Antonio’s Confessions--How to gain Public Applause--The Count
de ----, Mountebank--I repair an Automaton--A Mechanician’s Shop on
Wheels--Nomadic Life--Happy Existence--Torrini’s Lessons--His
Opinions about Sleight-of-Hand--A Fashionable Greek, Victim of his
own Swindling--The Conjurer Comus--A Duel at Piquet--Torrini
proclaimed Conqueror--Revelations--New Catastrophe--Poor Torrini!
The day after the performances, Antonio came as usual to inquire after
my health. I have already said this young man possessed a charming
character: ever gay, ever singing, his fund of good humor was
inexhaustible, and frequently produced a degree of gaiety in our house,
which otherwise would have been very gloomy. On opening my door, he
stopped the operatic air he had been humming from the bottom of the
stairs.
“Well, my little signor,” he said, in French, picturesquely intermingled
with Italian, “how is the health this morning?”
“Famous, Antonio--famous, thank you!”
“Oh yes! famous, Antonio, famous!” and the Italian sought to repeat the
intonation of my voice. “I believe you, my dear patient, but that will
not prevent you taking this draught the doctor, my master, has sent
you.”
“I am willing; but, indeed, this medicine is becoming unnecessary, for I
now feel that I shall soon be restored to health, and then I shall only
have to thank you and your master for your attention to me, and pay him
the expenses caused by my illness.”
“What are you talking about?” Antonio said. “Do you think of leaving us?
Oh, I hope not.”
“You are right, Antonio; I am not thinking of it to-day, but I must
consider of it so soon as I am in a condition to leave. You must see, my
friend, that, in spite of all the pain our separation will cause me, I
must make up my mind to it before long, for I am anxious to return to
Blois and reassure my family, who must feel most uncomfortable about
me.”
“Your family cannot be uncomfortable, as, in order to calm your father,
you wrote to him that your illness, having had no dangerous results, you
had proceeded to Angers to look for work.”
“It is true, but----“
“But, but,” Antonio interrupted me, “you have no good reason to offer. I
repeat, you cannot quit us. Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “if
I told you something, I am sure you would be of my opinion.”
Antonio stopped, appeared to struggle for a moment against the desire he
felt to confide in me, then, making up his mind, said, resolutely, “Ah,
bah! as it is necessary, I cannot hesitate. You were talking just now
about paying my master. Do you know that he is, I fancy, in your debt?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Well, listen to me, my dear friend,” Antonio said, with a mysterious
air; “I will explain myself. You are not ignorant that our poor Torrini
is afflicted by a very grave malady that touches him here (and Antonio
laid his hand on his forehead); now, since you have been with us, and he
fancies he can trace some resemblance to his son, my master is
gradually losing his sorrow, and even indulges in gaiety now and then.
Yesterday, for instance, during his performance, you saw him make his
audience laugh twice or thrice, which has not occurred for a long time.
“Ah, my dear sir,” Antonio continued, growing more and more
communicative, “if you had seen him before that fatal event, when he
performed in the first theatres of Italy. What enthusiasm! what spirit!
Who could have foretold at that period that Count de”--here Antonio
checked himself--“that the celebrated Torrini would ever be reduced to
play in a barn as the rival of the lowest mountebanks--he, the
inimitable sorcerer, the honored artist, everywhere known as the
handsome, the elegant Torrini! However, it was only just; for he
eclipsed the richest professors by his luxury and distinguished manners,
and never did a performer more fully deserve legitimate applause for his
talent and address.
“However, I must confess,” Antonio added, carried away by his
confessions, “that this applause was sometimes my handiwork. Doubtlessly
the public appreciates talent with intelligence, but it often requires
to be guided in the outburst of its admiration. I took charge of this
duty, and without saying a word to my master, I prepared him several
ovations which extended and prolonged his success. How many times
boquets, thrown at the right moment, excited the applause of the entire
audience? how many times murmurs of approval, skilfully introduced,
aroused the enthusiasm of the theatre? What successes, my dear
fellow--what successes we had, though, in those days. I cannot give you
a better idea of them than by saying that, at times, my master could
hardly manage to spend all the money his representations produced.”
“It is a pity, that your master,” I said to Antonio, “did not place
less trust in the future, and save a portion of that fortune which he
would gladly have to-day.”
“We have often made that reflection,” he replied, “but it only increased
our regret. And how could we suppose then that Fortune would turn her
back on us so suddenly? Besides, my master thought luxury necessary to
acquire that prestige which he liked to possess, and considered justly
that his prodigality added to the popularity his talent had procured
him.”
This confidential talk would probably have lasted longer, had not
Torrini called Antonio, who suddenly quitted me.
One incident struck me in this conversation: it was when Antonio
recalled his master’s name. This remark only increased my desire to know
Torrini’s history. But I had no time to lose, as the last performance
was announced for the following day, and I was resolved to return home.
I therefore armed myself with courage to overcome the repugnance which,
according to Antonio, his master felt about speaking of the past, and
after we had breakfasted together, I broke the ice, in the hope I should
lead him to tell me all I so much wanted to know.
“You are going to Angoulême to-morrow,” I said to him, “and I regret I
cannot accompany you: we must separate, however much it may cost me,
after the service you have rendered me, and the care you have devoted to
me.”
I then begged him to let my family know the expenses my illness had
entailed, and I ended by assuring him of my deep gratitude. I expected
to hear Torrini oppose my departure: but it was not so.
“However much you may press me,” he replied, with the greatest calmness,
“I will take nothing from you. How can I ask payment for what has
caused me so much happiness? Never talk about that. You wish to leave
me,” he added, with that affectionate smile peculiar to him, “and I say
you will not leave me.”
I was going to reply.
“I say you will not leave me,” he repeated, quickly, “because you have
no reason to do so, and because, presently you will have a thousand to
remain some time longer with me. In the first place, you require great
care to recover your health and root out the remains of an illness which
might otherwise return. Besides, I will add, I was awaiting your
convalescence to ask a service from you which you cannot refuse; I want
you to repair an automaton I bought from a Dutch mechanician, of the
name of Opré, and I am sure you will do it admirably.”
To these excellent reasons Torrini, who doubtlessly feared some
hesitation on my part, joined the most attractive promises.
“To lighten your labors,” he said, “we will have long talks about
conjuring. I will explain to you the game of piquet, that delighted you
so much, and after, when that subject is exhausted, I will tell you the
most important events of my life. You will learn from my story what a
man is capable of suffering short of death, and the lessons you may draw
from a life now almost ended may serve, perchance, to guide you in a
career which has hardly yet commenced. Lastly,” he said, offering me his
hand, “your presence, I trust, will help to dispel those gloomy thoughts
which have robbed me so long of my energy.”
I could make no reply to these touching solicitations; hence I yielded
to Torrini’s wishes. The same day he gave me the automaton I was to
repair. It was a small harlequin, supposed to leap out of the box in
which it was confined, perform some evolutions, and return to prison at
the word of command; but it was in such a bad condition, that I had
almost to make a new one. For this purpose I arranged a small workshop
in the carriage, and, two days later, I began my first automatic labors,
while proceeding along the road to Angoulême.
Never shall I forget the charm of that journey. My health was perfectly
restored, and with it my gaiety and the full exercise of my moral
faculties. Our enormous vehicle, drawn by two horses, could not proceed
very rapidly: hence we only covered nine or ten leagues a day, and even
then we had to start very early. Still, in spite of our slow locomotion,
never did time appear to me to pass so quickly or more agreeably. Was it
not the realization of all my dreams? What more could I desire?
Installed in a small, clean room, before a window through which the
smiling panorama of Poitou and the Angoumois was unrolled before me, I
found myself amidst my beloved tools, working at the construction of an
automaton, in which I saw the first-born of a numerous progeny: it was
impossible for me to imagine anything to surpass this.
On starting, I attacked my work with such impetuosity, that Torrini,
still anxious for my health, insisted that I should take some rest after
every meal. The same day, on leaving the dinner-table, he handed me a
pack of cards, and told me to display my skill.
Though frightened by such a clear-sighted spectator, by a judge whose
skill had so astonished me, I collected my courage, and began by one of
those effects to which I had given the name of “flourishes.” It was a
brilliant prelude, merely intended to dazzle the eyes while showing the
extreme agility of the fingers. Torrini regarded me with indifference,
and I fancied I saw a smile playing round his lips. I was, I confess,
rather disappointed, but he hastened to console me.
“I really admire your address,” he said, “but I put little faith in
those flourishes, as you call them. I find them brilliant, but useless.
Besides, I am curious to know if you use them at the beginning or end of
your card tricks.”
“It appears to me logical enough,” I replied, “to place them at the
beginning, as they are only intended to dazzle the spectators.”
“Well, my boy,” he went on, “we differ on that point. I think that they
ought not to be placed either at the beginning or end of any card
tricks. For this reason: after such a brilliant exhibition, the
spectator will only see in your tricks the result of dexterity, while,
by affecting a good deal of simplicity, you will prevent your audience
trying to account for them. Thus you produce a supernatural effect, and
pass for a real sorcerer.”
I quite agreed in this reasoning, the more so as at the beginning of my
experiments I had always considered nature and simplicity the bases of
the art of producing illusions, and I had laid down the maxim (only
applicable to conjuring) that “you must first gain the confidence of the
person you wish to cheat.” Hence, I had not been consistent with my
principles, and humbly confessed it.
It is certainly a singular occupation for a man to whom frankness is
natural, to be continually engaged in concealing his thoughts, and
seeking the best way of making dupes. But may it not also be urged that
dissimulation and falsehood become qualities or defects according to the
purpose they are employed for?
Does not the merchant, for instance, regard them as precious qualities
to heighten the value of his wares?
Does the science of diplomacy consist in stating everything with
frankness and simplicity?
Lastly, is not fashion, or the usages of decent society, an admirable
mixture of dissimulation and deceptions?
As for the art I cultivated, what would it be without falsehood?
Encouraged by Torrini, I regained my assurance. I continued practising
all my tricks, and showed him several new inventions of my own. My
master paid me some compliments, to which he added sensible advice.
“I recommend you,” he said, “to moderate your vivacity. Instead of
displaying so much petulence in your movements, affect, on the contrary,
extreme calmness, and thus you will avoid those clumsy gesticulations by
which conjurers generally fancy they distract the attention of their
spectators, when they only succeed in wearying them.”
My professor then, adding example to precept, took the cards from my
hands, and showed me in the same passes I had performed the finesses of
dissimulation allied to sleight-of-hand. I looked on with sincere
admiration: probably flattered by the impression he had produced on me,
Torrini said:
“As we are now on the subject of card tricks, I will explain to you my
game of piquet; but, in the first place, you must see the box I employ
in its performance.”
And he handed me a small box, which I turned over a score times without
detecting its use.
“You will seek in vain,” he said to me; “a few words would put you on
the right track, but I prefer, although the remembrances it summons up
are very painful, to tell you how this box fell into my hands, and for
what purpose it was originally invented.
“About twenty years ago I was living at Florence, where I practised as
a physician. I was not a conjurer in those days (he added, with a
profound sigh), and would to Heaven I had never become so!
“Among the young men of my own age, I was particularly intimate with a
German of the name of Zilbermann. Like myself, he was a doctor, and
equally like myself without practice. We passed the greatest part of our
leisure hours together: in other words, we were almost inseparable. Our
tastes were much the same, save on one point, where we differed
essentially. Zilbermann was passionately fond of gambling, while I felt
no attraction for play. My antipathy for cards must indeed have been
excessive to prevent me yielding to the force of contagion, for my
friend won large sums, enabling him to live like a great gentleman,
while I, though most economical, could not help incurring debts. However
this may be, Zilbermann and I lived on terms of fraternal intimacy. His
purse was at my service, but I used it discreetly, as I knew not when I
should be able to return what I borrowed. His delicacy and generosity
towards me led me to believe he was frank and loyal with all the world,
but I was deceived.
“One day, when I had only left him a few hours before, one of his
servants came hastily to summon me, stating that his master had been
dangerously wounded, and begged to see me at once. I ran off directly,
and found my unhappy friend lying on his couch with a face of deadly
pallor. Overcoming my grief, I proceeded to offer him succor. Zilbermann
stopped me, motioned me to sit down, dismissed his attendants, and,
after being assured we were alone, begged me to listen to him. His
voice, weakened by the pain he was suffering, scarcely reached my ear,
and I was forced to stoop down over him.
“‘My dear Edmond,’ he said to me, ‘a man accused me of cheating. I
challenged him--we fought with pistols--and his bullet is lodged in my
chest.’
“And when I urged Zilbermann to let me attend to him, he added:
“‘It is useless, my friend. I feel I am wounded to death. I have hardly
time to make a confession, for which I claim all your indulgent
friendship. Learn, then,’ he added, offering me a hand damp with death,
‘I was not unjustly insulted. I am ashamed to confess that, for a long
time, I have lived at the expense of my dupes. Aided by a fatal skill,
and still more by an instrument I invented, I daily cheated at play.’
“‘How--you, Zilbermann?’ I said, withdrawing my hand sharply.
“‘Yes, I!’ the dying man replied, seeming by a glance to supplicate my
mercy.
“‘Edmond!’ he added, collecting all his remaining strength, ‘in the name
of our old friendship do not abandon me! For the honor of my family, let
not this proof of my infamy be found here. I implore you to remove this
instrument.’ And he showed me a small box attached to his arm.
“I unfastened it, and like yourself, my boy, looked at it, without
understanding its use. Revived by a thought of his culpable passion,
Zilbermann added, with the most lively admiration,
“‘And yet see how ingenious it was. This box can be attached to the arm
without perceptibly increasing its size. Ready packed cards are put in
it beforehand; when you are going to cut, you put your hand quietly over
the cards on the table, so as to cover them completely; then you press
this spring by resting your arm gently on the table. The prepared cards
come out while a pair of pincers seize the other pack and draw it up
into the box. To-day, for the first time, the instrument failed me--the
pincers left a card on the table. My adversary----’
“Zilbermann could not complete the phrase; he had drawn his last gasp.
“Zilbermann’s confessions and death had overpowered me, and I hastened
from his room. On returning home, I began to reflect on what had
happened, and, imagining that my known intimacy with the deceased would
forbid my stay at Florence, I determined on proceeding to Naples. I took
with me the unlucky box, though not foreseeing the use I should
eventually make of it; and for a long time I forgot its existence.
However, when I turned my attention to conjuring, I thought about my
piquet trick, and the fortunate use I made of the box gained me one of
my most remarkable triumphs as professor of sleight-of-hand.”
* * * * *
At this recollection, Torrini’s eyes sparkled with unusual brilliancy,
and prepared me for an interesting anecdote. He proceeded as follows:
“A conjurer, named Comus, had invented a trick at piquet, which he
performed, I must allow, with extraordinary dexterity. The praise he
acquired in consequence rendered him very boastful; and thus he never
failed to announce on his bills that he alone could perform this
incomparable trick, thus challenging all the sleight-of-hand professors
known. I had some degree of reputation in those days, and Comus’s
assertion stung me. Knowing his way of doing the trick, and my own to be
far superior, I resolved to pick up the glove he threw to all his
rivals.
“I therefore went to Geneva, where he happened to be, and offered him a
share performance, in which a jury should decide on our relative merits.
Comus gladly accepted, and on the day fixed an immense number of
spectators assembled. Being my senior, my opponent commenced. But, in
order that you, my dear Robert, may also act as jury, I will first
explain to you how he performed his trick.
“Taking a new pack of cards, he undid the cover, had them shuffled, and
then taking them in his hand, he managed to get them, as if by accident,
either face to face or back to back. This disarrangement gave him time
to manipulate the cards, while appearing to be merely putting them in
order; thus, when he had finished, I could easily see that he had made
an almost imperceptible crease on certain cards, which must give him a
suit of eight cards, a king, and fourteen in aces.
“This done, Comus handed the cards to his adversary, begging him to
shuffle them again; and, during this time, he had his eyes bandaged.
This was a useless precaution, let me observe _en passant_, for whatever
care may be taken to deprive a person of sight in this way, the
projection of the nose always leaves a vacuum sufficient to see clearly.
“When the other player had finished, Comus again took up the cards as if
to shuffle them; but you can easily understand that he only arranged
them so that the cards he had marked must fall to him in the deal. The
_saute de coupe_, as you are aware, neutralises the effect of cutting;
hence Comus was certain of success. In fact, matters ended so on this
occasion, and hearty applause greeted my rival’s victory.
“I have reason to believe that a great number of these bravos emanated
from his friends and accomplices, for when I came forward in my turn to
perform my trick, a murmur of dissatisfaction greeted my appearance on
the stage. The ill-will of the spectators was so manifest that it would
have intimidated me, had I not then been quite steeled against all
applause or dissatisfaction on the part of the public.
“The audience were far from suspecting the surprise I had prepared for
them, for instead of asking any one to come from the house as my
playman, I requested Comus himself to play with me. At this request I
saw the people begin to look at each other; but what were the
exclamations when, after asking my rival to bandage my eyes and tie my
hands, I not only declined to touch the cards, but left him at liberty,
after stating in what suit he would be repiqued, to deal the cards by
twos or threes, and choose the hand he preferred!
“I had a pack ready prepared in my box, and I was sure of my
instrument--need I say that I gained the game?
“Owing to my secret arrangements, my mode of acting was so simple, that
it was impossible to find out how I did it, while Comus’s preliminary
manipulations led to the supposition that his dexterity gained the game.
I was declared victor unanimously. Shouts greeted this decision; and
even Comus’s own friends, deserting my rival, came to offer me a pretty
gold pin, surmounted by a cup, the symbol of my profession. This pin, as
one of the audience told me, had been ordered by poor Comus, who felt
certain of winning it back.
“I may (Torrini added) fairly boast of this victory; for, though
Zilbermann left me the box, he had not taught me the game of piquet,
which I invented myself. Was not this trick, I ask you, far superior to
Comus’s, which, it is true, deceived the multitude, but the poorest
sleight-of-hand performer could easily detect?”
Torrini was extremely proud of his inventive skill; but this, I believe,
was his sole defect, and he made up for it by his readiness to praise
other persons. His story ended, I complimented him most sincerely, not
only on his invention, but on the victory he had gained over Comus.
Travelling in this way, and stopping at times to perform in towns where
we might hope to clear a profit, we passed through Limoges, and found
ourselves on the road leading from that town to Clermont. Torrini
proposed to give some performances in the chief town of the Puy-de-Dôme,
after which he intended returning straight to Italy, whose gentle
climate and quaint ovations he regretted.
I had made up my mind to part from him there. We had been travelling
together about two months; this was about the time I had fixed for the
repair of the automaton, and my work was almost concluded. On the other
hand, I had a right to ask my dismissal, with no fear of being
considered ungrateful. Torrini’s health had become as good as we might
ever expect, and I had given up to him all the time I could reasonably
spare.
Still I did not like to speak about our separation, for the professor,
delighted with my progress and skill, could not conceive I could have
any other wish but to travel with him, and eventually become his
successor. This position would certainly have suited me in many
respects, for, as I have said, my vocation was irrevocably fixed. But,
whether new instincts were kindled in me, or that the intimacy I lived
in with Torrini had opened my eyes to the unpleasantness of such a mode
of life, I aimed at something higher than being his successor.
I had therefore made up my mind to leave him; but painful circumstances
deferred the moment of separation.
We had just arrived at Aubusson, a town celebrated for its numerous
carpet factories. Torrini and his servant were on the box of the
carriage: I was at work. We were going down a hill, and Antonio was
pulling at the rope which dragged our wheels, when, suddenly, I heard
something break, and the carriage started off at full speed. The
slightest obstacles produced a tremendous shock, and every moment I
expected the carriage to go over.
Trembling, and hardly able to breathe, I clung to my bench as a plank of
safety, and with my eyes closed, awaited the death that appeared
inevitable. For a moment we were on the point of escaping the
catastrophe. Our powerful horses, skillfully guided by Antonio, had kept
up bravely during this rapid descent, and we had passed the first houses
in Aubusson, when, as misfortune willed it, an enormous hay-cart emerged
from a side street, and barred our passage. The driver did not see the
danger till it was too late to avoid it. The accident was inevitable,
the collision frightful.
I was momentarily stunned by the pain, but as soon as I recovered I
stepped out of the carriage to look after my comrades. I found Antonio
covered with harmless contusions, supporting Torrini, whose arm was
dislocated, and leg broken. Our two horses lay dead in the road; as for
the carriage, only the body remained intact: all the rest was knocked to
atoms.
A doctor, hurriedly sent for, reached an adjoining inn to which we had
been directed, almost as soon as ourselves. And here I could not refrain
from admiring Torrini’s magnanimity, when he insisted on our being
looked to first; and, in spite of our entreaties, we could not alter
his determination. Antonio and myself were soon all right again, but
this was not the case with Torrini: he was obliged to undergo all the
operations and different phases of a broken leg.
Although he treated the accident so coolly, it might produce terrible
consequences for him: the repair of the carriage, the physician, our
forced stay at an inn, would cost him very dear. Could he continue his
performances--replace his horses? This idea caused Antonio and myself
cruel anxiety: Torrini alone did not despair of the future.
“No matter,” he said, with entire confidence in himself; “once I have
recovered, all will go on well. Why ought a courageous and healthy man
to fear aught? Help yourself, and Heaven will help you! our good La
Fontaine wrote. Well, we will all, then, help ourselves, and no doubt we
shall escape from this dilemma.”
In order to give my company to this excellent man, and distract his
thoughts, I put up my bench by his bedside, and, while working,
continued the conversations which had been so unfortunately interrupted.
The day at length arrived when I gave the last touch to the automaton,
and made it perform before Torrini, who appeared delighted with it. Had
our patient been less unfortunate, I should have now quitted him; but
could I leave the man who had saved my life in this way? Besides,
another thought had occurred to me. Although Torrini told us nothing of
his pecuniary position, Antonio and I fancied he was greatly
embarrassed. Was it not my duty to try and relieve him, were it in my
power? I imparted to Antonio a scheme he approved, though begging me to
defer it a little longer, till we found whether our suppositions were
correct.
Still the days were very long by my patient’s side, for my mechanical
job was finished, and sleight-of-hand was a subject of conversation long
exhausted. One day, when Torrini and I were seeking some topic to talk
about, I remembered his promise to tell me his life history, and
reminded him of it.
At this request Torrini sighed. “Ah!” he said, “if I could suppress many
sad incidents in my story, I should delight to read you a few pleasant
pages from an artist’s life. However, it may be,” he added, “I have
contracted a debt with you which I must pay.
“Do not expect me to give you a journal of my life; that would be
tedious both to you and to myself. I will only quote some interesting
episodes, and describe to you some tricks you possibly have not heard
of. This will be the most amusing portion of my story,” Torrini added,
with a smile, “for whatever may be your present resolutions about
following my art, I need not be a Nostradamus to predict that you will
devote yourself to it some day, and gain immense success. What you are
about to hear, my friend, will show you that it is not every man who can
say, with the popular proverb, ‘Spring, I will not drink thy water!’”