The Inventive Genius of a Sugar-baker--Philippe the Magician--His
Comic Adventures--Description of his Performance--Exposition of
1844--The King and Royal Family visit my Automata.
The long looked-for change in my fortunes had at length arrived; my
automata had gained me a certain degree of reputation, and I was making
arrangements to commence my performances. Before describing these, I
must devote a few pages, however, to some account of my immediate
predecessor in the conjuring art, whose success in Paris at this period
was most brilliant: I mean Philippe, the renowned magician, sorcerer,
sleight-of-hand performer, and conjurer.
Philippe Talon was born at Alais, near Nîmes; after having carried on
his sweet trade of confectioner for some time in Paris, his want of
success compelled him to expatriate himself. London, that _pays de
Cocagne_, the perspective El Dorado, was close at hand; so our tradesman
proceeded thither, and soon set up again in trade in the capital of the
United Kingdom. The French confectioner had fair chance of success, for
in addition to the English liking for sweet-stuff, French confectionary
has ever enjoyed a reputation in that country, only comparable with that
which _real_ English blacking has so long held in France. Still, despite
these advantages, it seems that fresh difficulties arose; the fogs of
the Thames, or, as some say, dangerous speculations, melted the fragile
wares; the comfitures suffered a decided discomfiture.
Talon packed up a second time and went to Aberdeen, to ask shelter from
the Scotch mountaineers, to whom he offered in exchange his seductive
cates. Unfortunately, the Scotch of Aberdeen, differing greatly from the
mountaineers in _La Dame Blanche_, wear neither silk stockings nor
patent leather shoes, and consume very few jujubes and tarts. Thus, the
new shop would soon have undergone the fate of the other two, had not
Talon’s inventive genius found an issue from this precarious position.
The confectioner rightly thought that, in order to sell wares, they must
be known; and in order for them to be known, they must be made known.
Relying on this judicious reasoning, Talon soon compelled the
Aberdonians to eat his sugar-plums, and, better still, to pay for them.
At this period, there was a company of actors at Aberdeen much in the
same condition as Talon’s “goodies;” they were neglected, and no one
cared to try them. In vain had the manager prepared a pantomime full of
tricks and blue-fire, the public remained deaf to his repeated appeals.
One fine day, Talon called on the Scotch impresario: “I have a proposal
to make to you, sir,” he said, without further preface, “which, if
accepted, will fill your theatre, I am convinced.”
“Pray explain yourself, sir,” the manager said, nibbling at the bait,
but putting little faith in a promise which he had good reasons for
believing difficult of realization.
“It is simply,” Talon continued, “to join to the attraction of your
performance a lottery, for which I will pay all the cost. This shall be
the arrangement: each spectator, on entering, must pay, in addition,
the sum of sixpence, giving him a claim--
“1. To a paper of mixed sugar-plums.
“2. To a lottery-ticket, by which he may gain the first prize, of the
value of five pounds.”
Talon also promised a new performance, the secret of which he confided
to the manager under the seal of discretion.
These proposals being accepted, the bargain was soon completed, and the
intelligent Talon had not deceived himself. The public attracted by the
bonbons, the pantomime, and the promised surprise, filled the theatre.
The lottery was drawn; the prize made one person happy, and the other
twelve or fifteen hundred spectators, provided with their papers of
sugar-plums, consoled their disappointment by exchanging their
“goodies.” Under such favorable circumstances the pantomime was found
charming.
Still, this piece was drawing to its close, and the promised surprise
had not yet come off, when suddenly the dancers in the ballet arranged
themselves in a circle, a sharp cry was heard, and a magnificent Punch
bounded on to the stage. It was Talon disguised by two cotton humps and
the traditional costume.
Our new artist performed Punch’s eccentric dance with rare talent, and
was heartily applauded. To thank the audience for their kind reception,
the dancer tried to make a bow, but managed it so clumsily that he fell
over on his side and could not rise again. The performers hastened to
pick the wounded man up; he spoke in a faint voice, and complained of a
broken rib. He earnestly asked for a box of Morrison’s pills, and a
servant hastened to bring him pills of an enormous size.
The public, who till then had pitied poor Punch’s pain, and remained
silent sympathisers, now began to scent a jest. First they smiled, and
then they laughed when the patient, taking one of the pills, pretended
to swallow it. Half a dozen having followed the same road, Punch found
himself perfectly recovered, so, making a polite bow, he retired amidst
shouts of laughter.
Philippe had given his first performance--the confectioner had exchanged
the barley-sugar trick for the magician’s wand.
This burlesque scene met with extraordinary success, and the receipts
swelled day by day, until the confectioner had disposed of all his
wares. Then he set off to give a specimen of his new talent in other
towns.
I do not know whence the new magician acquired his art, but it is
probable (historical gaps are always filled up with probabilities) that
Talon had learned conjuring, as he had Punch’s dance, to amuse his
friends. One thing is certain, the performance he offered the worthy
Aberdonians was not first rate, and it was not till he left that town
that he made the great improvement to which he owed his future
reputation.
Henceforth, laying aside his comfitures and Punch’s garb and squeak,
Philippe (the name the conjurer assumed) traversed England, giving at
first very modest performances. Then, his repertory becoming gradually
increased by a certain number of tricks he picked up from conjurers of
the day, he attacked the large towns, and proceeded to Glasgow, where he
built a wooden theatre in which to give his performances.
While the magic temple was building, Philippe noticed among the
bricklayer’s lads a young fellow who seemed to have remarkable
intelligence, and he eventually engaged him to appear on the stage as
assistant magician. Macalister (as his assistant was called) had a
natural genius for tricks and models; he required no apprenticeship in
this mysterious art, and indeed soon invented some tricks which
attracted his master’s attention.
From this moment, either by Macalister’s help or for some other reason,
success attended Philippe everywhere, and he began acting in theatres.
After a lengthened tour through England he crossed over to Dublin, where
he acquired two new tricks, which were the foundation of his future
reputation.
Three Chinese, who had come to France to perform some very startling
tricks, attempted some performances at Paris, which, owing to their ill
success, caused a quarrel among the Celestials. In France as well as in
China, “horses fight when there is no hay in the manger,” and, though
our jugglers did not have recourse to such extremities, they separated.
One of them proceeded to Dublin, where he taught Philippe the
“gold-fish” trick, as well as the “rings.” On learning the first of
these tricks, Philippe was in great trouble about performing it, for he
wanted a robe. He could not assume a Chinese costume, as his face had
none of the distinguishing features of a mandarin, nor could he dream of
a dressing-gown, for however rich it might have been, the public would
not have endured such a slight. Hence Philippe extricated himself from
the difficulty by assuming the attire of a magician. It was a daring
innovation, for, till that period, no conjurer had ventured to take on
himself the responsibility of such a costume.
Once possessed of these two tricks, Philippe formed the project of
returning to his ungrateful country; he, therefore, came to Paris in the
summer of 1841, and performed at the Salle Montesquieu. The gold-fish
and ring tricks, a brilliant costume, a magnificent pointed cap, and a
comfortably arranged room, soon attracted large audiences, among whom
was the manager of a Vienna theatre. Delighted with the performance, the
latter on the spot offered the conjurer an engagement at half profits,
which Philippe willingly accepted. As the Salle Montesquieu was used for
public balls during the winter, this engagement also allowed him time to
have a theatre constructed in readiness for his return to Paris.
The opening of the room Bonne-Nouvelle created a sensation in Paris when
Philippe came back from his Austrian tour, and crowds went to see the
gold-fish trick, which the performances in the Salle Montesquieu had
made known.
My reader will have the kindness to accompany me to the _Palais des
Prestiges_ (as the new temple of magic was christened), and we will
attend one of the magician’s performances.
On reaching the end of the first-floor passage in the Bonne-Nouvelle
Bazaar, you passed through a doorway, and were quite surprised to find
yourself in a room excellently adapted for this style of performance.
There were stalls, pit, gallery, and boxes; the decorations were most
elegant, and, above all, there was plenty of room to stretch your legs.
An orchestra composed of six musicians of doubtful talent executed a
symphony to the accompaniment of the _mélophone_, a species of accordeon
recently invented by a man of the name of Leclerc, who undertook the
musical arrangements of the palace.
The curtain rises.
To the great surprise of the spectators the stage is in perfect
darkness.
A gentleman dressed in black emerges from a side door and walks towards
us. It is Philippe: I recognise him by the Provençal twang of his
accent. All the other spectators take him for the manager, and fear they
are about to hear some painful intelligence, as this gentleman holds a
pistol in his hand.
Their uncertainty is, however, soon dispelled, for Philippe introduces
himself. He states that he has been delayed in his preparations, but, in
order to save time, he will light the innumerable candles on his stage
by firing a pistol. Although a fire-arm is not required for the
experiment, and is only intended to throw powder in the spectators’
eyes, the candles are suddenly lighted at the sound of the detonation.
The audience applaud vociferously, and deservedly so, for this trick is
remarkably striking. However much it may be applauded, the time it
requires for preparation, and the mortal terror it occasions the
performer, are beyond recompense.
In fact, like all experiments in which static electricity plays the
chief part, this magic inflammation is not infallible. When this
misfortune occurs, the position of the operator is the more
embarrassing, as the phenomenon has been announced as the result of
magic. Now, a magician must be omnipotent, or, if he be not so, he most
avoid at all risks any failure which may lower his prestige in the eyes
of the audience.
The stage once lighted, Philippe commenced his performance. The first
part, composed of very average tricks, was relieved by the manœuvres
of some curious automata. For instance:
The _Cossack_, which should have been called the _Grimacer_, so quaint
were the contortions in which it indulged. This Cossack was also a very
clever juggler, for it passed into its pocket with considerable skill
various articles of jewelry its master had borrowed from the spectators.
The _magic peacock_, which uttered its unmelodious screech, expanded its
gorgeous plumes, fed from its master’s hand, &c.
And lastly, a _Harlequin_, like the one I repaired for Torrini.
After the first part of the performance, the curtain fell to enable
preparations to be made for a scene called in the bills, “A Festival at
a Palace in Nankin.” This was an attractive title for those who dealt in
that description of cloth, but was only chosen to call to the
spectator’s memory the Chinese trick, which would end the performance.
When the curtain rose again the stage was entirely transformed. The
tablecloths had been replaced by brocades glistening with gold and
precious stones (at least, they looked so at a distance); the candles,
although so numerous before, had been multiplied, and gave the stage the
appearance of a fiery furnace, the veritable abode of an ally of the
Evil One.
The magician made his appearance in a costume which, in the public
admiration, it must have exhausted the riches of Golconda to buy, and
the _Festival of Nankin_ commenced with the very clever trick derived
from the Chinese.
Philippe took up several rings about eight inches in diameter, and
intertwined them into chains and knots with the greatest possible ease.
Then suddenly, when it seemed impossible for him to unravel his
handiwork, he blew upon them, and the rings fell separately at his feet.
This trick produced a charming illusion.
The one that succeeded it, and which I never saw performed by any one
else, was quite equal to the preceding one in interest.
Macalister, the Scotch bricklayer (who on the stage was a negro of the
name of Domingo), brought in on a table two sugar-loaves still covered
with that horrible paper which the honest grocer sells at the price of
colonial wares. Philippe borrowed a dozen handkerchiefs (not from
accomplices), and after placing them in a blunderbuss, he fired at one
of the sugar-loaves chosen by the audience. He then broke it asunder
with an axe, and all the handkerchiefs were found in it.
Next came _Fortunatus’s hat_. Philippe, after producing from this hat,
which he had borrowed from a spectator, an innumerable number of
objects, at last pulled out enough feathers to make a bed. The most
amusing part of this trick consisted in the conjurer making a lad kneel
down, who was completely buried in this avalanche of feathers.
Another striking trick was the one called “The Kitchen of
Parafaragarmus.” At Philippe’s request two schoolboys came on the stage,
whom he dressed, one as scullion, the other as professed cook. Thus
metamorphosed, the two young _cordons bleus_ underwent all sorts of
pleasantries and mystifications. (This was a trick of Castelli’s
school.)
The conjurer then proceeded to perform the trick; for this purpose he
suspended from a tripod an enormous copper caldron full of water, and
ordered the two lads to put in it dead pigeons, an assortment of
vegetables, and plenty of seasoning. Then he lit some spirits of wine
under the caldron, and pronounced some magical incantations. At his
voice, the pigeons, returning to life, flew out of the caldron; while
the water, vegetables, and seasoning had entirely disappeared.
Philippe usually ended the evening’s performance with the famous Chinese
trick, to which he had given the pompous name of “Neptune’s Basins, or
the Gold-Fish.”
The magician, clothed in his brilliant costume, mounted on a sort of low
table, which isolated him from the stage. After a few manœuvres to
prove he had nothing about him, he threw a shawl at his feet, and, on
lifting it up, he displayed a glass basin filled with water, in which
gold-fish swam about. This was thrice repeated, with the same result;
but, in his desire to improve on his brethren of the Celestial Empire,
the French conjurer had added a variation to their trick, which gave an
amusing termination to the performance. Throwing the shawl on the ground
for the fourth time, several animals, such as rabbits, ducks, chickens,
&c., emerged from it. This trick was performed, if not gracefully, at
least in a way to excite the lively admiration of the spectators.
Generally, Philippe was very amusing in his entertainment. His
experiments were performed with a good deal of conscientiousness, skill,
and dash, and I have no hesitation in saying that the conjurer of the
Bonne-Nouvelle Bazaar might then be considered one of the best of the
day. Philippe quitted Paris the following year, and has since performed
entirely in foreign countries, or the provinces.
Philippe’s success would not have failed to rekindle my desire to
realize my theatrical schemes, had not, at this period, a misfortune
hurled me into a state of profound wretchedness. I lost my wife.
Left with three young children, I was obliged to undertake their charge,
although so unskilled in household cares. Thus, at the end of five
years, robbed by some, deceived by others, I had almost lost all that my
labor had produced me, and was going to ruin.
Forced by my intolerable position, I determined on reconstituting my
home, and I married again. I shall have so many occasions of speaking
of my new wife, that I shall refrain at present from praising her
according to her deserts; besides, I am not sorry to abridge these
domestic details, which, though personally important to me, only possess
a very slight interest in my story.
The Exhibition of 1844 was about to open, so I asked and obtained leave
to exhibit some specimens of my skill. The site granted me, opposite the
door of honor, was undoubtedly one of the best in the hall, and I
erected a circular stand, on which I placed a specimen of all the
mechanical pieces I had as yet made. Among these my _Writer_ took the
first place, which M. G---- had been kind enough to lend me for the
occasion. I may say I enjoyed all the honor of the exhibition, for my
productions were constantly surrounded by a crowd of spectators, who
were all the more eager as the performance was gratis.
Louis Philippe paid daily visits to the Palace of Industry, and as my
automata had been pointed out as deserving his attention, he evinced a
wish to see them, and gave me twenty hours’ notice of his visit. I thus
had time enough to make all my arrangements. The king arrived, holding
the Comte de Paris by the hand, and I stood on his left hand to explain
my various articles. The Duchess of Orleans was by my side, and the
other members of the royal family formed a circle around his majesty,
while the crowd, kept back by the keepers of the palace and the police
agents, left an open space round my exhibition.
The king was in a charming humor, and seemed to take a pleasure in all I
showed him. He frequently asked me questions, and missed no occasion to
show his excellent judgment. At the end of the _séance_, the party
stopped before my Writer. This automaton, it must be borne in mind,
wrote or drew according to the question asked. The king made the
following inquiry: “How many inhabitants does Paris contain?” The writer
raised its left hand as if to indicate that it required a sheet of
paper, on receiving which, it wrote very distinctly, “Paris contains
998,964 inhabitants.”
The paper passed from the king’s hand into those of the royal family,
and all admired the beauty of the writing; but I saw that Louis Philippe
had a critique to offer, his smile proved that plainly enough. Hence I
was not surprised when, pointing to the paper which had come back to
him, he said:
“Monsieur Robert-Houdin, you did not, perhaps, recollect that this
number will not agree with the new census, which is almost completed?”
Contrary to my expectations, I felt quite at ease with my illustrious
visitors.
“Sire!” I replied, with sufficient assurance for a man not much
accustomed to the society of crowned heads, “I hope at that period my
automaton will be intelligent enough to make any necessary corrections.”
The king appeared satisfied with this reply, and I took advantage of his
good humor to mention that my Writer was also a poet, and explained
that, if he would deign to offer an unfinished quatrain, the automaton
would fill up the rhyme in the fourth line. The king chose the
following:
Lorsque dans le malheur, accablé de souffrance,
Abandonné de tous, l’homme va succomber,
Quel est l’ange divin qui vient le consoler?
C’est....
_L’Espérance_, the writer added to the fourth line.
“That is really charming,” the king said to me. “But, Monsieur
Robert-Houdin,” he added, in a confidential tone, “you must have given
your writer instructions in the poetic art?”
“Yes, sire, as far as my weak powers permitted.”
“Then my compliment is merited more by the master than the pupil.”
I bowed to thank the king as much for his compliment as for the delicate
manner in which it was conveyed.
“Now then, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” Louis Philippe continued, “I see by
the notice attached to this automaton that it is a draughtsman, in
addition to its merits as a writer and poet. If it be so, come,” he
said, addressing the Comte de Paris, “choose your own subject for a
drawing.”
Thinking to cause the prince an agreeable surprise, I had recourse to
palmistry to influence his decision, and he, consequently selected a
crown. The automaton began drawing the outline of this regal ornament
with great skill, and every one followed its movements with interest,
when, to my great disappointment, the point of the draughtsman’s pencil
broke, and the crown could not be finished. I was going to recommence
the experiment, when the king declined, with thanks.
“As you have learned to draw,” he said to the Comte de Paris, “you can
finish this for yourself.”
This performance, besides being the prelude of the kindly interest the
Orleans family afterwards displayed towards me, probably exerted some
influence on the decision of the jury, which granted me a silver medal.