Celebrated Automata--A Brazen Fly--The Artificial Man--Albertus
Magnus and St. Thomas d’Aquinas--Vaucanson--His Duck--His
Flute-Player--Curious Details--The Automaton
Chess-Player--Interesting Episode--Catherine II. and M. de
Kempelen--I repair the Componium--Unexpected Success.
Owing to my persevering researches I had nothing left to learn in
conjuring; but, in order to carry out my scheme, I had to study the
principles of a science on which I greatly depended for the success of
my future performances. I allude to the science, or rather art, of
making automata.
While occupied with this idea I made active investigations; I applied to
the public libraries and their keepers, whom my tenacious importunity
drove into despair. But all the information I collected only brought me
descriptions of mechanical toys, far less ingenious than certain
playthings of the present day, or absurd statements of chefs-d’œuvre
published in the dark ages. My readers may judge from the following:
I found, in a work bearing the title “Apologie pour les Grands Homines
Accusés de Magie,” that “Jean de Montroyal presented to the Emperor
Charles V. an iron fly, which made a solemn circuit round its inventor’s
head, and then reposed from its fatigue on his arm.” Such a fly is
rather extraordinary, yet I have something better to tell my
readers--still about a fly.
Gervais, Chancellor to the Emperor Otho III., in his book entitled “Otia
Imperatoris,” informs us that “the sage Virgilius, Bishop of Naples,
made a brass fly, which he placed on one of the city gates, and that
this mechanical fly, trained like a shepherd’s dog, prevented any other
fly entering Naples; so much so, that during eight years the meat
exposed for sale in the market was never once tainted.”
How much should we regret that this marvellous automaton has not
survived to our day? How the butchers, and still more their customers,
would thank the learned bishop! Pass we to another marvel:
Francis Picus relates that “Roger Bacon, aided by Thomas Bungey, his
brother in religion, after having rendered their bodies equal and
tempered by chemistry, employed the Speculum Amuchesi to construct a
brazen head which should tell them if there were any mode of enclosing
the whole of England by a high wall. They forged at it for seven years
without relaxation, but misfortune willed it that when the head spoke
the two monks did not hear it, as they were engaged on something else.”
I have asked myself a hundred times how the two intrepid blacksmiths
knew the head had spoken, when they were not present to hear it. I never
discovered any other solution than this: it was, doubtlessly, _because
their bodies were equalized and tempered by chemistry_.
But here is a far more astounding marvel.
Tostat, in his “Commentaires sur l’Enode,” states that “Albertus Magnus,
Provincial of the Dominicans, at Cologne, constructed a brass man, which
he worked at continually for thirty years. This work was performed
_under various constellations_ and _according to the laws of
perspective_.”
When the sun was in the sign of the Zodiac the eyes of this automaton
melted metals, on which the characters of the same sign were traced.
This intelligent machine was equally gifted with motion and speech, and
it revealed to Albertus Magnus some of his most important secrets.
Unfortunately, St. Thomas Aquinas, Albertus’s pupil, taking this statue
for the handiwork of the devil, smashed it with a big stick.
As a finale to these fables, which are well fitted to figure among the
marvels performed by Perrault’s fairies, I will quote from page 252 of
the “Journal des Savants” for 1677: “The artificial man of Reysolius, a
statue so resembling the human form, that, with the exception of the
operations of the soul, everything that takes place in the body may be
witnessed.”
What a pity the mechanician stopped so soon! for it would have cost him
so little, while making so exquisite a resemblance to the fairest work
of the Creator, to add to his automaton a soul moving by clockwork!
This quotation does much honor to the savants who accepted the
responsibility of such a statement, and is a further proof how history
is written.
It may be easily supposed these works furnished me no guide to the art I
so much wished to study; and although I continued my inquiries, I only
attained the unsatisfactory result that nothing serious had been written
on the subject of automata.
“What!” I said to myself, “can it be possible that the marvellous
science which raised Vaucanson’s name so high--the science whose
ingenious combinations can animate inert matter, and impart to it a
species of existence--is the only one without its archives?”
When about to give up the subject in despair, I stumbled on a memoir of
the inventor of the “Automaton Duck.” This memoir, bearing date 1738, is
addressed by the author to the members of the Academy of Sciences. In it
will be found a learned description of his flute-player, as well as a
report of the Academy, which I here transcribe.
_Extract from the Registers of the Royal Academy of Sciences for
April 30, 1738_:
“The Academy, after hearing M. de Vaucanson’s memoir read,
containing a description of a wooden statue, copied from Coysvoix’s
marble fawn, which plays twelve different airs on a German flute
with a precision deserving of public attention, was of opinion that
this machine was extremely ingenious; that the inventor had
employed novel and simple means both to give the fingers the
necessary motion and to modify the wind entering the flute, by
augmenting or diminishing its velocity, according to the various
tones; by varying the arrangement of the lips, and setting a valve
in motion to perform the functions of the tongue; lastly, by
artificially imitating all that a man is obliged to do; and that,
in addition, M. de Vaucanson’s memoir possessed all the clearness
and perception such matter is capable of, proving the intelligence
of the author, and his great knowledge of the different branches of
mechanism. In confirmation of which I have signed the present
certificate.
FONTENELLE,
“Perpetual Secretary, Royal Academy of Sciences.
“Paris, May 3, 1738.”
After this report comes a letter of Vaucanson’s, addressed to the Abbé
D. F., in which he informs him of his intention of presenting to the
public on Easter Monday--
1. A player of the German flute.
2. A player of the tambourine.
3. An artificial duck.
“In this duck,” the celebrated automatist writes, “will be noticed the
mechanism of the viscera, intended to perform the functions of eating,
drinking and digesting. The action of all the parts is exactly imitated.
The bird puts out its head to take up the seed, swallows it, digests it,
and evacuates it by the ordinary channels.
“All thoughtful persons will understand the difficulty of making my
automaton perform so many different movements, as when it stands on its
legs and moves its head to the right and left. They will also see that
this animal drinks, dabbles with its bill, quacks like the living duck,
and, in short, is precisely similar in every respect.”
I was the more surprised at the contents of the memoir, as it was the
first trustworthy information I had gained about automata. The
description of the flute player gave me a high opinion of the inventor’s
talent; but I much regretted finding so short an account of the
mechanical combinations of the duck.
For a time, I contented myself with admiring and believing in the great
master’s work, but, in 1844, Vaucanson’s duck was exhibited in a room at
the Palais Royal.[B] Of course I was one of the first to visit it, and
was much struck by its skillful and learned formation. Some time after,
one of the wings having been injured, the duck was sent to me to repair,
and I was initiated into the famous mystery of digestion. To my great
surprise, I found that the illustrious master had not disdained to have
recourse to a trick which a conjurer would have been proud of. The
digestion, so pompously announced in the memoir, was only a
mystification--a real _canard_, in fact. Decidedly, Vaucanson was not
only my master in mechanism, but I must bow before his genius for
juggling.
The trick was as simple as it was interesting. A vase, containing seed
steeped in water, was placed before the bird. The motion of the bill in
dabbling crushed the food, and facilitated its introduction into a pipe
placed beneath the lower bill. The water and seed thus swallowed fell
into a box placed under the bird’s stomach, which was emptied every
three or four days. The other part of the operation was thus effected:
Bread-crumb, colored green, was expelled by a forcing pump, and
carefully caught on a silver salver as the result of artificial
digestion. This was handed round to be admired, while the ingenious
trickster laughed in his sleeve at the credulity of the public. But,
before leaving this subject, I must give a short biographical notice of
this illustrious man.
Jacques de Vaucanson was born at Grenôble on the 24th February, 1709, of
a noble family, and his taste for mechanism was developed at an early
age. In 1730, the flute-player at the Tuilleries suggested to him the
idea of constructing on this model an automaton which should really play
the flute, and he spent four years in perfecting it. The story runs that
Vaucanson’s valet was the only person acquainted with his secret, and at
the first notes produced by the flute-player, the faithful servant fell
at his master’s feet, as if he were more than mortal, and they embraced
with tears of joy.
The duck and tambourine-player soon followed, and were chiefly intended
to speculate on public curiosity. Though noble by birth, Vaucanson
exhibited his automata at the fair of Saint Germain and at Paris, where
his receipts were enormous. He is also said to have invented a loom on
which a donkey worked cloth; this he made in revenge upon the
silk-weavers of Lyons, who had stoned him because he attempted to
simplify the ordinary loom. We also owe to Vaucanson a chain that still
bears his name, and a machine to make meshes of equal size.
It is also said he invented for the performance of Marmontel’s
_Cleopatra_, an asp which fastened itself with a hiss on the bosom of
the actress who played the principal character. On the first performance
of the tragedy, a jester, more struck by the hissing of the automaton
than by the beauty of the tragedy, exclaimed, “I am of the asp’s
opinion!”
This illustrious mechanician retained all his activity to the last
moment of his life. While dangerously ill, he devoted himself to his
machine for making his endless chain.
“Do not lose a minute,” he said to his workmen; “I fear I may not live
long enough to explain my idea thoroughly.”
Eight days later, on the 21st of November, 1782, he died, at the age of
seventy-three; but, before leaving this world, he had the consolation of
seeing his machine at work.
One piece of good luck never arrives without another; thus, in 1844, I
also saw at the house of a mechanician of the name of Cronier, at
Belleville, the famous _chess-player_, who defeated the whole chess
world. I never saw it at work, but since then I have received some
information about the automaton of a certain degree of interest, and I
trust my readers will feel the same surprise as I did when I heard it.
My story commences in Russia: the first division of Poland in 1792 had
produced a certain fermentation, the effects of which were felt some
years later. In 1796, a revolt broke out in a half-Russian, half-Polish
regiment stationed at Riga, at the head of the rebels being an officer
of the name of Worousky, a man of great talent and energy. He was of
short stature, but well built; and he exercised such influence, that the
troops sent to suppress the revolt were beaten back with considerable
loss. However, reinforcements came from St. Petersburg, and the
insurgents were defeated in a pitched battle. A great number perished,
and the rest took to flight across the marshes, where the soldiers
pursued them, with orders to grant no quarter.
In this rout Worousky had both thighs shattered by a cannon-ball, and
fell on the battle-field; however, he escaped from the general massacre
by throwing himself into a ditch behind a hedge. At nightfall, Worousky
dragged himself along with great difficulty to the adjacent house of a
physician of the name of Osloff, whose benevolence was well known, and
the doctor, moved by his sufferings, attended upon, and promised to
conceal him. His wound was serious, but the doctor felt confident of
curing him, until gangrene set in, and his life could only be saved at
the cost of half his body. The amputation was successful, and Worousky
saved.
During this time, M. de Kempelen, a celebrated Viennese mechanician,
came to Russia to pay a visit to M. Osloff, with whom he had been long
acquainted. He was travelling about to learn foreign languages, the
study of which he afterwards displayed in his splendid work on the
“Mechanism of Words,” published at Vienna in 1791. M. de Kempelen
stopped a short time in every country the language of which he desired
to learn, and his aptitude was so great that he acquired it very
speedily.
This visit was the more agreeable to the doctor, as for some time he had
been alarmed as to the consequences of the noble action he had
performed; he feared being compromised if it were found out, and his
embarrassment was extreme, for, living alone with an old housekeeper, he
had no one to consult or help him. Hence, he told M. de Kempelen his
secret, and begged his aid. Though at first startled by sharing such a
secret--for he knew that a reward was offered for the insurgent chief,
and that the act of humanity he was about to help in might send him to
Siberia--still, M. de Kempelen, on seeing Worousky’s mutilated body,
felt moved with compassion, and began contriving some plan to secure his
escape.
Dr. Osloff was a passionate lover of chess, and had played numerous
games with his patient during his tardy convalescence; but Worousky was
so strong at the game that the doctor was always defeated. Then Kempelen
joined the doctor in trying to defeat the skillful player, but it was of
no use; Worousky was always the conqueror. His superiority gave M. de
Kempelen the idea of the famous Automaton Chess-player. In an instant
his plan was formed, and he sat to work immediately. The most remarkable
circumstance is, that this wonderful chef-d’œuvre, which astonished
the whole world, was invented and finished with three months.
M. de Kempelen was anxious his host should make the first essay of his
automaton; so, he invited him to play a game on the 10th of October,
1796. The automaton represented a Turk of the natural size, wearing the
national costume, and seated behind a box of the shape of a chest of
drawers. In the middle of the top of the box was a chess-board.
Prior to commencing the game, the artist opened several doors in the
chest, and M. Osloff could see inside a large number of wheels, pulleys,
cylinders, springs, &c., occupying the larger part. At the same time, he
opened a long drawer, from which he produced the chessmen and a cushion,
on which the Turk was to rest his arm. This examination ended, the robe
of the automaton was raised, and the interior of the body could also be
inspected.
The doors being then closed, M. de Kempelen wound up one of the wheels
with a key he inserted in a hole in the chest; after which the Turk,
with a gentle nod of salutation, placed his hand on one of the pieces,
raised it, deposited it on another square, and laid his arm on the
cushion before him. The inventor had stated that, as the automaton could
not speak, it would signify check to the king by three nods, and to the
queen by two.
The doctor moved in his turn, and waited patiently till his adversary,
whose movements had all the dignity of the Sultan he represented, had
moved. The game, though slow at first, soon grew animated, and the
doctor found he had to deal with a tremendous opponent; for, in spite of
all his efforts to defeat the figure, his game was growing quite
desperate. It is true, though, that for some minutes past, the doctor’s
attention had appeared to be distracted, and one idea seemed to occupy
him. But while hesitating whether he should impart his thoughts to his
friend, the figure gave three nods. The game was over.
“By Jove!” the loser said, with a tinge of vexation, which the sight of
the inventor’s smiling face soon dispelled, “if I were not certain
Worousky is at this moment in bed, I should believe I had been playing
with him. His head alone is capable of inventing such a checkmate. And
besides,” said the doctor, looking fixedly at M. de Kempelen, “can you
tell me why your automaton plays with the left hand, just like
Worousky?”[C]
The mechanician began laughing, and not wishing to prolong this
mystification, the prelude to so many others, he confessed to his friend
that he had really been playing with Worousky.
“But where the deuce have you put him, then?” the doctor said, looking
round to try and discover his opponent.
The inventor laughed heartily.
“Well! do you not recognize me?” the Turk exclaimed, holding out his
left hand to the doctor in reconciliation, while Kempelen raised the
robe, and displayed the poor cripple stowed away in the body of the
automaton.
M. Osloff could no longer keep his countenance, and he joined the others
in their laughter. But he was the first to stop, for he wanted an
explanation.
“But how do you manage to render Worousky invisible?”
M. de Kempelen then explained how he concealed the living automaton
before it entered the Turk’s body.
“See here!” he said, opening the chest, “these wheels, pulleys and
cranks occupying a portion of the chest, are only a deception. The
frames that support them are hung on hinges, and can be turned back to
leave space for the player while you were examining the body of the
automaton.”
“When this inspection was ended, and as soon as the robe was allowed to
fall, Worousky entered the Turk’s body we have just examined, and, while
I was showing you the box and the machinery, he was taking his time to
pass his arms and hands into those of the figure. You can understand
that, owing to the size of the neck, which is hidden by the broad and
enormous collar, he can easily pass his head into this mask, and see the
chess-board. I must add, that when I pretend to wind up the machine, it
is only to drown the sound of Worousky’s movements.”
“Very good, then,” the doctor replied, to show he perfectly understood
the plan; “while I was examining the chest, my confounded Worousky was
in the Turk’s body, and when the robe was lifted, he had passed into the
chest. I frankly allow,” M. Osloff added, “that I was done by this
ingenious arrangement; but I console myself with the idea that cleverer
persons than I will be deceived.”
The three friends were the more delighted by the result of this private
rehearsal, as this instrument furnished an excellent means of escape for
the poor prisoner, and at the same time assured him a livelihood. The
same evening the road by which the frontier should be reached was agreed
on, as well as the precautions to be taken during the journey. It was
also arranged that, in order to arouse no suspicions, performances
should be given in all the towns they passed through, beginning with
Toula, Kalouga, Smolensk, &c.
A month later, Worousky, now entirely recovered, gave a first specimen
of his marvellous skill to a numerous audience at Toula. I possess a
copy of the original bill, which was given me by M. Hessler, nephew of
Dr. Osloff, who also supplied me with all these details. Worousky won
every game he played at Toula, and the papers were full of praises of
the automaton. Assured of success by the brilliancy of their début, M.
de Kempelen and his companion proceeded towards the frontier.
It was necessary that Worousky should be concealed from sight somewhere
even when travelling; hence he was literally packed up. The enormous
chest in which the automaton was conveyed only travelled very slowly,
apparently through fear of breaking the machinery, but in reality to
protect the skillful chess-player who was shut up in it, while air-holes
were made in the side of this singular post-chaise to enable Worousky to
breathe.
The poor cripple endured all this inconvenience calmly, in the hope of
soon being out of reach of the Muscovite police, and arriving safe and
sound at the end of this painful journey. The fatigue, it must be
granted, was considerably alleviated by the enormous receipts they
netted by the exhibition.
Our travellers had arrived at Vitebsk, on the road to the Prussian
frontier, when one morning Kempelen rushed into the room where Worousky
was concealed.
“A frightful misfortune hangs over us,” the mechanician said, in a
terrible state of alarm, and showing a letter dated St. Petersburg.
“Heaven knows how we shall escape it! The Empress Catherine, having
heard through the papers of the automaton’s wonderful talent, desires to
play a game with it, and requests me to bring it straight to the
imperial palace. We must hit on some plan to evade this dangerous
honor.”
To Kempelen’s extreme surprise, Worousky heard this great news very
calmly, and even seemed to be pleased at it.
“Refuse such a visit!--by no means: the wishes of the Czarina are orders
which cannot be infringed without peril; we must, therefore, obey her as
quickly as possible. Your zeal will have the double effect of gaining
her favor, and removing any suspicions that might arise about your
automaton. Besides,” the bold soldier added, with a degree of pride, “I
confess I should like to find myself face to face with the great
Catherine, and show her that the head on which she set the price of a
few roubles is, under certain circumstances, as good as her own.”
“Madman that you are!” M. de Kempelen exclaimed, startled by the
excitement of the impetuous insurgent. “Remember, that we may be
discovered, and you will lose your life, while I shall be sent to
Siberia.”
“Impossible!” Worousky quietly replied; “your ingenious machine has
already deceived so many skillful persons, that I am convinced we shall
soon have one dupe more. Besides, what a glorious reminiscence, what an
honor it will be to us, if we can say some day that the Empress
Catherine II., the haughty Czarina, whom her courtiers proclaim the most
intellectual person in her vast empire, was deceived by your genius, and
conquered by me!”
Kempelen, though not sharing Worousky’s enthusiasm, was obliged to
yield. Hence, they set off without further argument; the journey was
very long and fatiguing, but Kempelen did not quit his companion for a
moment, and did all in his power to ameliorate his position. At length
they reached their journey’s end, but though they had travelled as fast
as they could, Catherine, on receiving Kempelen, appeared rather angry.
“My roads must be very bad, sir, if you require fifteen days to travel
from Vitebsk to St. Petersburg.”
“Will your majesty,” the crafty mechanician replied, “allow me to make a
confession which will serve as my excuse?”
“Do so,” Catherine replied, “provided it be not a confession of the
incapacity of your marvellous machine.”
“On the contrary, I would confess that, being aware of your majesty’s
skill at chess, I desired to offer you a worthy opponent. Hence, before
starting, I made some additions which were indispensable for so
important a game.”
“Ah!” the empress said, with a smile, smoothed down by this flattering
explanation. “And you fancy these new arrangements will enable your
automaton to beat me?”
“I should be much surprised were it otherwise.”
“Well, we shall see, sir,” the empress continued, nodding her head
ironically. “But,” she added, in the same tone, “when will you bring my
terrible opponent before me?”
“Whenever your majesty may please.”
“If that is the case, I am so impatient to measure my strength with the
conqueror of the most skillful players in my country, that I will
receive him this very evening in my library. Put up your machine there,
and at eight o clock I will join you. Be punctual!”
Kempelen took leave of Catherine, and hastened to make his preparations
for the evening. Worousky was delighted at the prospect of amusing the
empress; but although Kempelen was resolved to risk the adventure, he
wished to take all possible precautions, so that he might have a way of
escape in case of danger. Hence, he had the automaton carried to the
palace in the same chest in which it travelled.
When eight o’clock struck, the empress, accompanied by a numerous suite,
entered the library and took her place at the chess-board.
I have forgotten to say that Kempelen never allowed any one to pass
behind the automaton, and would not consent to begin the game till all
the spectators were in front of the board.
The court took their places behind the empress, unanimously predicting
the defeat of the automaton. The chest and the Turk’s body were then
examined, and when all were perfectly convinced they contained nothing
but the clockwork I have already mentioned, the game began. It proceeded
for some time in perfect silence, but Catherine’s frowning brow speedily
revealed that the automaton was not very gallant towards her, and fully
deserved the reputation it had gained. The skillful Mussulman captured a
bishop and a knight, and the game was turning much to the disadvantage
of the lady, when the Turk, suddenly forgetting his dignified gravity,
gave a violent blow on his cushion, and pushed back a piece his
adversary had just moved.
Catherine II. had attempted to cheat; perhaps to try the skill of the
automaton, or for some other reason. At any rate the haughty empress,
unwilling to confess her weakness, replaced the piece on the same
square, and regarded the automaton with an air of imperious authority.
The result was most unexpected--the Turk upset all the pieces with a
blow of his hand, and immediately the clock work, which had been heard
during the whole game, stopped. It seemed as if the machinery had got
out of repair. Pale and trembling, M. de Kempelen, recognising in this
Worousky’s impetuous temper, awaited the issue of this conflict between
the insurgent and his sovereign.
“Ah, ah! my good automaton! your manners, are rather rough,” the empress
said, good humoredly, not sorry to see a game she had small chance of
winning end thus. “Oh! you are a famous player, I grant; but you were
afraid of losing the game, and so prudently upset the pieces. Well, I am
now quite convinced of your skill and your violent character.”
M. de Kempelen began to breathe again, and regaining courage, tried to
remove the unfavorable impression which the little respect shown by the
automaton must have produced. Hence he said, humbly,
“Will your majesty allow me to offer an explanation of what has just
happened?”
“By no means, M. de Kempelen,” Catherine said, heartily--“by no means;
on the contrary, I find it most amusing, and your automaton pleases me
so much that I wish to purchase it. I shall thus always have near me a
player, somewhat quick perhaps, but yet able to hold his own. You can
leave it here to-night, and come to-morrow morning to arrange the
price.”
There is strong reason to believe that Catherine wished to commit an
indiscretion when she evinced a desire that the figure should remain at
the palace till the next morning. Fortunately, the skillful mechanician
managed to baffle her feminine curiosity by carrying Worousky off in the
big chest. The automaton remained in the library, but the player was no
longer there.
The next day Catherine renewed her proposition to purchase the
chess-player, but Kempelen made her understand that, as the figure could
not perform without him, he could not possibly sell it. The empress
allowed the justice of these arguments; and, while complimenting the
mechanician on his invention, made him a handsome present.
Three months after the automaton was in England, under the management of
Mr. Anthon, to whom Kempelen had sold it. I know not if Worousky was
still attached to it, but I fancy so, owing to the immense success the
chess-player met with. Mr. Anthon visited the whole of Europe, always
meeting with the same success; but, at his death, the celebrated
automaton was purchased by Maëlzel, who embarked with it for New York.
It was then, probably, Worousky took leave of his hospitable Turk, for
the automaton was not nearly so successful in America. After exhibiting
his mechanical trumpeter and chess-player for some time, Maëlzel set out
again for France, but died on the passage of an attack of indigestion.
His heirs sold his apparatus, and thus Cronier obtained his precious
relic.
My fortunate star again furnished me with an excellent occasion for
continuing my studies. A Prussian of the name of Koppen exhibited at
Paris, about the year 1829, an instrument known as the Componium. It was
a perfect mechanical orchestra, playing operatic overtures with
remarkable precision and effect, and it owed its name to the
circumstance that, by means of truly marvellous arrangements, this
instrument improvised charming variations without ever repeating itself.
It was asserted to be as difficult to hear the same variation twice, as
to find two similar quaternes drawn in succession at a lottery.
The Componium was enormously successful, but at last public curiosity
was exhausted, and it was withdrawn, after bringing in the owner one
hundred thousand francs clear profit in a year. This amount, whether
correct or not, was adroitly published, and some time after the
instrument was put up for sale. A speculator by the name of D----,
seduced by the hope of obtaining equally large receipts in a foreign
country, bought the instrument, and took it to England. Unfortunately
for D----, at the moment when this goose with the golden eggs arrived in
London, George IV. died; the court went into mourning, and no one
visited the instrument. In order to avoid useless expense, D----
thought it prudent to give up a scheme commenced under such evil
auspices, and determined on returning to Paris. The Componium was
consequently taken to pieces, packed up and carried to France.
D----, hoped the instrument would enter duty free, but, on leaving
France, he had omitted some formality indispensable before obtaining
this favor. The Customs stopped it, and he was obliged to refer the case
to the Minister of Trade. While awaiting his decision, the chests were
deposited in damp ware-rooms, and it was not till the end of the year,
and after numberless formalities and difficulties, that the instrument
returned to Paris.
This will give an idea of the state of disorder, confusion and damage in
which the Componium was left.
Discouraged by the ill success of his trip to England, D---- resolved on
selling his mechanical improviser, but, before doing so, he cast about
for a mechanician who would undertake to put it in working order. I have
forgotten to state that, on the sale of the Componium, M. Koppen had
handed over with it a very clever German workman, who was, as it were,
the driver of this gigantic instrument. This person, finding he must sit
with his hands before him during the interminable formalities of the
French Customs, thought he could not do better than return home.
The repair of the Componium was a tedious business--a work of
perserverance and research--for, as its arrangement had always been kept
secret, no one could supply the least information. D---- himself, having
no notion of mechanism, could not be of the slightest use, so the
workman must only depend on his own ideas.
I heard the matter talked about, and, urged by a probably too flattering
opinion of myself, or rather dazzled by the glory of executing such a
splendid job, I offered to undertake the immense repairs.
I was laughed at: the confession is humiliating, but perfectly truthful.
I must say, too, that it was justifiable, for I was only known at that
time as an humble workman, and it was feared that, far from making the
instrument act properly, I should cause still greater injury, while
trying to repair it. However, as D---- met with no better offer, and I
offered to deposit a sum, to be forfeited in the event of my doing any
injury, he eventually yielded to my wishes.
It will be allowed that I was a very conscientious workman; but, in
reality, I acted for my own benefit, as this undertaking, by supplying
me with an interesting object of study, would prove a perfect lesson in
mechanism for me.
As soon as my offer was accepted, all the boxes in which the componium
was packed were carried into a large room I used as workshop, and
emptied, pell-mell, into sheets, spread for the purpose, on the ground.
When alone, and I saw this heap of rusty iron, these myriads of parts,
whose meaning I did not understand, this orchestra of instruments of
every size and shape, such as cornets, bugles, hautboys, flutes,
clarionets, bassoons, organ pipes, big drum, triangle, cymbals, &c., all
arranged in sizes, according to the chromatic scale, I was so frightened
by the difficulty of my task, that I was quite annihilated for several
hours.
To better understand my mad presumption, which only my passion for
mechanics and my love of the marvellous can excuse, I must add that I
never even saw the componium performing; hence, all was an unknown
country for me. Add to this, that the greater portion of the works were
covered with rust and verdigris.
Seated in the midst of this musical chaos, with my head resting in my
hands, I asked myself a hundred times this simple question, “Where shall
I begin?” and then my imagination was quite paralysed. One morning,
however, finding myself well disposed, and feeling the influence of the
Hippocratic axiom, “Mens sana in corpore sano,” I felt disgusted at my
long sloth, and rushed headforemost at my immense task.
If my readers were only mechanicians, how willingly would I describe to
them all my trials, attempts, and studies! With what pleasure I would
explain the skillful and ingenious combinations that arose successively
from this chaos! But as I fancy I can see my readers turning over my
pages to seek the end of a chapter that is growing too serious, I will
check my inclination, and content myself with stating that, for a whole
year, I proceeded from the known to the unknown, in solving this
inextricable problem, and one day I had the happiness of seeing my
labors crowned with complete success. The componium--a new
phœnix--had risen from its ashes.
This unexpected success gained me the greatest praise, and D---- bade me
name my own price; but I would not accept anything beyond my actual
outlay, feeling amply repaid by such a glorious result. And yet, however
high my reward might have been, it would not have repaid me what this
task, which overtasked my strength, eventually cost me.