It will doubtless have been observed that I have in the foregoing pages
been somewhat lavish in respect of patter. I have done so for two or
three reasons.
First, in order to enable the reader to form a better estimate of the
effect of the trick presented, duly clothed and coloured, to the mind
of the spectator. A trick described, however minutely, from the mere
mechanical or technical point of view, gives scarcely more idea of its
actual effect than the rough charcoal sketch of the artist does of the
finished painting. Secondly, because ready-made patter, if the reader
cares to use it, will save him a considerable amount of trouble. My third
reason is more personal, namely, that it has been a labour of love to do
so. To my mind the devising of some little bit of appropriate fiction
to serve as introduction to a trick is the pleasantest part of the
inventor’s work.
It may perhaps be thought that I have, in some of the more ambitious
tricks, been overliberal in this particular. I remember thinking,
after witnessing a “show” by Dr. Lynn, a popular performer of the last
generation, that he had talked a great deal, and done very little, and
that I had had very little real magic for my money. On the other hand,
the loquacious doctor was always amusing, and it must not be forgotten
that to amuse, even more than to puzzle, is the _raison d’être_ of the
modern magician. It seems to me therefore quite legitimate to use, to a
reasonable extent, the art of the _raconteur_ to supplement that of the
magician.
If my own patter is in some cases found superabundant, I have at any rate
done my best to make it amusing, and if the reader opines that I have
not paid sufficient regard to the late Mr. Ducrow’s celebrated maxim,
“Cut the cackle, and come to the ’osses,” he is quite at liberty to cut
my cackle to what he may consider more reasonable proportions. No doubt,
time would be saved thereby. If, for instance, he were to cut out the
little romantic fictions with which I have introduced “The Miracle of
Mumbo Jumbo” and “The Story of the Alkahest,” and start “right away” with
the bare performance of the trick, both could be exhibited in little more
time than I have allotted to either alone. Which treatment is likely to
give the greater satisfaction to his audience, he must decide for himself.
Where the performer has the gift (for a “gift” it undoubtedly is) of
devising effective patter for himself I am strongly in favour of his
doing so. Borrowed patter may be likened to a borrowed dress-coat. It is
never likely to be an exact fit, and a “giant’s robe upon a dwarfish
thief,” or the reverse, cannot be expected to be a becoming garment.
Every man has, or should have, a style of his own, and it is rarely
good policy to imitate that of somebody else. If a low comedy man were
to essay to play Hamlet, or a tragedian, however eminent, were to try
to give an imitation of Harry Lauder, the result would be likely to be
disappointing.
The reader, undertaking to write his own patter, and desirous of making
it just what patter should be, will find counsels of perfection in “Our
Magic,” and the more nearly he can approach them the better. As, however,
all have not the good fortune to possess that admirable work, I venture
to indicate what to my own mind seem to be the chief points to be aimed
at.
It is almost a commonplace to say that the main object of patter is
misdirection. As the term is more usually applied, this means something
said or done midway in the course of a trick to draw away the attention
of the audience at some critical moment, and to create what the French
conjurers call a “_temps_” _i.e._, an “opportunity” for doing, unnoticed,
some necessary act. But misdirection may very well start at an earlier
stage than this: in fact, well in advance of the actual execution of the
trick. Each trick should have some sort of introduction, and the patter
serving this purpose should be such as to lead the mind of the hearer
away from the true explanation of the marvel, and to suggest, in a more
or less plausible way, some other, remote from the real one.
The suggested explanation may be either pseudo-scientific, where possible
based on some generally accepted truth (and it is surprising what a
long way even a few grains of truth go in such cases); or it may be
downright “spoof,” delivered however with due appearance of seriousness.
The explanations will naturally fall a good deal short of the George
Washington standard of truthfulness, but the most tender conscience need
not in such a case have any scruples on the score of veracity. No sane
person expects truth in a fairy tale, and a magical entertainment, from
beginning to end, is but a fairy tale in action. To put the matter in an
epigrammatic nutshell:
Truth is “a gem of purest ray serene,”
A virtue always to be cultivated,
But such depends,--you’ll gather what I mean,--
On how you happen to be situated.
At home, abroad, wherever I may be,
I tell the honest truth, and shame the d----.
But when you ask to be deceived. Good gracious!
You can’t expect me then to be veracious.
In that case only do I make exception,
And most deceive when vowing “no deception.”
This function of patter, the leading away the minds of the audience
from the true explanation of the puzzle offered them, may be materially
assisted by the introduction, among the “properties” used, of some
object professedly essential to the trick, but as a matter of fact having
no real concern with the effect produced. The audience take for granted
that it must have something to do with the effect, or it would not be
used, and are thereby led away the more effectually from the actual
explanation. Numerous illustrations of the use of this device will be
found in the foregoing pages.
If, in the case of a given trick, the performer is absolutely at a
loss to produce a satisfactory fable to introduce it, he may evade the
difficulty by stating that he is about to produce an effect for which he
cannot himself account, and inviting the assistance of his audience in
doing so.
The second function of patter is the calling of the attention of the
audience to matters which you desire them to take note of, and to give
opportunity to do so. There is small credit to be gained by changing
the ace of clubs into the ace of hearts, or making a given article pass
invisibly from one spot to another, unless the spectators have been first
made to realise the original state of things, and they must be allowed
_sufficient time_ to do so. I have more than once seen an otherwise
brilliant show spoilt by being rushed through at railroad speed. The mind
of the spectator had not been allowed time to receive clear impressions.
The company in such a case disperses with a consciousness of having had a
rapid succession of surprises, but with only a cloudy recollection as to
what they were.
In devising, as is sometimes desirable, new patter for an old trick,
an endeavour should be made to look at the effect from an entirely
fresh point of view, so as to make the trick practically a new one. A
remarkable instance of such a transformation is furnished by an incident
in the life of Robert-Houdin. At one period of his career he was
entrusted by the French Government with a very important mission. He was
sent to Algeria, specially charged to “astonish the natives,” and by his
greater wonders to destroy their belief in the pretended miracles of the
Aissoua.
Among other surprises, he decided to make use of his “Light and Heavy
Chest,” a chest which, as the reader is doubtless aware, became at
command, by means of an electro-magnet in the pedestal on which it
rested, so “heavy” that the strongest man could not lift it from its
base. This trick, produced at a time when the phenomena of electricity
were but little understood, has produced an immense sensation at his
Paris performances. But the Master instinctively felt that the trick in
that shape would produce little or no effect on the more primitive mind
of the Arab. He would simply have taken for granted some mechanical means
of holding down the chest, beyond his own comprehension, no doubt, but by
no means to be regarded as miraculous. Robert-Houdin decided to change
the mode of presentation altogether, and to make the illusion no longer
objective, but subjective. He announced that by means of his magic power
he could take away the strength of the strongest man, and render him weak
as a little child. The “chest” was in this case merely brought forward
in a casual way, as a convenient object wherewith the assertion of the
magician could be tested. The strongest man in the company was invited to
come forward, and try whether he could lift that little box. Of course he
could, and did; a child could have done the same. “You lifted it because
I permitted you to do so,” said the magician. “But I take away your
strength. Try to lift it now!”
Again the athlete tries his strength, but now he fails. With teeth set,
and every muscle tense, he strains, and strains, but in vain, and he has
to confess that the infidel wonder-worker has, for the time, taken away
all his strength. Here was a wizard indeed!
In arranging your patter, be humorous if you can, but if, like the
gentleman we have all heard of, you “joke with difficulty,” don’t force
yourself to be funny. That it is possible for a man lacking humour still
to be a great conjurer is proved by the case of Hartz, who was notably
deficient in this particular, but by his excellence in other directions
won a place in the very first rank of his profession. But if you cannot
be humorous, at any rate be cheerful. Geniality of manner is one of the
most valuable assets of the conjurer. Above all, don’t be nervous. You
may say “I can’t help it,” but to a great extent you can. It is largely a
matter of _will_. Start with the idea that all will go well, and it will
probably do so. On the other hand, a low-spirited conjurer always makes a
low-spirited audience.
In any case, be sparing of puns, which have been deservedly described as
the lowest form of wit. A single pun, if good enough (or bad enough) may
win a laugh, and score to your credit, but to pepper an audience with
verbal shrapnel in the shape of puns is an outrage on good taste.
Passing to the third function of patter, the misdirection of attention in
the course of a trick, we will assume that you have made a start in the
right direction at the outset, by suggesting some fanciful explanation
of the effect you intend to produce, so that your audience, starting
from wrong premises, do not know the points at which their too close
observation would be inconvenient. The best way of diverting their
attention at one of these critical points is obviously to attract it
to some other direction. A mere sentence, particularly if accompanied
by appropriate action, will suffice. Supposing, to take an elementary
instance, that the performer desires to drop unseen into the profonde
from his left hand some small article for which he has just deftly
substituted a duplicate, now exhibited in the right hand, he has only to
say, “Now I want you particularly to keep an eye on this”--whatever the
article in the right hand may happen to be. All eyes are for the moment,
instinctively drawn to the object in question, and in that moment the
deed is done. The artifice is ridiculously simple, but it is effective,
and it is on being fully prepared with the right thing to say and do at
the critical moment that the success of a magical entertainment largely
depends. Careful rehearsal, preferably before an expert friend, will
furnish the best hints as to the danger-spots in the working of a trick,
and how best to devise patter to meet them.
A final word of advice--advice that has been often given, but cannot be
too often repeated if you really aim to carry your audience with you.
Never lose sight of the fact that you are, in the words of Robert-Houdin,
“an actor playing the part of a magician,” and take your office
seriously. In particular, never before an audience use the word “trick,”
which at once gives away all your pretension to magical power. An actor
never tells his audience that he is an actor or that he is playing a
part. He does not call their attention to his make-up, however excellent,
or tell them that his wig comes from Clarkson. On the contrary, he does
his best to make his audience for the time forget that he is Hubert
de Barnstormer, or whatever his stage name may be, and to keep up the
illusion that he is actually the person whom he represents. The modern
magician should do the same. If he has enough of the true artistic
spirit to imagine, when he steps forward on the platform, that he _is_
a magician, and that his miracles are genuine, he will go a long way
towards producing a like impression in the minds of his audience. Bearing
this in mind, describe what you propose to do as an “effect,” a “marvel,”
an “experiment,” or a “phenomenon”; never by any chance as a “trick.”
It may be objected that I have myself repeatedly used the obnoxious
word in the course of the foregoing pages, but that is another matter.
This book is written by a conjurer for conjurers: and as between
ourselves we are forced to admit, painful though it be to do so, that
our greatest miracles are only tricks. But we need not tell the public
so. Logically-minded, persons know it well enough, if they are allowed
to think about the matter. Our business is to make them, for the time,
forget it. A wise old Roman said: _Populus vult decipi: decipiatur_. Your
audience wish to be deceived; in fact they have come together for that
purpose. By all means let them be deceived to the top of their bent; and
the first step towards effectually deceiving them, is to persuade them,
if possible, that there is “no deception.”
The patter for a given trick, once composed, and tested by a few
performances in public, may thenceforth, so far as the professional is
concerned, be left to take care of itself. It should automatically
improve with each of its earlier repetitions as good wine improves
in bottle. Faults will correct themselves, and being made perfect by
practice, the performer will thenceforth be able to “speak his piece”
without effort, and devote his whole energies to the actual working of
the trick.
To the amateur, only performing on special occasions, with perhaps
considerable intervals between them, I commend a plan from which I myself
derived great benefit, viz.: Write out from memory the patter for each
trick on the programme a day or two before a coming performance. After
you have given your show, go through your manuscript again carefully,
noting and correcting it in any point in which the patter failed to be
exactly right. The interpolation of a single sentence, the transposition
in point of sequence of two movements, or the alteration of some trifling
detail, such as standing at a different angle to your table at a given
moment, may make all the difference between partial failure and complete
success.