The fakirs made a mango tree grow before your very eyes. It is one
of the classic tricks of India. It was my task after the show was
over to clear the place where the tree had miraculously grown. I
could never find any sign of preparation. A bowl of water would be
brought in and shown to the spectators. The fakir would sit down in
such a way as to hide it from the audience. In a little while he
would step aside and the bowl would be filled with live goldfish. I
could never discover any mechanism for this. A fakir would say to a
spectator:
"That is a valuable ring you have on your finger. You must not lose
it, But, look, you have lost it already. I have it on my finger."
And, indeed, he would have it on his finger.
There was a little Malayan girl with whom I flirted, thinking I could
learn the secret of the tricks from her. At first she was very shy,
but then became more friendly. She did tell me how some of the magic
was done, but only some of the minor effects. I learned them quite
well, and to this day can perform them. The major spectacles, she,
herself, thought were miracles. It seems to me impossible for any
European ever to learn the more important secrets of these sorcerers.
The old masters, accustomed to be worshipped as beings endowed with
supernatural powers, hold themselves inaccessible. The two chief
fakirs of our company, with their long beards and a poise made
perfect by lifelong training of the will, made a sublime picture.
One Sunday morning I sat on the beach washing my clothes. Three men
came up, stopped and gazed at me. They looked me over as though I
were beef on the hoof. I have always been big-framed and powerfully
muscled, with an arm like iron, and shoulders as wide as a barn door,
bulging with sinews.
"How old are you, boy?"