“Here, sir,” he said, pointing to a small rouleau, “is your share.”
“What! my share?” I exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable disappointment; “and the rest?”
“The rest, sir, has gone in the expenses, and the poor-rate.”
“But the rest,” I still insisted—“the rest, what has become of it?”
“Well, sir,” my manager replied, in a lamentable tone, “the cashier states that the greater part of the audience received free admissions.”
Irritated by such an explanation, I hurried to the office, and opened and closed the door violently. The employé turned towards me, and without being affected by my abruptness, he bowed to me politely (another instance of Belgian courtesy).
“How is it,” I said, without replying to his bow, “that so many free admissions were given without my sanction?”
“They were given, sir, by the manager’s orders,” the man replied, with a calmness that made me believe he was used to such scenes, “and you must be aware,” he added, in a conciliatory tone, “that there are numerous claims on the first night of a new performance at a royal theatre. Thus we have, for instance, the authorities, the city architect, the manager of the gas company, the newspaper writers, the manager’s relations and friends, the police inspector, who has a right to a box; and all these gentlemen, as you may suppose, bring their families with them. We have, again——“
“Oh, sir,” I replied, ironically, “for goodness’ sake, stop, for if you go on at that rate I shall begin to fear you had not a seat left for the paying public. To-morrow, I presume, I shall have to hand you back the modest sum you have just sent me. However, I shall certainly insist on an explanation with the manager.”
The next day I proceeded to call on M. X——, with the firm intention of evincing to him my dissatisfaction; but he was so ready with his explanations that I could not be angry, and we ended by agreeing that, henceforth, all free admissions should have my signature, and that they should not be dispensed quite so liberally.
This measure, perhaps, checked some new abuses, but was not enough to suppress them all, for though the theatre grew more and more crowded, my strong-box did not follow the same progression.
Far from netting the fabulous sum which had so dazzled me, I only brought back from my trip to Brussels an illusion dispelled and experience, while, as my cashier had predicted, my expenses rather more than balanced my receipts.
I have great reason for believing that, during my stay at the Park Theatre, I was cheated out of my proper share. It was my first affair of the kind, and I was obliged to study at my own expense; but, from that period, I was on my guard, and evaded every attempt at fraud. I will add, too, that at a later date I had the satisfaction of dealing only with managers of well-known probity, to whom I gave my entire confidence without ever having any reason to regret it.
Reopening of my Fantastic Soirées—Minor Miseries of Good Luck—Inconvenience of a small Theatre—My Room taken by Storm—A gratuitous Performance—A conscientious Audience—Pleasant Story about a Black Silk Cap—I perform at the Château of St. Cloud—Cagliostro’s Casket—Holidays.
THE recommencement of the performances on my own stage largely recompensed me for my bitter impressions de voyage. My room was taken a week beforehand for my first performance, as well as for the following, and I had to send away four times as many persons as I could receive.
This success had been foreseen by the theatrical agent, and I owed it as much to my absence from the capital as to the attraction my experiments held out. My repertory was still a novelty to the Parisian public, as I had started for Brussels at the height of my success. This did not prevent me, however, from offering some new tricks, one of which more especially produced a striking effect.
After my son had mounted on a very small table, I covered him with an enormous stuffed cone, which concealed him from sight, and then, at the sound of a pistol, the cone was thrown over, and at the same instant the lad appeared at my side. Afterwards, in large theatres, and especially in London, this trick was improved upon, and seemed more marvellous still. Instead of appearing by my side, the boy was instantaneously transported to a box at a long distance from the stage, where every body could easily see him.
It is a well-known fact that a man cannot enjoy perfect happiness in this world, and that the greatest prosperity has its disagreeable side; this is what is called “the minor evils of good luck.” One of my special annoyances was having a room much too small, which disabled me from satisfying all the demands made for places, and, though I racked my brain, I could hit on no expedient to remedy this inconvenience.
As I have already said, my room was often taken beforehand; in that case the office was not opened, and a placard on the door announced it was useless for any non-holders of tickets to apply. But it daily happened that persons, annoyed at being unable to enjoy a promised treat, took no heed of the notice and went straight to the pay place. On being refused admission, they abused the money-taker, and still more the management.
These complaints were generally absurd, and of the following description:
“Such an abuse is most improper,” one of these disappointed persons said, with great simplicity; “I will certainly go to-morrow and complain to the prefect of police, and we shall see whether Monsieur Robert-Houdin has a right to have too small a theatre.”
When these recriminations went no further, I confess I laughed at them, but they did not always end in such a pacific manner. My employés were sometimes personally attacked, and on one occasion my theatre was taken by storm. The story is worth telling:
One evening a dozen young men, after heating their brains by an excellent dinner, presented themselves at the door of my theatre; the notice they read only appeared to them an excellent jest. Consequently, paying no attention to the observations made to them, they collected round the door, and to employ the usual expression in such cases, they began to form “the head of the tail.” Other visitors, encouraged by their example, collected, and gradually a considerable crowd assembled in front of the theatre.
The manager, informed of what was happening, came forward, and prepared to address the crowd from the head of the stairs, after coughing to render his voice clearer. But he had scarce commenced his address, when his voice was drowned by derisive laughter and shouts, which compelled his silence. In his despair, he came to tell me the dilemma, and ask what he had better do.
“Do not disturb yourself,” I said; “all will end better than you expect. Stay,” I added, looking at my watch; “it is now half-past seven, and the ticket-holders will begin to arrive; so, open the doors, and, as soon as the room is full the public outside will be compelled to abandon the ground.”
I had scarcely uttered the words, when a servant came in all haste to tell me that the crowd had broken down the barrier, and rushed into the room. I hastened on to the stage, and through the hole in the curtain, could assure myself of the truth of the statement: the room was full.
I confess I was much embarrassed as to what I should do. To have the room cleared by the neighboring guard was a scandal I wished to avoid, and I could not calculate the consequences. Besides, if the police interfered, I should have to attend at the court, and thus lose precious time. Lastly, the Prefecture, which had hitherto imposed but a single sentry on me, would not fail to send a corporal’s guard, at least, to the great increase of my daily expenses.
I immediately formed a decision.
“Have the doors closed,” I said to my manager, “and put up a notice that, owing to a sudden indisposition, the evening’s performance is postponed till to-morrow. As this measure applies to the ticket-holders, be in readiness to return the money to those who will not exchange their tickets. As for me,” I continued, “I have made up my mind. I will give a gratis performance, and my revenge will consist in compelling the public to be ashamed of the schoolboy trick they have played.”
This plan arranged, I prepared to do the honors of my house properly, and the curtain soon rose.
When I appeared on the stage, I noticed that the greater number of the spectators evinced considerable embarrassment; still, I soon put them at their ease by the nonchalant air I assumed, as if ignorant of what had occurred. I did even more. I performed with an unusual amount of dash; and when the time arrived to offer my small presents, I was so liberal with them that not a single spectator was overlooked.
I need not say that I was heartily applauded. The public vied with me in “reciprocating” compliments, and thus hoped to compensate me for the annoyance they fancied they had caused me.
An original and extremely comic scene was performed when my audience lingeringly departed.
Nearly all the persons present had only seen in this assault on my room a means to obtain places, and each intended to pay for his seat after having occupied it.
But, for my part, I determined on maintaining the original character of my gratuitous performance, even if my pocket suffered. Thus, foreseeing this feeling of delicacy, I had ordered all my attendants to leave before the performance was over, and they had obeyed me so well, that manager, money-taker, and box-openers had disappeared.
I then posted myself where I could see everything without being noticed. The spectators looked for the office; searched all around to find some official; thrust their hands in their pockets, and collected in small groups, until, worn out, they went away.
Still, the public would not allow themselves to be beaten, and for several days I had a regular procession of people coming to pay their debt. Some persons added their apologies, and I also received by post a note for 100 fr., with the following letter:
“Sir,—Having been dragged into your room last night by a party of thoughtless young men, I tried in vain, after the performance, to pay for the seat I had occupied.
“I do not wish, however, to quit France without paying the debt I have contracted. In consequence, estimating the price of my stall by the pleasure you caused me, I send you a hundred-franc note, which I beg you to accept in payment of the debt I involuntarily contracted.
“Still, I should not consider myself out of your debt were I not also to offer you my compliments for your interesting performance, and beg you to accept, sir, the assurance of my consideration.”
As the loss entailed on me by the assault on my room was light, I had no cause to repent the decision I had formed. On the other hand, the adventure became known, and added still more to my credit, as it is notorious the public prefer going to theatres where they are certain of finding no room.
As a general rule, family parties came to see me, but it was not unusual for a number of persons to form a rendezvous at my theatre. The following incident will offer an instance:
The ingenious author of those eccentric caricatures, which delight everybody who is not himself attacked, Dantan the younger, came one day to my box-office.
“Madam,” he said to the lady in command, “how many stalls have you to let?”
“I will consult my book,” the lady replied. “Do you wish them for to-night?”
“No, madam, for this day week.”
“Oh, in that case, you can have as many as you like.”
“How, as many as I like? Why, your room must be made of india-rubber.”
“No, sir, I merely mean to say that of fifty stalls I have at my disposal, you can take as many as you please.”
“Very good, madam, I now understand,” Dantan continued, laughingly; “then, if I can have as many as I please, have the goodness to keep me sixty.”
The lady, much embarrassed to solve this problem, sent for me, and I easily arranged the affair by converting the first pit row into stalls.
The reason why the sculptor required so many seats was as follows:
Dantan, junior, has an enormous number of friends, and the original idea had occurred to him of inviting a certain number of them to Robert-Houdin’s performance, and for that purpose he had engaged these sixty seats.
I have mentioned this incident, because it both proves the renown my theatre enjoyed at that time, and reminds me of the commencement of one of the most agreeable acquaintances I ever made in my life. From this moment I became, and have always remained, one of the intimate friends of the celebrated sculptor.
Before knowing him personally, like the majority of his admirers, I was unacquainted with his serious works, but when I was admitted to his studio, I could appreciate the full extent of his talent.
Dantan has in this room, arranged on enormous shelves, the most perfect collection of busts of contemporary celebrities. I do not think a single illustrious person of the age is missing. Each is properly classified and arranged as in a museum; monarchs and statesmen, less numerous than the others, are collected on one shelf; then come authors, musicians, singers, composers, physicians, warriors, dramatic artists—in a word great men of every description and country. But the most interesting thing in the gallery is that every bust is accompanied by its caricature, so that, after admiring the original, you laugh heartily at noticing all the comic details of the other.
On seeing these numberless heads, it is difficult to imagine that one man’s life could suffice for such a toil. Dantan, however, has a remarkable talent in catching the characteristic features of a face, and often enough he need only see a person once in order to produce an extraordinary likeness. Witness the following fact, which I will cite as much for its singularity as because it bears an affinity, in some degree, to sleight-of-hand:
The son of Lieutenant-General Baron D—— came one day to Dantan, begging him to make a bust of his father. “I will not hide from you,” he said to the artist, “that you will encounter an almost insurmountable difficulty in performing your task. Not only would the general never consent to sit to you, but you cannot even be introduced to him at home. As my father has been ill for many years, he sees no other persons than his servants, and he keeps almost always alone. Hence, you will have to manage to catch a glimpse at him unawares, but I do not know how.”
“Does your father never go out?” the sculptor asked.
“Oh yes, sir; every afternoon at four my father takes the ‘bus and goes to read the papers at a room in the Place de la Madeleine, after which he comes back and shuts himself up again.”
“I require no more,” the artist said. “I will begin making my observations to-day, and set to work to-morrow.”
In fact, at four o’clock precisely, Dantan posted himself before a house forming the corner of the Boulevards and the Rue Louis-le-Grand, and soon saw the general come out and walk to an omnibus. The sculptor followed his model and entered the vehicle with him, but, unfortunately, the only two seats vacant were on the same side, and the artist could only make profile studies, being very careful not to attract attention.
At last the ‘bus stopped before the Madeleine church; pursuer and pursued went in together to the same reading-room, where each took up his favorite paper, and was soon lost in the perusal.
Dantan had taken a seat opposite the general, and, while apparently absorbed in a leader, took stealthy glances at his model.
All was going on favorably, and the artist continued his studies quietly for some moments, until the general, already surprised that his fellow-passenger should come to the same reading-room, caught his eye fixed upon himself.
Annoyed by this impertinent curiosity, for which he could assign no reason, he attempted to foil it by forming a rampart of his enormous paper.
The face of the old baron disappeared, but the top of his head was still visible, and Dantan would have been able to continue his task satisfactorily, had it not been for a frightful silk cap he wore.
Many a conjurer, even the most famous, would have been checked by such a difficulty; but Dantan did not long rack his brains, which renders his trick only the more striking.
He went up to the lady at the counter, spoke with her for a few moments, and then quietly returned to his post of observation.
It is necessary to state that the reading-room, heated by a large stove, was already quite warm enough; but suddenly an insupportable degree of heat filled the room, and drops of perspiration stood on the foreheads of several persons.
The general, who at this moment held the Gazette des Tribunaux in his hand, and was doubtlessly amusing himself with some lugubrious drama, was one of the last to notice the heightened temperature. Even he, though, at length found it necessary to remove his silk cap, and put it in his pocket, growling, “Confound it, how hot the room is!”
The trick was done.
The reader has already guessed that the clever sculptor was the cause of this vapor-bath, which he induced the lady to produce by explaining to her his important mission.
This result once obtained, Dantan hastily made his phrenological studies on the venerable head of the old warrior; then, rising from the table, he cast a final glance over his features, photographed him, so to speak, in his mind, and ran off to set to work.
A short time after, the sculptor sent the general’s family the most perfect bust possibly ever produced by his chisel.
Here I will close the parenthesis I commenced with reference to the evils the smallness of my theatre entailed on me; and I will now begin another about the pleasures my success procured me.
At the beginning of November, I received a “command” to St. Cloud, to give a performance before Louis Philippe and his family. I accepted the invitation with the greatest pleasure; for as I had never yet performed before a crowned head, this was an important event for me.
I had six days before me to make my preparations, and I took all possible pains, even arranging a trick for the occasion, from which I had reason to expect an excellent result.
On the day fixed for my performance, a fourgon came at an early hour to fetch me and my apparatus, and we were conveyed to the château. A theatre had been put up in a large hall selected by the king for the representation, and in order that I might not be disturbed in my preparations, a guard was placed at one of the doors leading into the corridor. I also noticed three other doors in this apartment; one, composed of glass, opened on to the garden opposite a passage filled with splendid orange-trees; the two others, to the right and left, communicated with the apartments of the king and the Duchess of Orleans.
I was busy arranging my apparatus, when I heard one of the doors I have just mentioned open quietly, and directly a voice made the following inquiry in the most affable manner:
“Monsieur Robert-Houdin, may I be permitted to come in?”
I turned my head in the direction, and recognized the king, who, having asked this question merely as a form of introduction, had not waited for my reply to walk towards me.
I bowed respectfully.
“Have you all you require for your preparations?” the king asked me.
“Yes, sire; the steward of the château supplied me with skilled workmen, who speedily put up this little stage.”
My tables, consoles and tabourets, as well as the various instruments for my performance, symmetrically arranged on the stage, already presented an elegant appearance.
“This is all very pretty,” the king said to me, drawing near the stage, and casting a stealthy glance on some of my apparatus; “I see with pleasure that the artist of 1846 will justify the good opinion produced by the mechanician of 1844.”
“Sire,” I replied, “on this day I will strive, as I did two years ago, to render myself worthy of the great favor your majesty deigns to bestow on me, by witnessing my performance.”
“Your son’s second-sight is said to be very surprising,” the king continued: “but I warn you, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, to be on your guard, for we intend to cause you considerable difficulties.”
“Sire,” I replied, boldly, “I have every reason for believing that my son will surmount them.”
“I should be vexed were it otherwise,” the king said, with a tinge of incredulity, as he retired. “Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he added, as he closed the door after him, “I shall feel obliged by your punctuality.”
At four o’clock precisely, when the royal family and the numerous guests were assembled, the curtains that concealed me opened, and I appeared on the stage. Owing to my repeated performances, I had fortunately acquired an imperturbable assurance and a confidence in myself which the success of my experiments fully justified.
I began in the most profound silence, for the party evidently wished to see and judge before giving me any encouragement. But, insensibly, they became excited, and I heard several exclamations of surprise, which were soon followed by still more expressive demonstrations.
All my tricks were very favorably received, and the one I had invented for the occasion gained me unbounded applause.
I will give a description of it:
I borrowed from my noble spectators several handkerchiefs, which I made into a parcel, and laid on the table. Then, at my request, different persons wrote on the cards the names of places whither they desired their handkerchiefs to be invisibly transported.
When this had been done, I begged the king to take three of the cards at hazard, and choose from them the place he might consider most suitable.
“Let us see,” Louis Philippe said, “what this one says: ‘I desire the handkerchiefs to be found beneath one of the candelabra on the mantelpiece.’ That is too easy for a sorcerer; so we will pass to the next card: ‘The handkerchiefs are to be transported to the dome of the Invalides.’ That would suit me, but it is much too far, not for the handkerchiefs, but for us. Ah, ah!” the king added, looking at the last card, “I am afraid, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, I am about to embarrass you. Do you know what this card proposes?”
“Will your majesty deign to inform me?”
“It is desired that you should send the handkerchiefs into the chest of the last orange-tree on the right of the avenue.”
“Only that, sire? Deign to order, and I will obey.”
“Very good, then; I should like to see such a magic act: I, therefore, choose the orange-tree chest.”
The king gave some orders in a low voice, and I directly saw several persons run to the orange-tree, in order to watch it and prevent any fraud.
I was delighted at this precaution, which must add to the effect of my experiment, for the trick was already arranged, and the precaution hence too late.
I had now to send the handkerchiefs on their travels, so I placed them beneath a bell of opaque glass, and, taking my wand, I ordered my invisible travellers to proceed to the spot the king had chosen.
I raised the bell; the little parcel was no longer there, and a white turtle-dove had taken its place.
The king then walked quickly to the door, whence he looked in the direction of the orange-tree, to assure himself that the guards were at their post; when this was done, he began to smile and shrug his shoulders.
“Ah! Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he said, somewhat ironically, “I much fear for the virtue of your magic staff.” Then he added, as he returned to the end of the room, where several servants were standing, “Tell William to open immediately the last chest at the end of the avenue, and bring me carefully what he finds there—if he does find anything.”
William soon proceeded to the orange-tree, and though much astonished at the orders given him, he began to carry them out.
He carefully removed one of the sides of the chest, thrust his hand in, and almost touched the roots of the tree before he found anything. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise, as he drew out a small iron coffer eaten by rust.
This curious “find,” after having been cleaned from the mould, was brought in and placed on a small ottoman by the king’s side.
“Well, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” Louis Philippe said to me, with a movement of impatient curiosity, “here is a box; am I to conclude it contains the handkerchiefs?”
“Yes, sire,” I replied, with assurance, “and they have been there, too, for a long period.”
“How can that be? the handkerchiefs were lent you scarce a quarter of an hour ago.”
“I cannot deny it, sire; but what would my magic powers avail me if I could not perform incomprehensible tricks? Your majesty will doubtlessly be still more surprised, when I prove to your satisfaction that this coffer, as well as its contents, was deposited in the chest of the orange-tree sixty years ago.”
“I should like to believe your statement,” the king replied, with a smile; “but that is impossible, and I must, therefore, ask for proofs of your assertion.”
“If your majesty will be kind enough to open this casket they will be supplied.”
“Certainly; but I shall require a key for that.”
“It only depends on yourself, sire, to have one. Deign to remove it from the neck of this turtle-dove, which has just brought it you.”
Louis Philippe unfastened a ribbon that held a small rusty key, with which he hastened to unlock the coffer.
The first thing that caught the king’s eye was a parchment, on which he read the following statement:
This day, the 6th June, 1786,
This iron box, containing six handkerchiefs, was placed among the roots of an orange-tree by me, Balsamo, Count of Cagliostro, to serve in performing an act of magic, which will be executed on the same day sixty years hence before Louis Philippe of Orleans and his family.
“There is decidedly witchcraft about this,” the king said, more and more amazed. “Nothing is wanting, for the seal and signature of the celebrated sorcerer are placed at the foot of this statement, which, Heaven pardon me, smells strongly of sulphur.”
At this jest, the audience began to laugh.
“But,” the king added, taking out of the box a carefully sealed packet, “can the handkerchiefs by possibility be in this?”
“Indeed, sire, they are; but, before opening the parcel, I would request your majesty to notice that it also bears the impression of Cagliostro’s seal.”
This seal once rendered so famous by being placed on the celebrated alchemist’s bottles of elixir and liquid gold, I had obtained from Torrini, who had been an old friend of Cagliostro’s.
“It is certainly the same,” my royal spectator answered, after comparing the two seals. Still, in his impatience to learn the contents of the parcel, the king quickly tore open the envelope, and soon displayed before the astonished spectators the six handkerchiefs which, a few moments before, were still on my table.
This trick gained me lively applause, but in my second sight, which was to terminate the performance, I had really to sustain a terrible struggle, as the king had warned me.
Among the objects handed me, there was, I remember, a medal, which it was expected would embarrass me. Still, I had no sooner taken it in my hand than my son described it in the following terms:
“It is,” he said, confidently, “a Greek medal of bronze, on which is a word composed of six letters, which I will spell: lamba, epsilon, mu, nu, omicron, sigma, which makes Lemnos.”
My son knew the Greek alphabet; hence, he could read the word Lemnos, although he could not possibly have translated it.
This was in itself a severe trial for so young a lad; but it did not satisfy the royal family.
I was handed a small Chinese coin with a hole through the centre, and its name and value were immediately indicated; and, lastly, a difficulty, from which I managed to escape successfully, was the brilliant finale of my performance.
I had been surprised to see the Duchess of Orleans, who took a lively interest in the second sight, retire to her apartments; but she soon returned, and handed me a small case, the contents of which she wished my son to describe, but I must be careful not to open it.
I had foreseen this prohibition; so, while the princess was speaking to me, I opened the case with one hand, and, by a rapid glance, satisfied myself as to its contents. Still, I pretended for a moment to be startled by the proposal, in order to produce a greater effect.
“Your highness,” I remarked, as I returned the case, “will allow me to appeal against such a proposal, for you must have remarked that, until now, I required to see the object before my son could name it.”
“Yet you have surmounted greater difficulties,” the amiable duchess retorted. “However, if it is not possible, let us say no more about it, for I should be grieved to cause you any embarrassment.”
“What your highness wishes is, I repeat, impossible; and yet my son, feeling anxious to justify the confidence you place in his clairvoyance, will attempt to see through the case, and describe its contents.
“Can he do so even through my hands?” the duchess continued, trying to conceal the case.
“Yes, madam, and even if your highness were in the next room, my son would be able to see it.”
The duchess, declining the new trial I proposed, satisfied herself by questioning my son with her own lips.
The boy, who had long received his instructions, replied, without hesitation, “There is in the case a diamond pin, the stone being surrounded by a garter of sky-blue enamel.”
“That is perfectly correct,” the duchess said, as she showed the ornament to the king. “Judge for yourself, sire;” then, turning to me, she added, with infinite grace, “Monsieur Robert-Houdin, will you accept this pin in remembrance of your visit to St. Cloud?”
I thanked her highness sincerely, as I assured her of my gratitude.
The performance was over: the curtain fell, and, in my turn, I was enabled to enjoy a curious scene at my ease; it was to look through a small hole at my audience, who had assembled in groups, and were talking about the impression I had produced.
Before leaving the château, the king and queen again sent me the most flattering messages by the person charged to hand me a souvenir of their munificence.
This representation could not increase my reputation—that was not possible—but it helped powerfully to maintain it. My performance at St. Cloud, more especially, created a sensation among the aristocracy, who, until that moment, had hesitated about visiting my small room. Their curiosity overcame other considerations, and they came in their turn to assure themselves of the reality of the marvels attributed to me.
The summer heats were, however, beginning to be felt: we had reached the commencement of July, and I had to think about closing my theatre. However, instead of running after fortune, as in the previous year, I occupied myself with changing and improving my performance. The task was heavy; for I was filled with bold emulation, as I could not conceal from myself that my success imposed certain duties on me, and that, in order to keep it up, I must be constantly deserving of it.
The most painful part of my inquiries was, that my inventions must be completed by a certain day and hour, for the reopening of my theatre was fixed for the first of the next September, and, for many reasons, I determined on being punctual.
For two months I worked with great ardor, granting myself no rest or pleasure. Sometimes, however, after dinner on Sunday, I allowed myself a recreation which may seem strange to many of my readers: I went to the fairs round Paris, and studied the mountebanks. There I amused myself, I may say, as much as any of the spectators around me; though the pleasure I felt was not of the same nature as that of my neighbors. I amused myself by seeing their amusement, and nothing more; for any one who has seen this style of spectacle must have noticed that the mountebank gives his public very little for their money. The best part of the sight is often seen outside.
New Experiments—Aërial Suspension, &c.—A Performance at the Odéon—A Friend in Need—1848—The Theatre deserted—I leave Paris for London—Manager Mitchell—Publicity in England—The Great Wizard—A Butter-mould used as a Puff—Singular Bills—A Prize for the best Pun.
INSTEAD of being able to recommence my performances on the 1st of September, as I had hoped, my compulsory holidays, which might be called my “penal servitude,” were prolonged another month, and it was not till the 1st of October that I was prepared to offer my new experiments to the public.
My pecuniary interests were much affected by this delay, but I trusted, correctly enough, to the zeal of the public to visit me, as a compensation.
My new repertory contained the Crystal Box, the Fantastic Portfolio, the Trepèze Tumbler, the Garde Française, the Origin of Flowers, the Crystal Balls, the Inexhaustible Bottle, the Ethereal Suspension, &c.
I had devoted especial care to the last experiment, on which I built great hopes. Surgery had supplied me with the first idea of it.
It will be remembered that in 1847 the insensibility produced by inhaling ether began to be applied in surgical operations; all the world talked about the marvellous effect of this anæsthetic, and its extraordinary results. In the eyes of many people it seemed much akin to magic.
Seeing that the surgeons had invaded my domain, I asked myself if this did not allow me to make reprisals. I did so by inventing my ethereal suspension, which, I believe, was far more surprising than any result obtained by my surgical brethren.
The subject I intended to operate on was my younger son, and I could not have selected one better suited for the experiment. He was a stout lad of about six years of age, and his plump and rosy face was the picture of health. In spite of his youth, he displayed the greatest intelligence in learning his part, and played it with such perfection, that the most incredulous were duped.
This trick was very much applauded, and I am bound to say that my arrangements were excellently made: this was the first time I tried to direct the surprise of my spectators by gradually heightening it up to the moment when, so to speak, it exploded.
I divided my experiment into three parts, each more surprising than the former.
Thus, when I removed the stool from beneath the child’s feet, the public, who had smiled during the preparations for the suspension, became thoughtful.
When I next removed one of the canes, exclamations of surprise and fear were heard.
Lastly, at the moment when I raised my son to an horizontal position, the spectators, at this unexpected result, crowned the experiment with hearty applause.
Still, it sometimes happened that sensitive persons, regarding the etherization too seriously, protested in their hearts against the applause, and wrote me letters in which they severely upbraided the unnatural father who sacrificed the health of his poor child to the pleasures of the public. Some went so far as to threaten me with the terrors of the law if I did not give up my inhuman performance.
The anonymous writers of such accusations did not suspect the pleasure they caused me. After amusing the family circle, I kept the letters preciously as proofs of the illusion I had produced.
The fashion this performance raised could not surpass that of the previous year: I could not expect any other result than filling my theatre, and that occurred every evening.
The royal family also wished to see my new experiments; and for this purpose the whole room was taken for the afternoon, so that my evening performances were not interrupted.
This performance, which the Queen of the Belgians witnessed with her family, was only so far peculiar, that my little room was filled with exalted personages. All the seats were occupied, for their majesties were accompanied by their respective courts, and a great number of ambassadors and royal dignitaries.
As I had reason to hope, my noble spectators were satisfied, and deigned to thank me in person.
In the midst of this gentle satisfaction, I had every reason to believe that I possessed the favor of the public; I learned, though, at a heavy penalty, that even if the favor of that sovereign may appear secured, a trifle will cause it almost to expire.
On the 18th of February, 1848, Madame Dorval took her benefit at the Odéon, and I promised that eminent actress to perform some of my tricks as an interlude.
I was punctual to my appointment across the water; half-past eleven struck, when the curtain fell just prior to my performance. As I had been ready to begin for some time, ten minutes were sufficient to give a final glance to my preparations.
My first care, on taking possession of the stage, had been to conceal my operations from indiscreet eyes; hence, I had dismissed everybody. Unfortunately, I had not even made an exception in favor of the stage-manager, and the sorrowful effects of this measure will now be seen.
In most excellent humor, I ordered my servant to give the three usual taps, and the orchestra began playing while I walked to the side-scene, prior to making my appearance. But at the moment the curtain rose, I remembered I had forgotten one of my “accessories,” and I ran to my dressing-room to fetch it. Unfortunately, in my hurry, I did not notice that the machinist had inadvertently left a small trap open, and my leg slipped into it up to the knee.
The pain drew from me a sharp cry of distress; my servant ran up, and he could only release me with some difficulty. But I was in a sad state, for my trouser was torn completely up, exposing my bleeding and lacerated leg.
In this unhappy condition, I could not possibly return to the stage; hence I looked around in search of some one to announce to the public the accident that had happened to me, but I could only see two firemen. They would not do for so delicate a mission, and although I had my servant, this worthy lad was a negro with woolly head, blubber lips, and an ebony skin, whose simple language would not have failed to raise a laugh at my painful position.
The stage-manager alone could undertake the mission; but where should I find him?
These reflections, prompt as lightning, were interrupted by the commencement of a storm in the theatre; the public summoned me, for it must be remembered the curtain had risen, and in the eyes of the public I had missed my entrance; this was disrespect, and, therefore, unpardonable!
My negro, without caring for what was passing elsewhere, tore up his handkerchief and mine, and bound my wound with considerable skill. This did not prevent me suffering severe pain, but I soon experienced a torture a thousand-fold greater when I heard a violent storm burst out in the house. The public, who had begun by stamping, were now hissing, shouting, and yelling in all the discordant tones of dissatisfaction.
Overcoming my pain, I changed my trousers in haste, and decided on going myself to describe my accident. I therefore walked slowly to the door of the stage, and I was just going to open it, when a frightful noise turned me cold with terror, and checked me. My heart failed me. Still, I put a stop to this. “Courage,” I said to myself, with a supreme effort—“courage!” and straight-way throwing open the folding doors, I walked on the stage.
I shall never forget my reception. On one hand, cries, hisses, yells; on the other, clapping of hands and applause, enough to wake the dead. The two parties were apparently attempting to conquer each other in making a noise.
Pale and trembling at such a rough reception, I waited patiently for a moment when the combatants, wearied with the contest, would allow me to explain my delay. This moment at length arrived, and I was enabled to describe my painful adventure. My paleness testified to the truth of my words. The public allowed themselves to be disarmed, and hisses were no longer mingled with the applause which greeted my explanation.
Any one who knows the relief and comfort bravos and hearty applause arouse in the heart of an actor, will understand the sudden change they produced in me. The blood rushed to my cheeks and restored my color, my strength returned, and, possessed by fresh energy, I stated to the public that I found myself so much recovered that I would go on with my performance. I did so; and such was the power of my excitement, that I scarce felt the pain produced by my wound.
I have said that, on my appearance, I was saluted by demonstrations of a very different nature. Although many of my spectators hissed, others applauded me. Truth extorts a confession from me. I was supported on this evening by an omnipotent protector.
This requires an explanation. Hence, that my readers may solve the enigma, I am obliged to narrate a slight anecdote:
At the period when I invented my experiment of second sight, several Parisian managers proposed to me to perform, as an interlude, in their theatres, but I had refused, because, as I was tired by my own performances, I did not wish to prolong them. My determination on this point was quite formed, when I received a visit from an actress of the Palais Royal, Madame M——, who performed the part of duennas.
“I have not the honor of your acquaintance, sir,” she said, with a certain degree of hesitation, “hence I am almost afraid to ask you to render me a great service. These are the circumstances of the case: our excellent manager, Dormeuil, has offered me a benefit, the profits of which are intended to release my son from the conscription. It only depends on you, sir, to ensure the success of the performance by giving me your assistance.” And the poor mother, deriving her eloquence from her love for her son, painted in such lively colors the distress she would feel from a failure, that, touched by her grief, I rescinded my determination, and consented to add my performance of the “second sight” to her bill.
I dare not form the flattering idea that my name had any share in the success of the performance; still, the house was crowded, and the receipts more than covered the price of a substitute.
The next day the happy mother called to tell me of her good fortune, and thank me. She was accompanied by a gentleman I did not know, but who, so soon as Madame M—— had ceased speaking, told me in his turn the object of his visit.
“I have taken the liberty of accompanying Madame M—— to compliment you on what you have done for her. It is a good action, for which all her theatrical friends owe you abundant thanks; and, for my part, I hope, sooner or later, to evidence my gratitude in my own way.”
While flattered at my visitor’s remarks, I was much puzzled as to the sense of his last sentence. He noticed it, and, giving me no time to reply, continued:
“Ah! I forgot to tell you who I am, and I ought to have begun with that. My name is Duhart, and I manage theatrical successes at the Palais Royal. By the way,” he added, “were you satisfied with the reception you had last night?”
This confession, I grant, robbed me of a sweet illusion. I had fancied I owed my reception to my own merits, and I now could not guess what share of the applause legitimately belonged to me. Still, I thanked M. Duhart for his kindness, both past and to come. Three months later, I had almost forgotten this incident, when one day, as I was going to give a performance at the Porte Saint-Martin, my friend Duhart called on me.
“Only one word, Monsieur Houdin,” he said, without taking the trouble to sit down. “I read in the bills that you are going to perform for Raucourt’s benefit, and I have recommended you to P——, who will ‘take care of you.’”
I was in fact, “taken care of,” for when I appeared on the stage, I was greeted by a reception worthy of the highest artistic celebrities. It was easy to recognize an ovation warmly recommended, but I was glad to notice that the public “followed suit,” and that the bravos emanating from the pit radiated through the whole house.
A few months later, when about to perform at the Gymnase, came another visit from Duhart, the same recommendation to his comrade, and a similar result. In short, I rarely quitted my own stage but my grateful protector interested himself in my success.
I am forced to say that I let him do so, and saw no harm in it; far from that, these encouragements were a stimulant for me, and I always redoubled my efforts to deserve them.
I have taken a pride in relating this incident, for it admirably depicts the character of a man capable of being so long grateful for a slight service rendered to a friend. However, the performance at the Odéon was the last in which the worthy Duhart went out of his way for me, as the revolution of February arrived a few days later.
It will be remembered that this event was an utter “smasher” for all the theatres.
After exhausting all the attractive baits of their repertory, the managers, finding all their attractions fail, vainly formed a congress to relieve them from such a disastrous situation.
I was invited to the meeting, but, though I put in an appearance, it was merely through politeness, as I was in a position very different from that of my brethren.
This position depended simply on the fact that my establishment, instead of having the name of a theatre, was called a “spectacle.” Through this slight difference of title I enjoyed rights infinitely more extended.
Thus, while the theatres could only have bills of a size arranged by a police decree, I was at liberty, as the manager of a spectacle, to announce my performances in unbounded proportions.
I could also lessen or increase the number of my performances at my pleasure, which was not one of the slightest advantages of my management.
Lastly, I had a right, whenever I thought proper, to put the key of my room in my pocket, dismiss my staff, and walk about at my leisure in expectation of better times.
All these advantages, to which I will add that of being burdened with very slight expenses compared with my brethren, offered me no other result than that of not losing my money. However I might try, the public remained deaf to my appeal as to theirs.
I am mistaken though; for some days I received very polite letters from the Provisional Government, in the shape of “free passes,” which begged me to find room in my hall for the students of the Polytechnic and St. Cyr schools, accompanied by their tutors.
I was enchanted, it is true, by this amiable act of politeness, which augmented the number of my scanty spectators; for I performed, at least, before a well-filled room, and I had no longer the annoyance of seeing those unlucky benches empty—a sight which usually paralyzes the most philosophic performers.
This illusion was, in truth, very ephemeral, for each evening, after the performance, my cashier assumed a very gloomy face on approaching me.
What disenchantment! What bitter reprisals on the part of the blind goddess who, for some time, had granted me such sweet favors!
Still, in these moments of distress, I may say with perfect sincerity deceptions and torment were not confined to the profit and loss account; and though a manager does not take money, he desires to conceal his misery. In order to produce a deception, he tries to furnish his theatre, and he gives free admissions. I had recourse to this measure; but, what will appear strange, these tickets, which, a month earlier, would have been regarded as an immense favor, were viewed with considerable indifference, and it often happened that people did not take the trouble to accept my invitation.
Having become a philosopher through necessity, I ended by resigning myself to seeing my room nearly empty, and I sent out no more invitations. Besides, I had enjoyed an opportunity of studying the “free admissions,” and I had remarked that this class of spectators is, or pretends to be, quite indifferent to the performance. In fact, the “free admission,” when he believes the theatre short of spectators, imagines he is doing an act of kindness by accepting the invitation offered him. If he find the house full, he fancies all the places are occupied by gratis tickets (and he is sometimes correct), and he concludes from it that the performance cannot be very amusing. If he happen to be mistaken, he does not applaud, in his fear of being taken for a gratuitous visitor, and pass for an accomplice paying for his seat in applause.
I was in the thick of my managerial troubles when, one morning, I received a visit from the manager of the French theatre in London. Mitchell (that is his name), far from seeking to delude me by false promises, like my Brussels theatrical agent, merely made me the following simple proposal:
“Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he said to me, “you are well known in London; come and perform at the St. James’ Theatre, and I have every reason to believe you will be successful. Besides, we shall be equally interested, for we will share the gross receipts, and I will pay all the expenses. You will perform alternately with my Opéra Comique, that is to say, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and you will begin, if you please, on the 7th of May next, or a month from to-day.”
These conditions appearing to me very acceptable, I may add, most advantageous, I agreed to them most readily. Mitchell, then, offered me his hand, I gave him mine, and this friendly sanction was the only agreement we made for this important affair. Though there was no forfeit on either side, no arrangement or signature, never was a bargain better cemented.
From that time, during all my long connection with Mitchell, I had many occasions of appreciating all the value of his word. I may say loudly that he is one of the most conscientious managers I ever had dealings with. In addition, Mitchell adds an extreme affability, and a remarkable degree of generosity and disinterestedness to the merit of keeping his word. Under all circumstances, he will be found to act as a perfect gentleman, and one of the most brilliant qualities he possesses as manager, is his courteous behavior to his performers. The following instance will serve as a proof:
Jenny Lind was singing at Her Majesty’s Theatre on the same evenings I performed at St. James’s, so that, despite all the wish I felt to go and hear her, I could not make up my mind to sacrifice a performance for this attractive pleasure. However, in consequence of a circumstance too lengthy to detail here, I happened to find myself free on one of the nights when Jenny Lind sang. I must add that, besides managing the St. James’s Theatre, Mitchell had hired a certain number of boxes at Her Majesty’s by the year, and, according to the English custom, let them out to the highest bidders. It happened at times that all the tickets were not sold, and in that case Mitchell gave them to a few privileged friends. I was aware of this circumstance, and intended to ask him a similar favor for this evening.
At the moment I was going out to seek my manager, he came into my room.
“By Jove, my dear Mitchell,” I said to him, “I was just going to prefer a request to you.”
“Whatever it may be, my dear friend,” he replied, politely, “be assured it will be willingly heard.”
And when I explained to him what I wanted,
“Good Heavens! Houdin,” he said, in a tone of real annoyance, “how unlucky you should ask that of me.”
“Why so?” I replied, in the same tone; “if it is not possible, my dear friend, pray let me withdraw my request.”
“On the contrary, my dear Houdin—on the contrary, it is very easy; I am only vexed at missing the surprise I intended to offer you: I was going to give you an excellent box for to-night: here it is.”
A more delicate and amiable way of behaving could hardly be suggested.
A fortnight had scarce elapsed since my interview with Mitchell, when, after a most successful passage, I disembarked at London. On the moment of my arrival, my manager led me to a delightful lodging close to the theatre, and showed me all the rooms. On reaching the sleeping apartment, he said:
“You have a celebrated bed before you: it is the one in which Rachel, Déjazet, Jenny Colon, and many other artistic celebrities, rested after the emotion produced by their successes. You cannot but enjoy the ideas which the remembrance of these illustrious guests will summon up in your dreams. To any other than you, my dear Houdin, I would say that these celebrated predecessors must bring good luck; but your success depends on the virtue of your magic staff.”
Mitchell, feeling desirous to add all desirable attraction to my performances, had ordered a scene in the Louis XV. style, as well as a curtain, on which was painted, in letters of gold, the title adopted for my Paris theatre, “Soirées Fantastiques de Robert-Houdin;” consequently, I could not begin my arrangements till all these preparations had been completed.
In the meanwhile, having nothing better to do, I walked about daily in the magnificent parks, and collected my strength, in preparation for the fatigues I was about to undergo in my performances.
At this word “fatigues,” my reader will be doubtlessly surprised, for he has every reason to suppose that my stay in London would be in some degree a period of rest, as, instead of playing seven times a week, as in Paris, I was only to give three performances in the same period.
To explain this apparent contradiction, it will be enough for me to state that the work and fatigue are less in the performance than its preparation. As at St. James’s Theatre I had to perform alternately with the Comic Opera, I was obliged, lest I might impede these artists in their studies, to give them all necessary time for their rehearsals, which, as is well known, occupy the greater portion of the day. Consequently, I had promised to clear the stage so soon as my performance was over, and not occupy it again till the middle of the day on which I performed. Add to this, that in my labor of preparing and removing, the master’s eye was not sufficient, but I had for various reasons to set to work myself, and it may be easily understood that this caused me enormous fatigue.
It caused me at the outset a species of comical regret to find that my performances would not owe their success entirely to my own merits. In England it is almost impossible to gain the ear of the public unless every possible form of notoriety be resorted to, and the change from my peaceful retirement in Paris was very startling. Whenever I took my walks abroad, my name in gigantic letters stared me in the face, while enormous posters, on which my various tricks were represented, covered the walls of London, and, according to the English fashion, were promenaded about the streets, by the help of a vehicle like those we employ in Paris for removing furniture.
But, however great this publicity might be, it was quite modest when compared to that opposed to us by a rival, who may be justly regarded as the most ingenious and skillful puffer in England.
On my arrival in England, a conjurer of the name of Anderson, who assumed the title of Great Wizard of the North, had been performing for a long period at the little Strand Theatre.
This artist, fearing, doubtlessly, that public attention might be divided, tried to crush the publicity of my performances; hence, he sent out on London streets a cavalcade thus organized:
Four enormous carriages, covered with posters and pictures representing all sorts of witchcraft, opened the procession. Then followed four-and-twenty merry men, each bearing a banner, on which was painted a letter a yard in height.
At each cross-road the four carriages stopped side by side and presented a bill some twenty-five yards in length, while all the men, I should say letters, on receiving the word of command, drew themselves up in a line, like the vehicles.
Seen in front, the letters formed this phrase:
The Celebrated Anderson!!!
while, on the other side of the banners could be read:
The Great Wizard of the North.
Unfortunately for the Wizard, his performances were attacked by a mortal disease; too long a stay in London had ended by producing satiety. Besides, his repertory was out of date, and could not contend against the new tricks I was about to offer. What could he present to the public in opposition to the second sight, the suspension, and the inexhaustible bottle? Hence, he was obliged to close his theatre and start for the provinces, where he managed, as usual, to make excellent receipts, owing to his powerful means of notoriety.
I have met many “puffers” in my life, but I may say I never saw one who attained the elevation Anderson reached. The instance I have quoted will give some idea of his manner, but I will add a few others, to supply a perfect idea of the man.
Whenever his performances are going to be given in a large town, though they are announced with extreme publicity, Anderson contrives to bring his wonders to the notice even of those who never read the newspapers or posters.
For this purpose, he sends to all the buttermen in the town moulds on which his name, title, and the hour of his performance are engraved, begging them to imprint his stamp on their butter-pats, in lieu of the cow ordinarily represented. As every family in England eats butter at breakfast, it follows that each receives, at no expense to the conjurer, an invitation to pay a visit to the illustrious Wizard of the North.
Again, too, Anderson sends out into the streets, before daybreak, a dozen men, carrying those open frames, by means of which, and with a brush and lamp-black, the walls of Paris have been so long covered with puffs. These people print the announcement of the Wizard’s performance on the pavement, which is always kept remarkably clean in England. In spite of himself, every tradesman on opening his shop, and every inhabitant proceeding to business, cannot but read the name of Anderson, and the announcement of his performance. It is true that a few hours later these puffs are effaced by the footsteps of the passers-by, but thousands of persons have read them, and the Wizard requires no more.
His posters are equally original, and I was shown one of a gigantic size put out on the occasion of his return to London after a lengthened absence in the provinces. It was a caricature imitation of the famous picture “Napoleon’s Return from Elba.”
In the foreground Anderson was seen affecting the attitude of the great man; above his head fluttered an enormous banner, bearing the words “The Wonder of the World;” while, behind him, and somewhat lost in the shade, the Emperor of Russia and several other monarchs stood in a respectful posture. As in the original picture, the fanatic admirers of the Wizard embraced his knees, while an immense crowd received him triumphantly. In the distance could be seen the equestrian statue of the Iron Duke, who, hat in hand, bowed before him, the Great Wizard; and, lastly, the very dome of St. Paul’s bent towards him most humbly.
At the bottom was the inscription,
“Return of the Napoleon of Necromancy.”
Regarded seriously, this picture would be found a puff in very bad taste; but, as a caricature, it is excessively comic. Besides, it had the double result of making the London public laugh, and bringing a great number of shillings into the skillful puffer’s pockets.
When Anderson is about to leave a town where he has exhausted all his resources, and has nothing more to hope, he still contrives to make one more enormous haul.
He orders from the first jeweller in the town a silver vase, worth twenty or twenty-five pounds; he hires, for one evening only, the largest theatre or room in the town, and announces that in the Wizard’s parting performance the spectators will compete to make the best pun.
The silver vase is to be the prize of the victor.
A jury is chosen among the chief people of the town to decide with the public on the merits of each pun.
It is agreed that they will applaud if they think a pun good; they will say nothing to a passable one, but groan at a bad one.
The room is always crowded, for people come less to see the performance, which they know by heart, than to display their wit publicly. Each makes his jest, and receives a greeting more or less favorable; and, lastly, the vase is decreed to the cleverest among them.
Any other than Anderson would be satisfied with the enormous receipts his performance produces; but the Great Wizard of the North has not finished yet. Before the audience leaves the house he states that a short-hand writer had been hired by him to take down all the puns, and that they will be published as a Miscellany.
As each spectator who has made a joke likes to see it in print, he purchases a copy of the book for a shilling. An idea of the number of these copies may be formed from the number of puns they contain. I have one of these books in my possession, printed at Glasgow in 1850, in which there are 1091 of these facetiæ.
The charlatan style of Anderson’s bills is most amusing—at least I regard it as such; for it is not presumable that Anderson ever intended sincerely to praise himself in such an outrageous way. If I am mistaken, it would be more than vanity on his part, when I take into consideration his conjuring talent. Hence I believe him to be very modest at heart.