An Optimist Manager--Three Spectators in a Room--A Magical
Collation--The Colchester Public and the Nuts--I return to
France--I give up my Theatre--A Farewell Tour--I retire to St.
Gervais--An Academician’s Predictions.
A short time after this performance my engagement with Mitchell
terminated.
Instead of returning to France, as I should much have desired after so
lengthened an absence, I thought it better to continue my excursions in
the English provinces till the end of September, when I hoped to reopen
my theatre at Paris.
Consequently, I drew up an itinerary, in which the first station would
be Cambridge, celebrated for its university; and set out.
Possibly the reader may feel no inclination to follow me on this tour,
but he may be assured I will not drag him after me, especially as my
second passage through England presents hardly any details worth
mentioning here. I will content myself with recounting a few incidents,
and among them a small adventure that happened to me, as it may serve
for a lesson for all professionals, that it is dangerous both to their
self-esteem and interests to drain public curiosity too deep in the
various places whither the hope of good receipts attracts them.
I intended to go straight from London to Cambridge, but, half way, I
took a fancy to stop and give a few performances at Hertford, a town
containing some ten thousand people.
My two first performances were most successful, but on the third, seeing
that the number of spectators had greatly fallen off, I decided on
giving no more.
My manager argued against this resolution, and offered me reasons which
certainly had some value.
“I assure you, sir,” he said, “that nothing is spoken of in the town but
your performance. Every one is asking if you are going to perform
to-morrow, and two young gentlemen have already begged me to keep them
places if you intend to remain for to-morrow.”
Génet, my manager, was certainly the best fellow in the world; but I
ought to have distrusted his counsels, knowing, as I did, his
disposition to look at the bright side of everything. He was the
incarnation of optimism, and the calculations he made about this
performance went far beyond those of the inkstand inventor. To hear him
talk, we should have to double the price of places, and increase our
staff to keep back the crowd that would rush to see me.
While jesting Génet on his exaggerated ideas, I still allowed him to
send out the bills for the performance he so much desired.
The next evening, at half-past seven, I went, according to my usual
custom, to order the box-office to be opened, and the public allowed
admission. The performance would commence at eight precisely.
I found my manager quite alone--not a soul had arrived yet. Still, that
did not prevent him greeting me with a radiant air--though that was his
normal condition.
“No one has yet come to the theatre,” he said, rubbing his hands, as if
giving me first-rate intelligence; “but that is a good sign.”
“The deuce it is! Come, my dear Génet, I must have that proved.”
“It is easy enough to understand. You must have noticed, sir, that at
our former performances we only had the country gentry.”
“Nothing proves it was so; still, I will allow it. Now go on.”
“Well, it is very simple. The tradespeople have not come to see you yet,
and I expect them to-night. They are always so busy, that they usually
defer a pleasure till the last moment. Have patience, and you will soon
see the rush we shall have to contend against.”
And he looked towards the entrance door like a man perfectly convinced
that his predictions would be fulfilled.
We had still half an hour--more than sufficient to fill the room--so I
waited. But this half-hour passed in vain expectation. Not a soul came
to the box-office.
“It is now eight,” I said, drawing out my watch, “and no spectators have
arrived. What do you say to that, Génet?”
“Oh, sir! your watch is too fast--I am sure of it for----“
My manager was about to support his allegation by some proof drawn from
his brain, when the town-hall clock struck. Génet, finding his reasons
exhausted, contented himself with silence, while casting a despairing
glance towards the door.
At length, I saw his face grow purple with delight.
“Ah! I said so,” he exclaimed, pointing to two young men coming towards
us. “The public are beginning to arrive. They doubtlessly mistook the
hour. Come, every man to his post!”
Génet’s joy did not last long, for he soon recognized in these visitors
the two young gentlemen who had taken their places the previous day.
“You have kept our seats?” they said to the optimist, as they hurried
in.
“Yes, gentlemen, yes; you can go in,” Génet replied, making an
imperceptible grimace. And he led them in complacently, while striving
to explain the emptiness of the room by saying it was only momentary. He
had hardly returned to the box-office, when a gentleman of a certain age
hurried up the steps, and rushed towards the pay place with a haste my
previous success probably justified.
“Is there any room left?” he asked, in a panting voice.
My poor Génet did not know how to reply to this question, which seemed a
jest; he, therefore, merely muttered one of those common-place phrases
usually employed to gain time.
“Well, sir, to tell you the truth--I should say----“
“I know--I know: there are no places left. I expected it. But be kind
enough to let me go in, and I will find some corner to stand in.”
“But, sir, allow me to tell you----“
“No matter.”
“But if, on the contrary----“
“All the better. There, give me a stall-ticket, and I will see if I can
find room in the passage.”
Being at the end of his arguments, Génet supplied the ticket.
You can imagine the surprise of the eager visitor when, on entering the
house, he found that he formed in his own person exactly a third of the
audience.
For my own part, I soon made up my mind. After compounding with my
conscience, by granting the usual quarter of an hour’s grace to the
laggards, and seeing no one come, I informed my three spectators that,
being only anxious to be agreeable to them, I would perform.
This unexpected news produced a triple hurrah in the house in the shape
of thanks.
My orchestra consisted of eight amateurs of the town; and these
gentlemen, as a compliment to my French origin, always played as
overture the “Girondins” and the “Marseillaise,” with the assistance of
the big drum, and never failed to terminate the performance with “God
save the Queen.”
The patriotic introduction over, I began my performance.
My audience were collected on the first row of stalls, so that, in order
to address my explanations to them, I should have had to keep my head
constantly down, which would have eventually become troublesome. Hence I
determined to look round the house, and address the benches just as if
they were well covered.
For their part, my audience made all possible row to prove their
satisfaction. They stamped, applauded, shouted, so as almost to make me
believe the house full.
The whole performance was a mutual exchange of compliments, and the
spectators saw the last of my tricks arrive with considerable regret.
This, however, was not announced on my bills, for I reserved it as the
best of my surprises.
“Gentlemen,” I said to my audience, “as I require three persons to
assist me in performing this trick, will any gentlemen present have the
kindness to come on the stage?”
At this comic invitation the public rose _en masse_, and obligingly
placed themselves at my disposal.
After my three assistants had promised to stand at the front of the
stage and not look round, I gave each an empty glass, announcing that it
would be filled with excellent punch so soon as they expressed the wish,
and I added that to facilitate the performance, they must repeat after
me a few cabalistic words borrowed from the enchanter Merlin.
This jest was only proposed in order to gain time, for while we were
performing it with bursts of laughter, a change was being carried out
behind my kind assistants. The table on which I did my tricks had been
removed, and another brought forward on which an excellent supper was
spread, and a bowl of punch crackled in the centre.
Génet, clothed in black and a white cravat, and armed with a spoon, was
stimulating a spectral flame, and when my assistants expressed a wish to
see their glasses filled with punch, he said, in his most solemn voice,
“Turn round, and your wishes will be accomplished.”
My musicians had been spectators of this little scene, so I begged them
to join us and try the virtues of my inexhaustible bowl. This invitation
was joyfully accepted, the table was surrounded, the glasses were filled
and emptied, and we passed two agreeable hours in performing this
experiment.
Owing to the prodigality of my “inexhaustible bowl of punch,” my guests
were all affected by a tender expansion. They almost embraced on
parting; however, they contented themselves with shaking hands and
vowing an undying friendship.
The instruction to be drawn from this anecdote is that, in offering a
farewell to the public, you should not wait till there are none left to
receive it.
On leaving Hertford, I went to Cambridge, thence to Bury St. Edmunds,
Ipswich and Colchester, always taking receipts proportionate to the
importance of the towns. I have only three souvenirs of those five
towns: the failure at Hertford, the enthusiastic reception from the
Cambridge students, and the nuts at Colchester.
But, it will be asked, what connexion can there be between nuts and a
magical performance. A word will explain the fact to the reader, and all
the tribulations this fruit caused me.
It is the custom at Colchester that when a body goes to the theatre he
fills his pockets with nuts. These are cracked and eaten during the
performance as a species of refreshment. Men and women both suffer from
this cracking mania, so that a rolling fire is kept up through the
house, often powerful enough to drown the voice.
Nothing affected my nerves so much as this incessant cracking; my first
performance suffered from it, and despite my efforts to master myself, I
went through the whole performance in a state of irritation. I
consented, however, to perform a second time, but the manager could not
induce me to promise a third. Although he assured me that his actors had
grown quite accustomed to this strange music, and that even a minor
actor might often be seen on the stage calmly cracking a nut while
awaiting the reply, I could not stand it any longer, and left the town.
Most assuredly, the theatres in the smaller English towns are not equal
to those in the cities.
At Colchester my tour was to end, and I was about starting for France,
when Knowles, the Manchester director, remembering my success at his
theatre, proposed to me to take a trip with him through Ireland and
Scotland. We had then reached the month of June, 1849, when Paris was
more than ever agitated by political questions; and theatres only
existed in France as memorials of the past. I did not waste much time in
forming a decision; I started with my English manager.
Our excursion lasted no less than four months, and I did not step on
French soil again till the end of October.
Need I describe the delight with which I presented myself once more
before a Parisian audience, whose kind patronage I had not forgotten?
Those professional men who, like myself, have been long absent from
Paris, will understand it, for they know nothing is so sweet to the
heart as the applause given by a man’s fellow-citizens.
Unfortunately, when I recommenced my performances, I noticed with sorrow
the change which had taken place in my health: the performances which I
formerly went through with no fatigue, now caused me a painful state of
exhaustion.
It was easy to find a reason for this disagreeable change; fatigue, the
incessant thought connected with my performances, and still more the
foggy atmosphere of England, had exhausted my strength. My life had been
in some degree used up during my emigration. I should require a
lengthened rest to restore it, and I could not think of it at this
period, the best part of the season. I could only take precautions for
the future, in case I should find myself suddenly compelled by my health
to stop; so I decided on educating a pupil to take my place in case of
need, and whose labor might assist me in the meanwhile.
A young man of pleasing exterior, and whose talent I was acquainted
with, seemed to offer the conditions I required. My proposals suited
him, and he immediately joined me. The future sleight-of-hand professor
evinced great aptitude and zeal in learning my lessons. I employed him
in a short time to prepare my experiments, then he aided me in the
management of my theatre, and when the summer of 1850 arrived, instead
of closing my rooms as usual, I continued to send out my bills; the only
change was that Hamilton’s name was substituted for mine.
Considering his short period of study, my provisional substitute could
not be yet very expert; still, he pleased, and the public were
satisfied. During this period I enjoyed in the country a repose that had
been long desired.
A man who has made a long journey never feels the fatigue so acutely as
when he proposes to continue his journey after a few moments of rest.
This was what I experienced when, my holiday being ended, I was obliged
to leave the country to begin again the feverish existence of a theatre.
I never felt such lassitude; never had I a greater desire to enjoy
perfect liberty, to renounce those fatigues of an appointed hour, which
may be justly called the collar of misery.
At this word, I see many of my readers start. “Why,” they will say,
“thus call a labor whose object is to astonish an audience, and the
result to gain honor and profit?”
I find myself compelled to prove the justice of the expression.
The reader will easily understand that the fatigue, preoccupation and
responsibility attached to a magical performance do not prevent the
conjurer being subjected to the ordinary sufferings of humanity. Now,
whatever may be the nature of his sufferings or his grief, he must, at
an appointed hour each night, hide them in his bosom, and assume the
mask of happiness and health.
This is, in itself, a painful task, but, believe me, reader, it is not
all; he must--and this is applicable to all professionals--under penalty
of ruin, enliven, animate and excite the public, or, in other words,
give them pleasure for their money.
Can this be always equally easy? In truth, the position artists hold
would be intolerable, did not they find in the sympathy and applause of
the public a gentle recompense which makes them forget the minor
miseries of life.
I may say it with pride, to the last moment of my artist life I only met
with sympathy and kindness; but the more I strove to render myself ever
worthy of them, the more I felt my strength failing me, and the more,
too, increased my desire to live in retirement and freedom.
At last, in January, 1852, judging Hamilton fit to succeed me, I decided
on giving up my establishment to him, and in order that my theatre, the
fruit of my labors, might remain in the family, two contracts were
signed; and on the same day my pupil became my brother-in-law and my
successor.
Still, however desirous an actor may be of retiring into private life,
he very rarely renounces at once and for ever the applause which has
become an agreeable stimulant for him. Hence, no surprise will be felt
on learning that, after a few months’ rest, I proposed to give a few
more performances, as a final parting from the public.
As I had not yet visited Germany, I proceeded to the banks of the Rhine.
Desiring no unnecessary fatigue, I resolved to reserve to myself the
choice of the places where I would perform. I therefore stopped, in
preference, at those festal places called “Baths,” and visited in turn
Baden, Wiesbaden, Homburg, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Spa. Nearly each of my
performances was honored by the presence of one or more of the princes
regnant of the Germanic Confederation.
It was my intention to return to France after my performances at Spa,
but, at the request of M. Engel, manager of a theatre at Berlin, I
retraced my steps, and started for the capital of Prussia.
I had made a six weeks’ engagement with M. Engel; but my success, and
the excellent terms on which I stood with my manager, induced me to
prolong it for three months. I could not have taken a more brilliant
leave of the public: for, probably, I never saw greater crowds run after
my performances. Thus the reception I obtained from the Berliner will
ever remain one of my pleasantest reminiscences.
From Berlin I proceeded straight to the neighborhood of Blois, to the
retreat I had selected.
Whatever might be my satisfaction in enjoying the freedom I had so long
desired, it would soon have undergone the fate common to all our
pleasures, and have grown flat by the mere effect of enjoyment, had I
not reserved for these blessed hours of leisure studies in which I hoped
to find a perennial source of amusement. After gaining a fortune by
labors unjustly regarded as futile, I was about to devote myself to
serious researches, as I had been formerly advised by a member of the
Institute.
The circumstances to which I allude date back to the Exposition of 1844,
when I submitted my automata and mechanical curiosities.
The jury entrusted with the examination of mechanical instruments, and
designs had come to my productions, and I had repeated the little
performance I had given a few days previously in the presence of Louis
Philippe.
After listening with interest to the details of the numerous
difficulties I had to overcome in making my automata, one of the members
of the jury said to me:
“It is a great pity, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, that you did not apply the
talent you have evinced in fancy objects to serious labors.”
This criticism wounded me the more, because at that period I considered
nothing superior to my works, and in my fairest dreams of the future I
desired no greater glory than that of the skillful inventor of the
“automaton duck.”
“Sir,” I replied, in a tone that betrayed my pique, “I know no works
more serious than those which give a man an honest livelihood. Still, I
am ready to change my views, if you give me the same advice after you
have heard me.
“At the period when I devoted myself to chronometers, I hardly earned
enough to live upon; at present, I have four workmen to help me in
making my automata; and as the least skillful among them earns six
francs a day, you can easily form an idea what I earn myself.
“Now, sir, I ask you, if I ought to return to my old trade?”
My critic was silent, but another member of the jury coming up to me,
said, in a low voice,
“Go on, Monsieur Robert-Houdin--go on; I am convinced that your
ingenious works, after leading you to success, will conduct you straight
to useful discoveries.”
“Monsieur le Baron Séguier,” I replied, in the same key, “I thank you
for your encouraging prediction, and will do my best to prove its
correctness.”[E]
I have followed the advice of the illustrious savant, and find myself
all the better for it.