_GAMES OF SKILL_
CONJURING
There are no theatres in China, like the Egyptian Hall in London, that
is to say, conjuring theatres. The conjurer has to perform in public,
in the squares, and places like his European brethren at the different
fairs. Conjurers are often hired to perform at family parties, and never
fail to win great applause. The Chinese conjurer is, at the same time,
an acrobat, and knows both his trades very well indeed. The proverbial
skill of our artists is really astonishing. The performance is generally
opened with acrobatic feats, and after having swallowed swords, juggled
with weights, and gone through exercises of this description, the acrobat
transforms himself into a magician. He throws off his gown, and as it
falls to the earth, asks the spectators what object they would like
to see. Something very difficult to produce is naturally chosen, and
the sorcerer begins to make strange gestures with his fingers. He then
approaches the gown, mutters some mysterious word of command to it,
mesmerises it with strange mesmeric passes, and suddenly the gown is seen
to rise from the earth, and rises and rises until the master, drawing
back this moving curtain, discloses beneath it smoking dishes, or a large
bowl filled with water, in which quantities of gold and silver fish
are disporting themselves. This is one of the tricks that I have seen
performed, and have never been able to understand how it was done. But
one of my friends told me of something that he had seen which was much
more astonishing. One day, in the course of one of these performances,
the conjurer asked his audience to name what they desired to see. One of
the spectators asked for a pumpkin. The conjurer, at first, pretended
that that was out of the question, as it was not in season. But, the
public insisting, he gave way. He then took a pumpkin seed and planted
it in the earth, and made his son—a lad of four or five years—lie down,
and thrust his knife into his throat, as if he had been slaughtering an
animal. The blood poured out into a pot, and when it had been collected
the conjurer watered with it the spot where he had just planted the seed.
He then covered the corpse up with a cloth, and placed a wooden bell
over the seed. A few moments later a sprout was seen rising from the
soil, which grew and grew and burst into flower. The flower fell, and
the pumpkin showed itself, growing with extraordinary rapidity. When it
was ripe, the magician picked it off its stalk, showed it to the public,
and began making his collection. He then lifted up the cloth from his
son, and instead of disclosing a corpse, brought to light a very healthy
youth, who did not bear the vestige of a wound. All this was done with
surprising neatness.
Another of my friends told me, on his return from Pekin, that he had
seen still more extraordinary things. One day, after the literary
examinations, the candidates clubbed together and sent for a troupe of
conjurers. The chief, having shown certain tricks, asked if the audience
would like to see some rare thing that they might choose. “A peach,”
cried one of the spectators. It was then the month of March, when the
land is still ice-bound, especially in the north of China. “A peach!”
said the conjurer; “that is the only fruit that it is impossible for
me to procure. At this time of the year, peaches can only be found in
Paradise.”
“But as you are a magician,” was the answer, “you ought to be able to
bring one down from heaven.”
After grumbling a good deal, the conjurer said he would try what he
could do for them, and began weaving a roll of ribbon, which he cast
into the air, and which took the shape of a ladder, which went up and up
to a tremendous height. He then placed a child on this ladder, who ran
up the rungs with the agility of a monkey, and was soon lost to sight
in the clouds. Some moments passed, when suddenly a peach fell from the
skies. The magician picked it up, cut it into slices, and offered it to
the audience. It was a real peach. Hardly had the peach been eaten, when
something else fell from the skies. Horror! It was the head of the child,
which was speedily followed by the trunk and the limbs. The sorcerer
picked them up with tears in his eyes, and said that the audience was
to blame for the loss of his child by its absurd request, and that the
guardians of Paradise had taken his child for a thief, and had cut him
into pieces. The spectators, touched at the sight of his sorrow, and
believing that they were really to blame for a murder, and wanting to do
all in their power to comfort the unhappy father, made a collection,
and presented him with a handsome sum of money. Meanwhile, the magician
had placed the fragments of his son’s corpse in a box, which he always
carried round with him. As soon as he had received the amount of the
subscription, he opened the box and cried out—
“Come forth, my child, and thank these kind gentlemen.” And out sprang
the youth, alive and well.
In concluding this chapter, I must tell a story about a ventriloquist. It
was at a dinner given by a gentleman, who, as a rule, was very unhappy
in life, and bored himself dreadfully when alone. He used to say that
when he had no friends to talk to, the softest carpets appeared to him
like bundles of needles, and the most beautifully decorated walls like
bucklers. He used to write poems to kill time. When people knocked at his
door he used to ask them to stay to dinner, whether he knew their names
or not. That day not one of the guests who sat at the table knew any
of the others. The conversation turned on the question, which sound was
the most agreeable. One of the spectators said, “It is the sound of the
shuttle as it flies across the loom, or the voice of a reading child.”
“No, no; that is too serious,” said the host.
“Then it is the neighing of horses, or the concert of lady musicians.”
“No; that is too noisy,” said the host.
“The rattle of the pawns at chess played by women.”
“Nor that. That is too monotonous.”
The fourth guest said nothing, but continued quietly emptying his glass.
“What is your opinion?” asked the others.
“I have no opinion to give,” said he; “but I should like to tell you
about the sounds I heard in Pekin. They seem to me to be much superior to
any others. They were the different noises emitted by a ventriloquist. He
was seated behind a screen, where there was only a chair, a table, and
a fan, and a ruler. He rapped the ruler on the table to enforce silence,
and, when everybody had ceased speaking, there was suddenly heard the
barking of a dog; then the movements of a woman, waked by the noisy
brute, who shook her husband to say tender things to him. We were just
expecting to hear a duet of love between the two spouses when the noise
of a crying child was heard. Then we heard the mother giving the breast
to the baby, and the sound of it drinking and crying at the same time.
The mother tried to console it, and then rose to change its clothes.
Meanwhile, another child, waking in its bed, began to make a noise; its
father scolded it, whilst the younger child continued crying at its
mother’s breast. Then the whole family go back to bed and fall asleep.
The patter of a mouse is heard. It climbs up some vase and upsets it, and
we hear the clatter as it falls. The woman coughs in her sleep. Cries
of ‘Fire, fire,’ are heard. The mouse has upset the lamp, and set fire
to the bed-curtains. The husband and the wife, wakened, begin to shout
and scream, the children cry, thousands of people come running up, and
vociferate; thousands of children cry, dogs bark, the walls come crashing
down, squibs and crackers explode—it seems a general _sauve-qui-peut_.
The fire-brigade comes racing up; water is pumped up in torrents, and
hisses in the flames. It was all so true to life that all present were
about to rise to their feet and run away, thinking that fire really had
broken out, when a second blow of the ruler was struck on the table,
and the most complete silence ensued. We rushed behind the screen, but
there was nothing except the ventriloquist, his table, his chair, and his
ruler.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]