New Experiments--Aërial Suspension, &c.--A Performance at the
Odéon--A Friend in Need--1848--The Theatre deserted--I leave Paris
for London--Manager Mitchell--Publicity in England--The Great
Wizard--A Butter-mould used as a Puff--Singular Bills--A Prize for
the best Pun.
Instead of being able to recommence my performances on the 1st of
September, as I had hoped, my compulsory holidays, which might be called
my “penal servitude,” were prolonged another month, and it was not till
the 1st of October that I was prepared to offer my new experiments to
the public.
My pecuniary interests were much affected by this delay, but I trusted,
correctly enough, to the zeal of the public to visit me, as a
compensation.
My new repertory contained the _Crystal Box_, the _Fantastic Portfolio_,
the _Trepèze Tumbler_, the _Garde Française_, the _Origin of Flowers_,
the _Crystal Balls_, the _Inexhaustible Bottle_, the _Ethereal
Suspension_, &c.
I had devoted especial care to the last experiment, on which I built
great hopes. Surgery had supplied me with the first idea of it.
It will be remembered that in 1847 the insensibility produced by
inhaling ether began to be applied in surgical operations; all the world
talked about the marvellous effect of this anæsthetic, and its
extraordinary results. In the eyes of many people it seemed much akin to
magic.
Seeing that the surgeons had invaded my domain, I asked myself if this
did not allow me to make reprisals. I did so by inventing my _ethereal
suspension_, which, I believe, was far more surprising than any result
obtained by my surgical brethren.
The subject I intended to operate on was my younger son, and I could not
have selected one better suited for the experiment. He was a stout lad
of about six years of age, and his plump and rosy face was the picture
of health. In spite of his youth, he displayed the greatest intelligence
in learning his part, and played it with such perfection, that the most
incredulous were duped.
This trick was very much applauded, and I am bound to say that my
arrangements were excellently made: this was the first time I tried to
direct the surprise of my spectators by gradually heightening it up to
the moment when, so to speak, it exploded.
I divided my experiment into three parts, each more surprising than the
former.
Thus, when I removed the stool from beneath the child’s feet, the
public, who had smiled during the preparations for the suspension,
became thoughtful.
When I next removed one of the canes, exclamations of surprise and fear
were heard.
Lastly, at the moment when I raised my son to an horizontal position,
the spectators, at this unexpected result, crowned the experiment with
hearty applause.
Still, it sometimes happened that sensitive persons, regarding the
etherization too seriously, protested in their hearts against the
applause, and wrote me letters in which they severely upbraided the
unnatural father who sacrificed the health of his poor child to the
pleasures of the public. Some went so far as to threaten me with the
terrors of the law if I did not give up my inhuman performance.
The anonymous writers of such accusations did not suspect the pleasure
they caused me. After amusing the family circle, I kept the letters
preciously as proofs of the illusion I had produced.
The fashion this performance raised could not surpass that of the
previous year: I could not expect any other result than filling my
theatre, and that occurred every evening.
The royal family also wished to see my new experiments; and for this
purpose the whole room was taken for the afternoon, so that my evening
performances were not interrupted.
This performance, which the Queen of the Belgians witnessed with her
family, was only so far peculiar, that my little room was filled with
exalted personages. All the seats were occupied, for their majesties
were accompanied by their respective courts, and a great number of
ambassadors and royal dignitaries.
As I had reason to hope, my noble spectators were satisfied, and deigned
to thank me in person.
In the midst of this gentle satisfaction, I had every reason to believe
that I possessed the favor of the public; I learned, though, at a heavy
penalty, that even if the favor of that sovereign may appear secured, a
trifle will cause it almost to expire.
On the 18th of February, 1848, Madame Dorval took her benefit at the
Odéon, and I promised that eminent actress to perform some of my tricks
as an interlude.
I was punctual to my appointment across the water; half-past eleven
struck, when the curtain fell just prior to my performance. As I had
been ready to begin for some time, ten minutes were sufficient to give a
final glance to my preparations.
My first care, on taking possession of the stage, had been to conceal my
operations from indiscreet eyes; hence, I had dismissed everybody.
Unfortunately, I had not even made an exception in favor of the
stage-manager, and the sorrowful effects of this measure will now be
seen.
In most excellent humor, I ordered my servant to give the three usual
taps, and the orchestra began playing while I walked to the side-scene,
prior to making my appearance. But at the moment the curtain rose, I
remembered I had forgotten one of my “accessories,” and I ran to my
dressing-room to fetch it. Unfortunately, in my hurry, I did not notice
that the machinist had inadvertently left a small trap open, and my leg
slipped into it up to the knee.
The pain drew from me a sharp cry of distress; my servant ran up, and he
could only release me with some difficulty. But I was in a sad state,
for my trouser was torn completely up, exposing my bleeding and
lacerated leg.
In this unhappy condition, I could not possibly return to the stage;
hence I looked around in search of some one to announce to the public
the accident that had happened to me, but I could only see two firemen.
They would not do for so delicate a mission, and although I had my
servant, this worthy lad was a negro with woolly head, blubber lips, and
an ebony skin, whose simple language would not have failed to raise a
laugh at my painful position.
The stage-manager alone could undertake the mission; but where should I
find him?
These reflections, prompt as lightning, were interrupted by the
commencement of a storm in the theatre; the public summoned me, for it
must be remembered the curtain had risen, and in the eyes of the public
I had missed my entrance; this was disrespect, and, therefore,
unpardonable!
My negro, without caring for what was passing elsewhere, tore up his
handkerchief and mine, and bound my wound with considerable skill. This
did not prevent me suffering severe pain, but I soon experienced a
torture a thousand-fold greater when I heard a violent storm burst out
in the house. The public, who had begun by stamping, were now hissing,
shouting, and yelling in all the discordant tones of dissatisfaction.
Overcoming my pain, I changed my trousers in haste, and decided on going
myself to describe my accident. I therefore walked slowly to the door of
the stage, and I was just going to open it, when a frightful noise
turned me cold with terror, and checked me. My heart failed me. Still, I
put a stop to this. “Courage,” I said to myself, with a supreme
effort--“courage!” and straight-way throwing open the folding doors, I
walked on the stage.
I shall never forget my reception. On one hand, cries, hisses, yells; on
the other, clapping of hands and applause, enough to wake the dead. The
two parties were apparently attempting to conquer each other in making a
noise.
Pale and trembling at such a rough reception, I waited patiently for a
moment when the combatants, wearied with the contest, would allow me to
explain my delay. This moment at length arrived, and I was enabled to
describe my painful adventure. My paleness testified to the truth of my
words. The public allowed themselves to be disarmed, and hisses were no
longer mingled with the applause which greeted my explanation.
Any one who knows the relief and comfort bravos and hearty applause
arouse in the heart of an actor, will understand the sudden change they
produced in me. The blood rushed to my cheeks and restored my color, my
strength returned, and, possessed by fresh energy, I stated to the
public that I found myself so much recovered that I would go on with my
performance. I did so; and such was the power of my excitement, that I
scarce felt the pain produced by my wound.
I have said that, on my appearance, I was saluted by demonstrations of a
very different nature. Although many of my spectators hissed, others
applauded me. Truth extorts a confession from me. I was supported on
this evening by an omnipotent protector.
This requires an explanation. Hence, that my readers may solve the
enigma, I am obliged to narrate a slight anecdote:
At the period when I invented my experiment of second sight, several
Parisian managers proposed to me to perform, as an interlude, in their
theatres, but I had refused, because, as I was tired by my own
performances, I did not wish to prolong them. My determination on this
point was quite formed, when I received a visit from an actress of the
Palais Royal, Madame M----, who performed the part of duennas.
“I have not the honor of your acquaintance, sir,” she said, with a
certain degree of hesitation, “hence I am almost afraid to ask you to
render me a great service. These are the circumstances of the case: our
excellent manager, Dormeuil, has offered me a benefit, the profits of
which are intended to release my son from the conscription. It only
depends on you, sir, to ensure the success of the performance by giving
me your assistance.” And the poor mother, deriving her eloquence from
her love for her son, painted in such lively colors the distress she
would feel from a failure, that, touched by her grief, I rescinded my
determination, and consented to add my performance of the “second sight”
to her bill.
I dare not form the flattering idea that my name had any share in the
success of the performance; still, the house was crowded, and the
receipts more than covered the price of a substitute.
The next day the happy mother called to tell me of her good fortune, and
thank me. She was accompanied by a gentleman I did not know, but who, so
soon as Madame M---- had ceased speaking, told me in his turn the object
of his visit.
“I have taken the liberty of accompanying Madame M---- to compliment you
on what you have done for her. It is a good action, for which all her
theatrical friends owe you abundant thanks; and, for my part, I hope,
sooner or later, to evidence my gratitude in my own way.”
While flattered at my visitor’s remarks, I was much puzzled as to the
sense of his last sentence. He noticed it, and, giving me no time to
reply, continued:
“Ah! I forgot to tell you who I am, and I ought to have begun with that.
My name is Duhart, and I manage theatrical successes at the Palais
Royal. By the way,” he added, “were you satisfied with the reception you
had last night?”
This confession, I grant, robbed me of a sweet illusion. I had fancied I
owed my reception to my own merits, and I now could not guess what share
of the applause legitimately belonged to me. Still, I thanked M. Duhart
for his kindness, both past and to come. Three months later, I had
almost forgotten this incident, when one day, as I was going to give a
performance at the Porte Saint-Martin, my friend Duhart called on me.
“Only one word, Monsieur Houdin,” he said, without taking the trouble to
sit down. “I read in the bills that you are going to perform for
Raucourt’s benefit, and I have recommended you to P----, who will ‘take
care of you.’”
I was in fact, “taken care of,” for when I appeared on the stage, I was
greeted by a reception worthy of the highest artistic celebrities. It
was easy to recognize an ovation warmly recommended, but I was glad to
notice that the public “followed suit,” and that the bravos emanating
from the pit radiated through the whole house.
A few months later, when about to perform at the Gymnase, came another
visit from Duhart, the same recommendation to his comrade, and a similar
result. In short, I rarely quitted my own stage but my grateful
protector interested himself in my success.
I am forced to say that I let him do so, and saw no harm in it; far from
that, these encouragements were a stimulant for me, and I always
redoubled my efforts to deserve them.
I have taken a pride in relating this incident, for it admirably depicts
the character of a man capable of being so long grateful for a slight
service rendered to a friend. However, the performance at the Odéon was
the last in which the worthy Duhart went out of his way for me, as the
revolution of February arrived a few days later.
It will be remembered that this event was an utter “smasher” for all the
theatres.
After exhausting all the attractive baits of their repertory, the
managers, finding all their attractions fail, vainly formed a congress
to relieve them from such a disastrous situation.
I was invited to the meeting, but, though I put in an appearance, it was
merely through politeness, as I was in a position very different from
that of my brethren.
This position depended simply on the fact that my establishment, instead
of having the name of a theatre, was called a “spectacle.” Through this
slight difference of title I enjoyed rights infinitely more extended.
Thus, while the theatres could only have bills of a size arranged by a
police decree, I was at liberty, as the manager of a spectacle, to
announce my performances in unbounded proportions.
I could also lessen or increase the number of my performances at my
pleasure, which was not one of the slightest advantages of my
management.
Lastly, I had a right, whenever I thought proper, to put the key of my
room in my pocket, dismiss my staff, and walk about at my leisure in
expectation of better times.
All these advantages, to which I will add that of being burdened with
very slight expenses compared with my brethren, offered me no other
result than that of not losing my money. However I might try, the public
remained deaf to my appeal as to theirs.
I am mistaken though; for some days I received very polite letters from
the Provisional Government, in the shape of “free passes,” which begged
me to find room in my hall for the students of the Polytechnic and St.
Cyr schools, accompanied by their tutors.
I was enchanted, it is true, by this amiable act of politeness, which
augmented the number of my scanty spectators; for I performed, at
least, before a well-filled room, and I had no longer the annoyance of
seeing those unlucky benches empty--a sight which usually paralyzes the
most philosophic performers.
This illusion was, in truth, very ephemeral, for each evening, after the
performance, my cashier assumed a very gloomy face on approaching me.
What disenchantment! What bitter reprisals on the part of the blind
goddess who, for some time, had granted me such sweet favors!
Still, in these moments of distress, I may say with perfect sincerity
deceptions and torment were not confined to the profit and loss account;
and though a manager does not take money, he desires to conceal his
misery. In order to produce a deception, he tries to furnish his
theatre, and he gives free admissions. I had recourse to this measure;
but, what will appear strange, these tickets, which, a month earlier,
would have been regarded as an immense favor, were viewed with
considerable indifference, and it often happened that people did not
take the trouble to accept my invitation.
Having become a philosopher through necessity, I ended by resigning
myself to seeing my room nearly empty, and I sent out no more
invitations. Besides, I had enjoyed an opportunity of studying the “free
admissions,” and I had remarked that this class of spectators is, or
pretends to be, quite indifferent to the performance. In fact, the “free
admission,” when he believes the theatre short of spectators, imagines
he is doing an act of kindness by accepting the invitation offered him.
If he find the house full, he fancies all the places are occupied by
gratis tickets (and he is sometimes correct), and he concludes from it
that the performance cannot be very amusing. If he happen to be
mistaken, he does not applaud, in his fear of being taken for a
gratuitous visitor, and pass for an accomplice paying for his seat in
applause.
I was in the thick of my managerial troubles when, one morning, I
received a visit from the manager of the French theatre in London.
Mitchell (that is his name), far from seeking to delude me by false
promises, like my Brussels theatrical agent, merely made me the
following simple proposal:
“Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he said to me, “you are well known in London;
come and perform at the St. James’ Theatre, and I have every reason to
believe you will be successful. Besides, we shall be equally interested,
for we will share the gross receipts, and I will pay all the expenses.
You will perform alternately with my Opéra Comique, that is to say, on
Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and you will begin, if you please, on
the 7th of May next, or a month from to-day.”
These conditions appearing to me very acceptable, I may add, most
advantageous, I agreed to them most readily. Mitchell, then, offered me
his hand, I gave him mine, and this friendly sanction was the only
agreement we made for this important affair. Though there was no forfeit
on either side, no arrangement or signature, never was a bargain better
cemented.
From that time, during all my long connection with Mitchell, I had many
occasions of appreciating all the value of his word. I may say loudly
that he is one of the most conscientious managers I ever had dealings
with. In addition, Mitchell adds an extreme affability, and a remarkable
degree of generosity and disinterestedness to the merit of keeping his
word. Under all circumstances, he will be found to act as a perfect
gentleman, and one of the most brilliant qualities he possesses as
manager, is his courteous behavior to his performers. The following
instance will serve as a proof:
Jenny Lind was singing at Her Majesty’s Theatre on the same evenings I
performed at St. James’s, so that, despite all the wish I felt to go and
hear her, I could not make up my mind to sacrifice a performance for
this attractive pleasure. However, in consequence of a circumstance too
lengthy to detail here, I happened to find myself free on one of the
nights when Jenny Lind sang. I must add that, besides managing the St.
James’s Theatre, Mitchell had hired a certain number of boxes at Her
Majesty’s by the year, and, according to the English custom, let them
out to the highest bidders. It happened at times that all the tickets
were not sold, and in that case Mitchell gave them to a few privileged
friends. I was aware of this circumstance, and intended to ask him a
similar favor for this evening.
At the moment I was going out to seek my manager, he came into my room.
“By Jove, my dear Mitchell,” I said to him, “I was just going to prefer
a request to you.”
“Whatever it may be, my dear friend,” he replied, politely, “be assured
it will be willingly heard.”
And when I explained to him what I wanted,
“Good Heavens! Houdin,” he said, in a tone of real annoyance, “how
unlucky you should ask that of me.”
“Why so?” I replied, in the same tone; “if it is not possible, my dear
friend, pray let me withdraw my request.”
“On the contrary, my dear Houdin--on the contrary, it is very easy; I am
only vexed at missing the surprise I intended to offer you: I was going
to give you an excellent box for to-night: here it is.”
A more delicate and amiable way of behaving could hardly be suggested.
A fortnight had scarce elapsed since my interview with Mitchell, when,
after a most successful passage, I disembarked at London. On the moment
of my arrival, my manager led me to a delightful lodging close to the
theatre, and showed me all the rooms. On reaching the sleeping
apartment, he said:
“You have a celebrated bed before you: it is the one in which Rachel,
Déjazet, Jenny Colon, and many other artistic celebrities, rested after
the emotion produced by their successes. You cannot but enjoy the ideas
which the remembrance of these illustrious guests will summon up in your
dreams. To any other than you, my dear Houdin, I would say that these
celebrated predecessors must bring good luck; but your success depends
on the virtue of your magic staff.”
Mitchell, feeling desirous to add all desirable attraction to my
performances, had ordered a scene in the Louis XV. style, as well as a
curtain, on which was painted, in letters of gold, the title adopted for
my Paris theatre, “_Soirées Fantastiques de_ ROBERT-HOUDIN;”
consequently, I could not begin my arrangements till all these
preparations had been completed.
In the meanwhile, having nothing better to do, I walked about daily in
the magnificent parks, and collected my strength, in preparation for the
fatigues I was about to undergo in my performances.
At this word “fatigues,” my reader will be doubtlessly surprised, for he
has every reason to suppose that my stay in London would be in some
degree a period of rest, as, instead of playing seven times a week, as
in Paris, I was only to give three performances in the same period.
To explain this apparent contradiction, it will be enough for me to
state that the work and fatigue are less in the performance than its
preparation. As at St. James’s Theatre I had to perform alternately with
the Comic Opera, I was obliged, lest I might impede these artists in
their studies, to give them all necessary time for their rehearsals,
which, as is well known, occupy the greater portion of the day.
Consequently, I had promised to clear the stage so soon as my
performance was over, and not occupy it again till the middle of the day
on which I performed. Add to this, that in my labor of preparing and
removing, the master’s eye was not sufficient, but I had for various
reasons to set to work myself, and it may be easily understood that this
caused me enormous fatigue.
It caused me at the outset a species of comical regret to find that my
performances would not owe their success entirely to my own merits. In
England it is almost impossible to gain the ear of the public unless
every possible form of notoriety be resorted to, and the change from my
peaceful retirement in Paris was very startling. Whenever I took my
walks abroad, my name in gigantic letters stared me in the face, while
enormous posters, on which my various tricks were represented, covered
the walls of London, and, according to the English fashion, were
promenaded about the streets, by the help of a vehicle like those we
employ in Paris for removing furniture.
But, however great this publicity might be, it was quite modest when
compared to that opposed to us by a rival, who may be justly regarded as
the most ingenious and skillful puffer in England.
On my arrival in England, a conjurer of the name of Anderson, who
assumed the title of _Great Wizard of the North_, had been performing
for a long period at the little Strand Theatre.
This artist, fearing, doubtlessly, that public attention might be
divided, tried to crush the publicity of my performances; hence, he sent
out on London streets a cavalcade thus organized:
Four enormous carriages, covered with posters and pictures representing
all sorts of witchcraft, opened the procession. Then followed
four-and-twenty merry men, each bearing a banner, on which was painted a
letter a yard in height.
At each cross-road the four carriages stopped side by side and presented
a bill some twenty-five yards in length, while all the men, I should say
letters, on receiving the word of command, drew themselves up in a line,
like the vehicles.
Seen in front, the letters formed this phrase:
THE CELEBRATED ANDERSON!!!
while, on the other side of the banners could be read:
THE GREAT WIZARD OF THE NORTH.
Unfortunately for the Wizard, his performances were attacked by a mortal
disease; too long a stay in London had ended by producing satiety.
Besides, his repertory was out of date, and could not contend against
the new tricks I was about to offer. What could he present to the public
in opposition to the second sight, the suspension, and the inexhaustible
bottle? Hence, he was obliged to close his theatre and start for the
provinces, where he managed, as usual, to make excellent receipts, owing
to his powerful means of notoriety.
I have met many “puffers” in my life, but I may say I never saw one who
attained the elevation Anderson reached. The instance I have quoted will
give some idea of his manner, but I will add a few others, to supply a
perfect idea of the man.
Whenever his performances are going to be given in a large town, though
they are announced with extreme publicity, Anderson contrives to bring
his wonders to the notice even of those who never read the newspapers or
posters.
For this purpose, he sends to all the buttermen in the town moulds on
which his name, title, and the hour of his performance are engraved,
begging them to imprint his stamp on their butter-pats, in lieu of the
cow ordinarily represented. As every family in England eats butter at
breakfast, it follows that each receives, at no expense to the conjurer,
an invitation to pay a visit to the illustrious Wizard of the North.
Again, too, Anderson sends out into the streets, before daybreak, a
dozen men, carrying those open frames, by means of which, and with a
brush and lamp-black, the walls of Paris have been so long covered with
puffs. These people print the announcement of the Wizard’s performance
on the pavement, which is always kept remarkably clean in England. In
spite of himself, every tradesman on opening his shop, and every
inhabitant proceeding to business, cannot but read the name of Anderson,
and the announcement of his performance. It is true that a few hours
later these puffs are effaced by the footsteps of the passers-by, but
thousands of persons have read them, and the Wizard requires no more.
His posters are equally original, and I was shown one of a gigantic size
put out on the occasion of his return to London after a lengthened
absence in the provinces. It was a caricature imitation of the famous
picture “Napoleon’s Return from Elba.”
In the foreground Anderson was seen affecting the attitude of the great
man; above his head fluttered an enormous banner, bearing the words “The
Wonder of the World;” while, behind him, and somewhat lost in the shade,
the Emperor of Russia and several other monarchs stood in a respectful
posture. As in the original picture, the fanatic admirers of the Wizard
embraced his knees, while an immense crowd received him triumphantly. In
the distance could be seen the equestrian statue of the Iron Duke, who,
hat in hand, bowed before him, the Great Wizard; and, lastly, the very
dome of St. Paul’s bent towards him most humbly.
At the bottom was the inscription,
“RETURN OF THE NAPOLEON OF NECROMANCY.”
Regarded seriously, this picture would be found a puff in very bad
taste; but, as a caricature, it is excessively comic. Besides, it had
the double result of making the London public laugh, and bringing a
great number of shillings into the skillful puffer’s pockets.
When Anderson is about to leave a town where he has exhausted all his
resources, and has nothing more to hope, he still contrives to make one
more enormous haul.
He orders from the first jeweller in the town a silver vase, worth
twenty or twenty-five pounds; he hires, for one evening only, the
largest theatre or room in the town, and announces that in the Wizard’s
parting performance the spectators will compete to make the best pun.
The silver vase is to be the prize of the victor.
A jury is chosen among the chief people of the town to decide with the
public on the merits of each pun.
It is agreed that they will applaud if they think a pun good; they will
say nothing to a passable one, but groan at a bad one.
The room is always crowded, for people come less to see the performance,
which they know by heart, than to display their wit publicly. Each makes
his jest, and receives a greeting more or less favorable; and, lastly,
the vase is decreed to the cleverest among them.
Any other than Anderson would be satisfied with the enormous receipts
his performance produces; but the Great Wizard of the North has not
finished yet. Before the audience leaves the house he states that a
short-hand writer had been hired by him to take down all the puns, and
that they will be published as a Miscellany.
As each spectator who has made a joke likes to see it in print, he
purchases a copy of the book for a shilling. An idea of the number of
these copies may be formed from the number of puns they contain. I have
one of these books in my possession, printed at Glasgow in 1850, in
which there are 1091 of these facetiæ.
The charlatan style of Anderson’s bills is most amusing--at least I
regard it as such; for it is not presumable that Anderson ever intended
sincerely to praise himself in such an outrageous way. If I am mistaken,
it would be more than vanity on his part, when I take into consideration
his conjuring talent. Hence I believe him to be very modest at heart.