My proposed Reforms--I build a Theatre in the Palais
Royal--Formalities--General Rehearsal--Singular Effect of my
Performance--The Largest and Smallest Theatre in
Paris--Tribulation--My first Performance--Panic--Discouragement--A
Fallible Prophet--Recovery--Success.
It may seem strange that I thus pass from my mechanical labors to my
studies in sleight-of-hand; but if my readers will bear in mind that
these two sciences were to unite in producing my success, it will easily
be understood that I felt an equal degree of affection for them, and
that after mentioning one I must allude to the other. The Exhibition did
not drive from my thoughts my theatrical projects.
The instruments intended for my future performances were on the point of
completion, for I had never stopped working at them. I was hence enabled
to commence operations as soon as an opportunity offered. In the mean
time, I determined on the changes I intended to introduce into the usual
routine of conjuring performances.
Remembering Torrini’s principles, I intended to have an elegant and
simple stage, unencumbered by all the paraphernalia of the ordinary
conjurer, which looks more like a toyshop than a serious performance. I
would have none of those enormous metal shades usually placed over
objects that are to disappear, and whose secret duties cannot escape
the notice of the simplest spectator. Apparatus of transparent or opaque
glass, according to circumstances, would suffice for all my operations.
In the performance of my tricks I also intended to abolish those
double-bottomed boxes of which some conjurers made such an abuse, as
well as all instruments designed to make up for the performer’s want of
skill. Real sleight-of-hand must not be the tinman’s work but the
artist’s, and people do not visit the latter to see instruments perform.
Of course, after the abuse I have showered upon the use of accomplices,
I quite did away with them. I have always regarded such trickery as
unworthy a real artist, as it raises doubts as to his skill. Besides,
having frequently acted as an accomplice, I remembered the unfavorable
impression this employment had left upon me as to the talent of my
partner.
Jets of gas, covered by opaque globes, were to be substituted on my
stage for the thousands of candles, whose brilliancy is only intended to
dazzle the spectators and thus injure the effect of the experiments.
Among the reforms I intended to introduce on the stage, the most
important was the abolition of those long tablecloths reaching to the
ground, beneath which an assistant is always suspected, and, generally
with some show of reason. For these immense chests of deception I
substituted consoles of gilt wood after the style of Louis XV.
Of course, I abstained from any eccentric costume, and I never thought
of making any change in the attire civilized society has agreed to
accept for evening dress, for I was always of opinion that bizarre
accoutrements, far from giving the wearer any consideration, on the
contrary cast disfavor upon him.
I had also traced out for my performances a line of conduct from which I
never diverged; that was to make no puns or play upon words, and never
to permit myself to be guilty of a mystification, even were I sure of
gaining the greatest success.
Finally, I wished to offer new experiments divested of all charlatanism,
and possessing no other resources than those offered by skillful
manipulation, and the influence of illusions.
This was, it will be seen, a complete regeneration in the art of
conjuring; my only fear was whether the public would accept these
important reforms and such elegant simplicity. It is true, Antonio, the
usual confidant of my plans and thoughts, strongly encouraged me.
“Don’t be alarmed about your success,” he said; “you have precedents to
prove the good taste of the public and their willingness to accept
reforms based on reason. Remember Talma appearing suddenly at the
Thèâtre-Français clothed in the simple antique toga, at a time when
tragedies were performed in silk coats, powdered perukes, and red
heels.”
I accepted the reasoning, though I did not recognise the justice of the
comparison. In fact, Talma could impose his taste on the public by the
authority of his talent and reputation, while I, who as yet held no
brevet rank in the army of conjurers, trembled to see my innovations
badly received.
We had now reached the month of December, 1844, and, having nothing
further to detain me, I decided on striking the grand blow--that is to
say, I went out one morning determined on finding a site for my theatre.
I passed the whole day in attempting to find a spot combining advantage
of situation, chance of receipts, and many other benefits. I stopped
through preference at the best spots and before the handsomest houses,
but found nothing that exactly suited me.
Wearied with searching, I singularly lowered my pretentions and wants.
Here I found an enormous price asked for a room that only in part suited
me; there, proprietors who would not, for any consideration, have
performances in their houses; in short, obstacles and impossibilities on
all sides.
Thus I ran about Paris for a fortnight, passing from the largest to the
smallest houses in turn, and ended by convincing myself that fate was
adverse to my plans. Antonio relieved me from my difficulty, for that
worthy friend, who aided me in the search, came to tell me he had found
a room in the Palais Royal which could be easily converted into a
theatre. I went straight to 164 in the Galerie de Valois, where I found,
in fact, all the conditions I had sought elsewhere, combined.
The proprietor of this house had been dreaming for a long time in vain
about a benevolent tenant, who, while paying an exhorbitant price for
his room, would come in without expecting any repairs to be done. I was,
therefore, most welcome, when I not only agreed to pay the rent asked,
but endured passively every sort of imposition. Indeed, I would have
given much more, so afraid as I was lest this desirable house should
slip from me.
When the bargain was concluded, I applied to an architect, who soon
brought me the plan of a charming room, which I jumped at. A few days
later he set to work, partitions were knocked down, the ground cleared,
and the carpenters began erecting my theatre, which was to contain from
180 to 200 persons. Though small, this room was all I wanted for my
style of performance; for supposing, according to my famous
calculations, that it was constantly full, it would be an excellent
affair for me.
Antonio, ever filled with zeal for my interests, paid constant visits to
my workmen and stimulated their activity, but one day my friend was
struck by a sudden idea.
“By the way,” he said, “have you thought of asking permission from the
Prefect of Police to construct your theatre?”
“Not yet,” I replied, quietly. “It cannot be refused me, as this
construction makes no change in the architectural arrangements of the
house.”
“That is possible,” Antonio added, “but in your place I would take this
step immediately, that no difficulty may occur when it is too late.”
I followed his advice, and we went together to M. X----‘s office, who
then had the direction of theatrical affairs. After an hour waiting, we
were introduced to the head of the office, who, being at the moment
engaged in some interesting reading, did not seem even to notice our
presence. In ten minutes, however, M. X---- laid down his book, opened
and shut a few drawers, called his clerk, gave orders, lifted his
spectacles, and made us a sign that he was ready to hear a sentence
which I had already commenced twice or thrice without being able to end
it. This impertinent coolness made my blood boil; still I said, as
politely as my vexation would allow me,
“I have come, sir, to ask your permission to open a room for
performances of magic and sleight-of-hand in the Palais Royal.”
“Sir,” the head of the office replied, very dryly, “if you have chosen
the Palais Royal for your performance, I can tell you you will not
obtain permission.”
“Why so, sir?” I said, in consternation.
“Because a ministerial decree forbids any new establishment being opened
there.”
“But pray consider, sir, that, not being aware of this decision, I have
taken a room on a long lease, and my theatre is at this moment being
built. The refusal of this permission will be my ruin. What can I do
now?”
“That is not my business,” the bureaucrat replied, disdainfully; “I am
not a theatrical agent.”
With these words M. X----, after the method employed by solicitors and
physicians to announce that a consultation is over, rose, led us to the
door, and, himself opening it, showed us clearly what we had to do.
Antonio and myself, equally in despair, remained for more than an hour
at the door of the Prefecture, vainly taxing our brains how to escape
from this difficulty. With all our reasoning, we always arrived at the
mournful conclusion that we could do no less than stop the building, and
compound with B---- to take the lease off my hands. It was my ruin,
Antonio understood as well as I, and he could offer me no consolation.
“But, stay,” he said suddenly, striking his forehead, “I have an idea.
Tell me, during the late exhibition, did you not sell a ‘mysterious
clock’ to M. Benjamin Delessert, a banker?”
“Well, suppose I did, what has that to do with----“
“What! do you not understand me? M. Delessert is brother of the Prefect
of Police. Go and see him; he is said to be good hearted, perhaps he
will give you good advice, or even better than that. If he would speak
to his brother on your behalf, we should be saved, for M. Gabriel
Delessert is omnipotent in theatrical matters.”
I adopted Antonio’s advice with joy, and proceeded to carry it into
effect. M. B. Delessert received me kindly, complimented me on the
clock, with which he was quite satisfied, and made me inspect his
magnificent picture-gallery, in which it was put up. Emboldened by this
kind reception, I explained to him the embarrassment in which I was
placed.
“Well, M. Robert-Houdin,” he said to me, “console yourself; we may
possibly arrange this affair. I am going to give a large party next
Wednesday evening, to which my brother has promised to come. Do me the
pleasure to join us; you will give us a specimen of your talents, and
when M. le Préfet has learned to appreciate you, I will speak to him of
your matter.”
On Wednesday, I proceeded to the house of my new protector, who had the
kindness to present me to some of his guests, while confidentially
praising my sleight-of-hand talents. My performance came off, and,
judging by the applause I received, I may say it justified their
anticipated compliments. A week had scarce elapsed when I received a
summons to the office of Prefect of Police. I went there with all speed,
and M. Gabriel Delessert informed me that he had been able to induce the
minister to revoke his decision. “Hence you can now go,” he added, “and
obtain your permission in M. X----‘s office, where it has been sent for
some formalities.”
It was curious about my reception on this occasion, but M. X----
displayed such extreme politeness towards me, that it largely made up
for the cavalier treatment he had offered me on the first occasion. Far
from leaving me standing, he would willingly have offered me two chairs
instead of one, and when I quitted his office, he overwhelmed me with
all the attention due to a man protected by a superior power. I was too
happy to bear M. X---- any malice; hence we separated quite reconciled.
I will spare my readers the numberless tribulations which accompanied my
unending building; mistakes in time and money are so usual in such
matters, that I need not allude to them here. At length, all this was
over, and with the liveliest pleasure I saw the last workman depart not
to return again.
We had now reached the end of June, and I hoped to commence at the
beginning of July. For this purpose I hastened my preparations, for each
day was an enormous loss, as I was spending much and earning nothing.
I had already given some partial rehearsals, and I now decided on
holding one to precede the general rehearsal, but, as I was not quite
sure of the success of my experiments, I only invited half a dozen
intimate friends, pledged to give me their opinion with the greatest
severity. This performance was fixed for the 25th June, 1845, and on
that day I made my preparations with as much care as if I were going to
give my opening performance, for I had been suffering for nearly a month
from a regular panic, which I could attribute to no other cause than my
nervous and impressionable temperament.
I could not get a wink of sleep, my appetite had left me, and I thought
of my performances with a species of dread. I, who had hitherto treated
so lightly the performances I gave to my friends--I, who had obtained
such success at Aubusson, trembled like a child.
The reason was, that hitherto I had performed before spectators ever
smiling or ready to smile, and the success of my experiments made no
difference to me. Now, I was about to appear before a real audience, and
I trembled at the thought of “the right they purchased at the door.”
On the appointed evening, at eight precisely, my friends having duly
arrived, the curtain rose, and I appeared on the stage. Half a dozen
smiles greeted my appearance, which rekindled my courage and even gave
me a species of coolness. The first of my experiments was performed very
decently, and yet my address was very badly repeated. I recited it like
a schoolboy who tries to remember his lesson, but the good favor of my
spectators once acquired, I continued famously.
To explain what follows, I must mention that, during the whole day,
heavy clouds had hung over Paris; and the evening, far from bringing any
relief, wafted into the room puffs of heated air, which seemed to issue
from a stove.
Well, I had scarcely reached the middle of the first part, when two of
my spectators had yielded to the soporific influences of the weather and
my “patter.” I could excuse them, however, for my own eye-lids were
beginning to droop. Not being accustomed to sleep standing, however, I
held my own.
But it is well known that nothing is so contagious as sleep, hence the
epidemic made rapid progress. At the end of a few moments the last of
the survivors let his head fall on his chest and completed the sextet,
whose snoring, continually _crescendo_, at length drowned my voice. My
situation was disagreeable, and though I tried to arouse my audience by
speaking in a louder key, I only succeeded in causing one or two
eye-lids to open, which, after a few insane winks, closed again.
At length the first part of the performance was over and the curtain
fell, and with much pleasure I stretched myself in an arm-chair to enjoy
a few minutes’ rest! Five minutes would be enough, and I was asleep
before I could repel the invader. My son, who helped me on the stage,
had not waited so long; he had laid himself on the ground and was
sleeping like a top, while my wife, a busy, courageous woman, though
struggling against the common foe, watched near me, and, in her tender
care, did not disturb a sleep I required so much. Besides, she had
peeped through the hole in the curtain, and our spectators seemed so
happy, that she had not the heart to disturb them. But, insensibly, her
strength betrayed her courage, and unable to resist the temptation of a
nap, she fell asleep too.
The pianist, who represented my orchestra, having seen the curtain fall,
and hearing no movement on the stage, thought my performance was over,
and determined on going. As the porter had orders to turn off the gas at
the main when he saw my pianist go out, and was most anxious to be exact
at the beginning of his engagement, he hastened to obey my orders, and
plunged the room into utter darkness.
We had been enjoying this delightful sleep for about two hours, when I
was aroused by a confused sound of voices and shouts. I rubbed my eyes
and wondered where I was, but seeing nothing, I grew quite alarmed. “Can
I possibly have gone blind?” I exclaimed; “I can see nothing!”
“Hang it, no more can we see anything!” said a voice, which I recognized
as Antonio’s. “For goodness’ sake, give us a light!”
“Yes, yes, a light!” my five other spectators repeated in chorus.
We were soon on our feet; the curtain was raised, and then, having
lighted some candles, we saw our five sleepers rubbing their eyes, and
trying to find out where they were; while Antonio was growling away
under the stalls, where he had fallen asleep.
All was then explained; we had a hearty laugh at the adventure, and
separated with the promise of meeting again.
There were only four days to the 1st of July, and to any one acquainted
with the preparations for a first performance, and, far more important
still, for opening a theatre, this lapse of time will appear very short,
for there is always so much to be done at the last moment. Thus, the 1st
of July arrived, and I was not prepared, and the opening did not take
place till three days later.
On this day, by a strange coincidence, the Hippodrome and the “fantastic
soirées” of Robert-Houdin, the largest and smallest stage in Paris, were
opened to the public. The 3d of July, 1845, saw two bills placarded on
the walls of Paris; one enormous, belonging to the Hippodrome, while the
other, of far more modest proportions, announced my performances. Still,
as in the fable of the reed and the oak, the large theatre, in spite of
the skill of the managers, has undergone many changes of fortune; while
the smaller one has continually enjoyed the public favor.
I have sacredly kept a proof of my first bill, the form and color of
which has always remained the same since that date. I copy it word for
word here, both to furnish an idea of its simplicity, and to display the
programme of the experiments I then offered to the public:
+----------------------------------------------------------------+
| TO-DAY, THURSDAY, JULY 3, 1845. |
| |
| FIRST REPRESENTATION |
| |
| OF |
| |
| THE FANTASTIC SOIRÉES |
| |
| OF |
| |
| ROBERT-HOUDIN. |
| |
| AUTOMATA, SLEIGHT-OF-HAND, MAGIC. |
| |
| The Performance will be composed of entirely novel Experiments|
| invented by M. ROBERT-HOUDIN. |
| |
| AMONG THEM BEING: |
| |
| THE CABALISTIC CLOCK. |
| AURIOL AND DEBUREAU. |
| THE ORANGE-TREE. |
| THE MYSTERIOUS BOUQUET. |
| THE HANDKERCHIEF. |
| PIERROT IN THE EGG. |
| OBEDIENT CARDS. |
| THE MIRACULOUS FISH. |
| THE FASCINATING OWL. |
| THE PASTRYCOOK OF THE PALAIS ROYAL. |
| |
| TO COMMENCE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK. |
| |
| Box-office open at Half-past Seven. |
| |
|Price of places: Upper Boxes, 1 fr. 50 c.; Stalls, 3 fr.; Boxes,|
| 4 fr.; Dress Circle, 5 fr. |
+----------------------------------------------------------------+
The day of my first representation had at length arrived. To say how I
spent it is impossible; all I remember is, that, at the end of a
feverish and sleepless night, occasioned by the multiplicity of my
tasks, I had to organise and foresee everything, for I was at once
manager, machinist, author and actor. What a terrible responsibility for
a poor artist, whose life had hitherto been spent among his tools!
At seven in the evening, a thousand things had still to be done, but I
was in a state of febrile excitement which doubled my strength and
energy, and I got through them all.
Eight o’clock struck and echoed through my heart like the peal that
summons the culprit to execution; never in my life did I experience such
emotion and torture. Ah! if I could only draw back! Had it been possible
to fly and abandon this position I had so long desired, with what
happiness would I have returned to my peaceful avocations! And yet, why
did I feel this mad terror? I know not, for three-fourths of the room
were filled with persons on whose indulgence I could rely.
I made a final attack on my pusillanimity.
“Come!” I said to myself, “courage! I have my name, my future, my
children’s fortune at stake; courage!”
This thought restored me; I passed my hand several times over my
agitated features, ordered the curtain to be raised, and without further
reflection I walked boldly on the stage.
My friends, aware of my sufferings, received me with some encouraging
applause; this kind reception restored my confidence, and, like a gentle
dew, refreshed my mind and senses. I began.
To assert that I acquitted myself fairly would be a proof of vanity, and
yet it would be excusable, for I received repeated signs of applause
from my audience. But how to distinguish between the applause of the
friendly and the paying public? I was glad to deceive myself, and my
experiments gained by it.
The first part was over, and the curtain fell. My wife came directly to
embrace me, to encourage me, and thank me for my courageous efforts. I
may now confess it: I believed that I had been alone severe to myself,
and that it was possible all this applause was sterling coin. This
belief did me an enormous good; and why should I conceal it, tears of
joy stood in my eyes, which I hastened to wipe away lest my feelings
might prevent my preparations for the second part.
The curtain rose again, and I approached my audience with a smile on my
lips. I judged of this change in my face by those of my spectators, for
they began all at once to share my good humor.
How many times since have I tried this imitative faculty on the part of
the public? If you are anxious, ill-disposed, or vexed, or should your
face bear the stamp of any annoying impression, your audience,
straightway imitating the contraction of your features, begins to frown,
grows serious, and ill-disposed to be favorable to you. If, however, you
appear on the stage with a cheerful face, the most sombre brows
unwrinkle, and every one seems to say to the artist: “How d’ye do, old
fellow, your face pleases me, I only want an opportunity to applaud
you.” Such seemed to be the case with my public at this moment.
It was more easy for me to feel at my ease as I was beginning my
favorite experiment, “the surprising pocket-handkerchief,” a medley of
clever deceptions. After borrowing a handkerchief, I produced from it a
multitude of objects of every description, such as sugar-plums, feathers
of every size up to a drum-major’s, fans, comic journals, and, as a
_finale_, an enormous basket of flowers, which I distributed to the
ladies. This trick was perfectly successful, but, to tell the truth, I
had it at my fingers’ ends.
The next performance was the “orange-tree,” and I had every reason to
calculate on this trick, for, in my private rehearsals, it was the one I
always did best. I began with a few juggling tricks as introduction,
which were perfectly successful, and I had every reason to believe I was
getting through it capitally, when a sudden thought crossed my mind and
paralyzed me. I was assailed by a panic which must have been felt to be
understood, and I will try to explain it by an illustration.
When you are learning to swim, the teacher begins by giving you this
important piece of advice; “Have confidence, and all will be well.” If
you follow his advice, you can easily keep yourself up on the water, and
it seems perfectly natural; thus you learn to swim. But it often happens
that a sudden thought crosses your mind like lightning: “Suppose my
strength failed me!” From that time you hurry your movements, you
redouble your speed, the water no longer sustains you, you flounder
about, and, if a helping hand were not by, you would be lost.
Such was my situation on the stage; the thought had suddenly struck me:
“Suppose I were to fail!” And immediately I began to talk quick, hurried
on in my anxiety to finish, felt confused, and, like the tired swimmer,
I floundered about without being able to emerge from the chaos of my
ideas.
Oh! then I experienced a torture, an agony which I could not describe,
but which might easily become mortal were it prolonged.
The real public were cold and silent, my friends were foolish enough to
applaud, but the rest remained quiet. I scarcely dared to look round the
room, and my experiment ended I know not how.
I proceeded to the next, but my nervous system had reached such a degree
of irritation that I no longer knew what I said or did. I only felt that
I was speaking with extraordinary volubility, so that the four last
tricks of my performance were done in a few minutes.
The curtain fell very opportunely; my strength was exhausted; but a
little longer and I should have had to crave the indulgence of my
audience.
In my life I never passed so frightful a night as the one following my
first performance. I had a fever, I am quite certain, but that was as
nothing in comparison with my moral sufferings. I had no desire left or
courage to appear on the stage. I wished to sell, give up, or give away,
if necessary, an establishment which taxed my strength too severely.
“No,” I said to myself, “I am not born for this life of emotion. I will
quit the parching atmosphere of a theatre. I will, even at the expense
of a brilliant fortune, return to my gentle and calm employment.”
The next morning, incapable of rising, and, indeed, firmly resolved to
give up my representations, I had the bill taken down that announced my
performance for that evening. I had made up my mind as to all the
consequences of this resolution. Thus, the sacrifice accomplished, I
found myself far more calm, and even yielded to the imperious claims of
a sleep I had for a long time denied myself.
I have now arrived at a moment when I shall quit for ever the mournful
and wearisome details of the numerous misfortunes that preceded my
representations; but my readers will notice with some surprise to what a
futile circumstance I owed my release from this state of discouragement,
which I fancied would last for ever.
The repose I had taken during the day and the following night had
refreshed my blood and my ideas. I regarded my situation under a very
different aspect, and I had already made up my mind not to give up my
theatre, when one of my friends--or, who called himself so--came to pay
me a visit.
After expressing his regret at the unhappy result of my first
performance, at which he had been present, he said:
“I called in to see you because I noticed your room was closed, and I
had a wish to express my feelings to you on the subject. I must say,
then, to speak frankly” (I have noticed that this phrase is always
followed by some bad compliment, which is meant to pass under the guise
of friendly frankness), “that you are perfectly right to quit a
profession beyond your strength, and that you have acted wisely by
anticipating with good grace a decision to which you would have been
forced sooner or later. However,” he added, with a self-sufficient air,
“I foretold it. I always thought you were committing an act of madness,
and that your theatre would no sooner be opened than you would be
obliged to close it.”
These cruel compliments, addressed under the cloak of apocryphal
frankness, wounded me deeply. I could easily detect that this offerer of
advice, sacrificing to his vanity the slight affection he felt for me,
had only come to see me in order to parade his perspicacity and the
justice of his previsions, of which he had never mentioned a syllable to
me. Well, this infallible prophet, who foresaw events so truly, was far
from suspecting the change he was producing in me. The more he talked,
the more he confirmed me in the resolution of continuing my
performances.
“Who told you my room was closed?” I said, in a tone that had nothing
affectionate about it. “If I did not perform yesterday, it was because,
worn out by the fatigue I have undergone for some time, I wished to rest
for at least one day. Your foreboding will, therefore, be disappointed,
when I tell you that I shall perform this very evening. I hope, in my
second representation, to take my revenge on the public; and this time
they will judge me less severely than you have done. I am quite
convinced of it.”
The conversation having taken this turn, could not be continued much
longer. My offerer of advice, dissatisfied at my reception of him,
quitted me, and I have never seen him since. Yet, I bear him no malice;
on the contrary, if he reads my Memoirs, I beg to offer him in this
place my thanks for the happy revolution he produced in me by wounding
my vanity to the quick.
Bills were immediately posted to announce my performance for that
evening, and I made my preparations calmly, while thinking over those
parts of my performance in which it would be advisable to introduce a
change.
This second representation went on much better than I had hoped, and my
audience appeared satisfied. Unfortunately, that audience was small, and
my receipts, consequently, were the same. Still, I accepted it all
philosophically, for the success I had obtained gave me confidence in
the future.
However, I soon had real causes for consolation. The celebrities of the
press came to my representations, and described my performance in the
most flattering terms. Some contributors to the comic papers also made
very pleasant allusions to my performances and myself. Among others, the
present editor of the _Charivari_ wrote an article full of fun and dash
about my performances, which he terminated with some lines, expressive
of his decided opinion that I belonged to the family of Robert le Diable
and Robert Macaire.
Finally, the _Illustration_, desirous of evincing its sympathy, engaged
Eugène Forey to draw a sketch of my theatre. Such publicity soon
attracted the attention of the first Parisian circles: people came to
see my performances: they appointed to meet at my room, and from this
moment commenced that reputation which has never left me since.