Wishing to cut short a discussion from which I did not see my way out with honor:
“Women are all alike,” I said, employing the phrase of the theatrical agent; “understanding nothing of business, they oppose one out of obstinacy. But,” I added, tossing my head, “we shall soon see which of us is in the right.”
I confess that in this instance I allowed myself too easily to be led astray by flattering illusions; but I must add, that it was for the last time; for, thenceforth, I was so skeptical as regarded calculations, that my modest expectations always remained below the reality.
The period for starting soon arrived, and we made our preparations with incredible activity, for I desired to lose as little time as possible between the closing of my performances at Paris and their commencement in Brussels.
The Great Northern line not being open at that period, I was obliged to content myself with a post-chaise. Consequently, I hired from a builder of public conveyances, for two hundred francs a month, a diligence which had formerly been used in the environs of Paris; it was composed of a coupé and a vast rotonde, over which was an impériale for the luggage. On the 25th of May, the day fixed for our departure, my carriage was loaded with an immense number of chests, containing my apparatus, and after we had taken our places, the postillion’s whip cracked, and we started.
We took with us on this trip, besides my two boys who performed with me, a manager, a workman, also acting as servant, and my wife’s mother, who came partly for pleasure, and partly to help her daughter in her theatrical details. Galloping through Paris, we soon left the Faubourg and the Barrière St. Denis behind us. The weather was splendid—a perfect spring evening; my wife and I, with the children, were comfortably established in the coupé, and as it was Madame Robert-Houdin’s first journey, she was so delighted with it, that I believe, if I had then offered her the calculation of my presumed profits, she would probably have herself augmented it. For my own part, I was plunged in a delicious reverie. I recalled my journey with Torrini, and while giving a thought of regret to that excellent friend, I compared his carriage with my brilliant equipage, his modest claims on fortune with the magnificent prospects promised me; and I could not help yielding to a feeling of noble pride when I remembered I owed this position solely to my labor and to my energy. Then, finding myself freed from the annoyance of any theatrical administration, and my inventive ideas abandoned, I experienced an undefinable comfort, and were it not for the fear of making a pun, I would add, at this moment I was really transported.
What would I have given to see myself thus bowling along in my own carriage! I fancied that the very passers-by regarded us with a certain degree of satisfaction; and in this infantile illusion I smiled upon them most benignantly.
At some distance from the barrier we stopped.
“Will you please to get out and have your carriage weighed? Here is the office.”
“Before proceeding to weigh,” the receiver of the toll said, approaching me, “I warn you that I shall summons you for carrying a heavier weight than the law allows.”
I could not appeal to my ignorance of this, for no one ought to be ignorant of the law; I therefore submitted philosophically enough to the threatened summons, and we soon recommenced our journey, laughing heartily at the incident. The shades of night began to cover the country when we reached the environs of Senlis. An old beggar, seeing us approaching, held out his hat; I understood this expressive gesture, and had the satisfaction of doing a clever trick and a good action at the same time; for I threw out a penny, which fell in his hat.
I had hardly executed this adroit manœuvre, when cries of “Stop! stop!” reached my ear; and at the same time I saw the old man running panting after the carriage, and shouting. The postillion at length stopped the horses, and he was just in time—a few paces further on, and our heavy carriage would have been upset. The worthy beggar had perceived that one of our wheels was on the point of losing its tire, and as the old man in his haste had lost his coin, and was beginning to look for it, I spared him this trouble by giving him a five-franc piece.
How true it is that an act of kindness is never lost: to a simple penny we owed our escape from an accident, the consequences of which would have been incalculable. A neighboring cartwright soon came up and told us it was necessary to have the two wheels of the carriage repaired; and he gave us the following explanation of the accident that had occurred:
The diligence had been standing for a long time in a damp coach-house, and the felloes had swollen. The heat produced by our rapid locomotion had dried them, and they had caught fire under the tire. The operation lasted four hours, and cost me forty francs; this was, perhaps, twenty more than it was worth, but what could I do but pay, as I should have lost precious time by appealing to the law?
I was beginning to understand that travelling impressions in a diligence are not at all of a nature to enrich a traveller; but the reflection came too late, and I could only continue my journey. I, therefore, did so, not very gaily, perhaps, but at any rate with a degree of careless resignation.
I will pass over the details of a thousand petty miseries we had to undergo, like so many pin-pricks echeloned on our passage to prepare us for more bitter deceptions. We at length reached Quiévrain, the frontier town of Belgium, where we were to give up our horses and put our carriage on the railway running to Brussels; beforehand, however, we had to endure the formalities of the custom-house.
I hoped, as the theatrical agent had informed me, to pass all my traps summarily, by declaring the nature of my apparatus, and hence I went to the office and made my declaration.
“There is only one way of passing your luggage, sir,” a clerk said to me, very politely. (Belgian officials are generally very gentle and civil—at least, I always found them so.)
“Then,” I replied, in the same tone, “will you have the kindness, sir, to tell me the way, that I may profit by it as speedily as possible?”
“You must unpack your instruments, put an ad valorem duty on them, which the comptroller will verify, and pay 25 per cent. on the amount, after which you can start as soon as you please.”
“But, sir, that is not possible,” I said, greatly annoyed at this contretemps.
“And why not?”
“Because my instruments are not merchandise.”
I then explained to my clerk that I was going to Brussels to give some performances, after which I intended to return to France with the same luggage. According to the information the official gave me, it seems I had neglected to fulfil a simple formality, through the want of which the office at Quiévrain would not let me go on without payment. To pass my instruments duty free, I ought to have applied to the Belgian Minister, who would willingly have granted me the permission. I could certainly do so still, but I could not receive an answer under a week, and that was just three days after the period fixed for my commencing at Brussels.
Hence I found myself between the horns of a dilemma. I must either, after paying a heavy duty, lose precious time in packing, valuing and unpacking my instruments, or forfeit six thousand francs to my manager while awaiting a ministerial reply. Although I made all sorts of supplications to the different custom officials, I could only obtain this answer, dictated by their inflexible orders, “We can do nothing.”
I was in despair; in vain, conforming to the maxim, “It is better to address the king than his officials,” I pursued the director himself with my entreaties; he would not hear a word. He was a stout, good-looking man, of some fifty years of age, dressed in an enormous paletot, much resembling in cut the one I have described as my costume when learning my sleight-of-hand tricks at Tours.
We were both standing at the door of the custom-house, near the high road, where my chests had been deposited. Wearied with listening to my eternal remonstrances, the director began talking to me about indifferent matters; but I always led the conversation back to the same subject.
“You are a prestidigitator, then?” my stout Belgian said to me, laying a stress on this word, to prove to me that he knew the pompous title by which the juggler is distinguished.
“Yes, sir, that is my profession.”
“Ah, ah! very good; I know several celebrities in that art. I have even witnessed their performances with a great deal of pleasure.”
While my amateur was thus talking, an idea occurred to me, which I immediately put in execution, for I trusted the result of it would powerfully aid in favoring my entreaties.
“What are your most striking tricks?” the stout man added, in the tone of a perfect connoisseur.
“I really cannot describe them to you, it would be too difficult. There is one which can only be appreciated when seen; but I can easily give you a specimen.”
“I should much like it, if you would,” the official said, not sorry thus to console himself for the trouble I had caused him. My son, at this moment, was playing some distance off on the high road, and kicking a pebble about.
“Emile!” I cried, hailing him, “can you tell us what this gentleman has in his pocket?”
“Certainly!” the boy replied, without leaving off his game; “he has a blue-striped handkerchief.”
“Oh, oh!” the stout gentleman said, with an air of astonishment. Then he recovered, and putting his hands in both pockets to conceal their contents,
“That’s all very good!” he added, with an air of doubt; “but chance may have aided that discovery.”
After a slight pause, during which he seemed considerably bothered, he continued!
“Can he tell me, though, what is under the handkerchief?”
“The gentleman asks what is under the handkerchief?” I shouted to my son.
“There is,” he replied, in the same loud voice, “a green morocco spectacle case, without the spectacles.”
“That’s really curious—very curious!” said the man of the paletot. “But,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “I should much like him to mention the article under the spectacle case.”
And my incredulous friend shoved his hands in his pockets. I drew a good omen from this last exclamation, and so, desirous to ensure my success, I took my precautions that my son should answer correctly, and I transmitted him the question just asked me.
Emile, who had not left off his game for a moment, exclaimed, as if anxious to get rid of us, “It is a piece of sugar which the gentleman saved from his cup of coffee.”
“Ah! that is too fine!” the director exclaimed, in a tone of admiration; “the lad is a sorcerer.”
My second-sight performance was at an end; still I saw with pleasure that it produced a lively impression on the director of the customs, who, after some moments’ reflection, himself returned to the subject we had left.
“Come, sir,” he remarked, “I will infringe my regulations for your sake. We will not open your chests; I will rely on your statement of their contents and value, and you will pay the duty according to the tariff. When you have reached Brussels, and have obtained the ministerial authority to introduce your instruments duty free, I will return you the money you have paid.”
I thanked my new protector, and, a few hours later, personnel and luggage had reached the station at Brussels.
Before leaving Quiévrain for ever, I will give my reader an idea of the conjuring trick which enabled me to produce those startling instances of second sight to which I owed my deliverance.
I have already said that the director wore a paletot, with large pockets, so, profiting by the art by which I had so cleverly emptied Comte’s pockets some time before, I found out what he had in them, and my son consequently learned it from me. As for the piece of sugar, it was easy enough to perceive by its regular shape that it had come from a café—besides, I could have no doubt that a lump of sugar, taken from the pocket of a man of fifty, and, above all, a Belgian, must be saved from his after-dinner coffee.
At the Brussels station, a postillion who had three horses out of work, offered to take our heavy carriage to the Tirlemont Hotel, and I consented, for I really knew not what hotel to go to. After driving through the city at full speed, we entered a winding street, in the midst of which our driver began smacking his whip loudly to announce our arrival, and with the skill of a practised driver, he turned into an archway that opened on to the hotel yard. We made a princely entrée here, which reminded me of our departure from Paris, for the master of the hotel, his wife, and the servants, were all at their posts ready to receive us worthily. We had gone safely through about half the narrow entry, when our vehicle suddenly stopped, as if riveted to the pavement: blows fell like hail on the unhappy steeds, but these, though accompanied by vigorous oaths and stimulants of every description, could not conquer the unknown obstacle.
Being quite convinced that the road was clear on either side, our postillion decided on trying a final effort; so he got down rapidly from his seat, took the horses by the bit, and drew them forward sharply. The carriage appeared to yield to this powerful attraction, and began to move slowly. All at once a sound of breaking was heard, while at the same moment cries of alarm issued from both compartments of the carriage.
The doors were hurriedly opened, women and children emerged, and the last of our party was still on the step, when the impériale gave way, and the numerous heavy trunks crashed into the centre of the carriage. In the emotion produced by such danger, I looked round my party, and thanks to Heaven, we were all safe and sound.
My wife and children were carefully attended to, while I, though not entirely recovered from my terror, sought the cause of this unforeseen catastrophe. I soon discovered that our carriage, being too highly loaded, had caught in the projecting sides of the archway, and that this gradual and powerful pressure had forced the mouldering framework of our old vehicle to give way.
In comparison with the misfortune from which we had so miraculously escaped, the injury to the carriage was an accident of no importance—a loss which would be quickly forgotten in the success that awaited us. The carriage was sent to be repaired, and the accident was soon a thing of the past, as we sought to recover from the fatigue of our long and wearying journey.
My first walk in Brussels led me straight to the manager, who appeared delighted at my keeping my word, and gave me a most polite reception: thence, I proceeded to the Park Theatre, where I was to give my performances.
This building, lately destroyed by fire, was situated on one of the most agreeable sites in the city, for it formed the angle of a magnificent park, which is to Brussels what the Tuilleries are to Paris.
During the summer no theatrical performance took place, and it was to fill up this gap that the engagement had been formed with me.
This theatre was city property, and I learned the fact in the following way. The porter, whom the manager ought to have recommended to give me all necessary information, stated to me that he was attached to the theatre, both as keeper and head machinist. He also told me, with pedantic gravity, that I could not drive in a nail, form an opening in the stage, or, in a word, make the slightest change, until he, as responsible official, had referred the point to the city architect.
“Such supervision is not possible,” I said to this important personage. “How do you manage, then, when the theatrical performances are on?”
“Ah, that is different. As the architect places confidence in me, he allows me to do whatever I think proper, and I am responsible for everything.”
“If that is all, I can take the responsibility on myself, and the matter can be settled at once.”
“If you think so,” the porter replied, in an ironical tone, “you can apply to the city authorities; the council will take it into consideration, and you will receive permission in a fortnight.”
I saw that the crafty gentleman wished to force himself upon me, but I soon destroyed his hopes by making him understand I would allow no stranger to be initiated into my mysterious arrangements.
This conversation had taken place on the stage, by the light of a candle which the conservator of the royal theatre held in his hand, but so soon as I had intimated my intention of doing without him, he turned on his heel and retired to his den, leaving us in perfect darkness.
“Wait a moment, sir,” I cried to him; “we cannot be groping about in this way; so, open the windows.”
“Windows!” the machinist said, with a laugh; “who ever heard of windows in a theatre? What use would they be when the rehearsals always take place by candle-light?”
“Excellently reasoned, my worthy man,” I replied, checking my inclination to laugh; “I always thought like you that windows could be done without if you had lights, but when you have no lights——“
“Why, then, you do as I do, you go money in hand to the grocer’s and buy candles; I see no difficulty in that.”
And, while making this reply, the porter and his candle were gradually eclipsed. I had no time to lose in arguing, and besides, this man, whom I would have gladly brought to his senses under other circumstances, might play me some trick that might prevent me performing mine. My instruments would remain, so to speak, at his mercy during the night, and he would have all possible facility to do me some injury, which he could deny in safety. Hence, I sent my servant straight to the grocer’s, that natural providence of any one who wants a light.
All my readers have probably read descriptions of theatrical interiors, and they are all much alike, although their cleanliness and arrangement vary according to the intelligence of the stage-manager. Nor is the same luxury of decorations and accessories visible in all theatres; some are literally encumbered with them, while others are almost entirely wanting in these qualities.
I remember that, when giving a dozen performances at Chester, I found the theatrical decorations charmingly original. Properly speaking, there was only one scene; but, as it would have been impossible to produce the scenic effect with this, the machinist had very cleverly painted a forest on the back, and the scene moved on a pivot, which my friend turned by the aid of a winch, and thus could display a hall or a forest at will.
With such feeble resources, the scenic illusion was often compromised, but, according to the machinist, the actors corrected any glaring anachronisms of place by ingenious new readings, and sometimes, too, by the expression of their faces.
This machinist was like his scenery, for he filled many parts; he was in turn porter, painter, wig-maker, property man, tailor, and ticket-taker; but with so many strings to his bow, this worthy man found himself out of work during three parts of the year, for during that period there were no performances at Chester.
But to return to the porter, machinist, and keeper of the Park Theatre. This man could never forgive my refusal of his services, and his impertinence and ill-will pursued me to the close, and occasioned me continual annoyance; and although I complained to the manager, I could obtain no redress. The porter, being paid by government, claimed the right, like his brethren the porters of Paris, of making his tenants feel his power and his independence.
I have performed in many royal theatres, but I never had to deal with any but most polite machinists and managers, who could flatter themselves they were masters in their own house.
However, I managed to surmount difficulties of every description, and the day of my first representation arrived.
On this very day was opened that fiery furnace which was called “the summer of 1846;” and the heat was astounding. Still, the theatre was full, and the success of my experiments was as great as I could desire. The second sight, especially, produced an enthusiasm which the generally cold inhabitants of Brussels expressed by noisy bravos.
I was proud and happy, for, in addition to the satisfaction success always produces, I foresaw the realization of the theatrical agent’s brilliant promises. Thus, to take a slight revenge for my cashier’s obstinacy, I never failed, each time I left the stage, to say to her in a tone of triumph:
“Well! do you believe in the one hundred thousand francs now? That’s how I like business.”
And I returned on the stage with a smiling and animated face.
The performance over, the curtain fell on the illusions I had produced, as well as on those I had nursed as to my receipts. They were equally ephemeral in either case, for I had scarcely left the stage when I saw my manager coming towards me in the attitude once assumed by the steeds of Hippolytus, according to Theramene’s recital. He, so joyous at the commencement of the performance,