Jean-Eugne Robert-Houdin

The Inventive Genius of a Sugar-baker—Philippe the Magician—His Comic Adventures—Description of his Performance—Exposition of 1844—The King and Royal Family visit my Automata.

THE long looked-for change in my fortunes had at length arrived; my automata had gained me a certain degree of reputation, and I was making arrangements to commence my performances. Before describing these, I must devote a few pages, however, to some account of my immediate predecessor in the conjuring art, whose success in Paris at this period was most brilliant: I mean Philippe, the renowned magician, sorcerer, sleight-of-hand performer, and conjurer.

Philippe Talon was born at Alais, near NÎmes; after having carried on his sweet trade of confectioner for some time in Paris, his want of success compelled him to expatriate himself. London, that pays de Cocagne, the perspective El Dorado, was close at hand; so our tradesman proceeded thither, and soon set up again in trade in the capital of the United Kingdom. The French confectioner had fair chance of success, for in addition to the English liking for sweet-stuff, French confectionary has ever enjoyed a reputation in that country, only comparable with that which real English blacking has so long held in France. Still, despite these advantages, it seems that fresh difficulties arose; the fogs of the Thames, or, as some say, dangerous speculations, melted the fragile wares; the comfitures suffered a decided discomfiture.

Talon packed up a second time and went to Aberdeen, to ask shelter from the Scotch mountaineers, to whom he offered in exchange his seductive cates. Unfortunately, the Scotch of Aberdeen, differing greatly from the mountaineers in La Dame Blanche, wear neither silk stockings nor patent leather shoes, and consume very few jujubes and tarts. Thus, the new shop would soon have undergone the fate of the other two, had not Talon’s inventive genius found an issue from this precarious position.

The confectioner rightly thought that, in order to sell wares, they must be known; and in order for them to be known, they must be made known. Relying on this judicious reasoning, Talon soon compelled the Aberdonians to eat his sugar-plums, and, better still, to pay for them.

At this period, there was a company of actors at Aberdeen much in the same condition as Talon’s “goodies;” they were neglected, and no one cared to try them. In vain had the manager prepared a pantomime full of tricks and blue-fire, the public remained deaf to his repeated appeals.

One fine day, Talon called on the Scotch impresario: “I have a proposal to make to you, sir,” he said, without further preface, “which, if accepted, will fill your theatre, I am convinced.”

“Pray explain yourself, sir,” the manager said, nibbling at the bait, but putting little faith in a promise which he had good reasons for believing difficult of realization.

“It is simply,” Talon continued, “to join to the attraction of your performance a lottery, for which I will pay all the cost. This shall be the arrangement: each spectator, on entering, must pay, in addition, the sum of sixpence, giving him a claim—

“1. To a paper of mixed sugar-plums.

“2. To a lottery-ticket, by which he may gain the first prize, of the value of five pounds.”

Talon also promised a new performance, the secret of which he confided to the manager under the seal of discretion.

These proposals being accepted, the bargain was soon completed, and the intelligent Talon had not deceived himself. The public attracted by the bonbons, the pantomime, and the promised surprise, filled the theatre.

The lottery was drawn; the prize made one person happy, and the other twelve or fifteen hundred spectators, provided with their papers of sugar-plums, consoled their disappointment by exchanging their “goodies.” Under such favorable circumstances the pantomime was found charming.

Still, this piece was drawing to its close, and the promised surprise had not yet come off, when suddenly the dancers in the ballet arranged themselves in a circle, a sharp cry was heard, and a magnificent Punch bounded on to the stage. It was Talon disguised by two cotton humps and the traditional costume.

Our new artist performed Punch’s eccentric dance with rare talent, and was heartily applauded. To thank the audience for their kind reception, the dancer tried to make a bow, but managed it so clumsily that he fell over on his side and could not rise again. The performers hastened to pick the wounded man up; he spoke in a faint voice, and complained of a broken rib. He earnestly asked for a box of Morrison’s pills, and a servant hastened to bring him pills of an enormous size.

The public, who till then had pitied poor Punch’s pain, and remained silent sympathisers, now began to scent a jest. First they smiled, and then they laughed when the patient, taking one of the pills, pretended to swallow it. Half a dozen having followed the same road, Punch found himself perfectly recovered, so, making a polite bow, he retired amidst shouts of laughter.

Philippe had given his first performance—the confectioner had exchanged the barley-sugar trick for the magician’s wand.

This burlesque scene met with extraordinary success, and the receipts swelled day by day, until the confectioner had disposed of all his wares. Then he set off to give a specimen of his new talent in other towns.

I do not know whence the new magician acquired his art, but it is probable (historical gaps are always filled up with probabilities) that Talon had learned conjuring, as he had Punch’s dance, to amuse his friends. One thing is certain, the performance he offered the worthy Aberdonians was not first rate, and it was not till he left that town that he made the great improvement to which he owed his future reputation.

Henceforth, laying aside his comfitures and Punch’s garb and squeak, Philippe (the name the conjurer assumed) traversed England, giving at first very modest performances. Then, his repertory becoming gradually increased by a certain number of tricks he picked up from conjurers of the day, he attacked the large towns, and proceeded to Glasgow, where he built a wooden theatre in which to give his performances.

While the magic temple was building, Philippe noticed among the bricklayer’s lads a young fellow who seemed to have remarkable intelligence, and he eventually engaged him to appear on the stage as assistant magician. Macalister (as his assistant was called) had a natural genius for tricks and models; he required no apprenticeship in this mysterious art, and indeed soon invented some tricks which attracted his master’s attention.

From this moment, either by Macalister’s help or for some other reason, success attended Philippe everywhere, and he began acting in theatres. After a lengthened tour through England he crossed over to Dublin, where he acquired two new tricks, which were the foundation of his future reputation.

Three Chinese, who had come to France to perform some very startling tricks, attempted some performances at Paris, which, owing to their ill success, caused a quarrel among the Celestials. In France as well as in China, “horses fight when there is no hay in the manger,” and, though our jugglers did not have recourse to such extremities, they separated. One of them proceeded to Dublin, where he taught Philippe the “gold-fish” trick, as well as the “rings.” On learning the first of these tricks, Philippe was in great trouble about performing it, for he wanted a robe. He could not assume a Chinese costume, as his face had none of the distinguishing features of a mandarin, nor could he dream of a dressing-gown, for however rich it might have been, the public would not have endured such a slight. Hence Philippe extricated himself from the difficulty by assuming the attire of a magician. It was a daring innovation, for, till that period, no conjurer had ventured to take on himself the responsibility of such a costume.

Once possessed of these two tricks, Philippe formed the project of returning to his ungrateful country; he, therefore, came to Paris in the summer of 1841, and performed at the Salle Montesquieu. The gold-fish and ring tricks, a brilliant costume, a magnificent pointed cap, and a comfortably arranged room, soon attracted large audiences, among whom was the manager of a Vienna theatre. Delighted with the performance, the latter on the spot offered the conjurer an engagement at half profits, which Philippe willingly accepted. As the Salle Montesquieu was used for public balls during the winter, this engagement also allowed him time to have a theatre constructed in readiness for his return to Paris.

The opening of the room Bonne-Nouvelle created a sensation in Paris when Philippe came back from his Austrian tour, and crowds went to see the gold-fish trick, which the performances in the Salle Montesquieu had made known.

My reader will have the kindness to accompany me to the Palais des Prestiges (as the new temple of magic was christened), and we will attend one of the magician’s performances.

On reaching the end of the first-floor passage in the Bonne-Nouvelle Bazaar, you passed through a doorway, and were quite surprised to find yourself in a room excellently adapted for this style of performance. There were stalls, pit, gallery, and boxes; the decorations were most elegant, and, above all, there was plenty of room to stretch your legs.

An orchestra composed of six musicians of doubtful talent executed a symphony to the accompaniment of the mÉlophone, a species of accordeon recently invented by a man of the name of Leclerc, who undertook the musical arrangements of the palace.

The curtain rises.

To the great surprise of the spectators the stage is in perfect darkness.

A gentleman dressed in black emerges from a side door and walks towards us. It is Philippe: I recognise him by the ProvenÇal twang of his accent. All the other spectators take him for the manager, and fear they are about to hear some painful intelligence, as this gentleman holds a pistol in his hand.

Their uncertainty is, however, soon dispelled, for Philippe introduces himself. He states that he has been delayed in his preparations, but, in order to save time, he will light the innumerable candles on his stage by firing a pistol. Although a fire-arm is not required for the experiment, and is only intended to throw powder in the spectators’ eyes, the candles are suddenly lighted at the sound of the detonation.

The audience applaud vociferously, and deservedly so, for this trick is remarkably striking. However much it may be applauded, the time it requires for preparation, and the mortal terror it occasions the performer, are beyond recompense.

In fact, like all experiments in which static electricity plays the chief part, this magic inflammation is not infallible. When this misfortune occurs, the position of the operator is the more embarrassing, as the phenomenon has been announced as the result of magic. Now, a magician must be omnipotent, or, if he be not so, he most avoid at all risks any failure which may lower his prestige in the eyes of the audience.

The stage once lighted, Philippe commenced his performance. The first part, composed of very average tricks, was relieved by the manoeuvres of some curious automata. For instance:

The Cossack, which should have been called the Grimacer, so quaint were the contortions in which it indulged. This Cossack was also a very clever juggler, for it passed into its pocket with considerable skill various articles of jewelry its master had borrowed from the spectators.

The magic peacock, which uttered its unmelodious screech, expanded its gorgeous plumes, fed from its master’s hand, &c.

And lastly, a Harlequin, like the one I repaired for Torrini.

After the first part of the performance, the curtain fell to enable preparations to be made for a scene called in the bills, “A Festival at a Palace in Nankin.” This was an attractive title for those who dealt in that description of cloth, but was only chosen to call to the spectator’s memory the Chinese trick, which would end the performance.

When the curtain rose again the stage was entirely transformed. The tablecloths had been replaced by brocades glistening with gold and precious stones (at least, they looked so at a distance); the candles, although so numerous before, had been multiplied, and gave the stage the appearance of a fiery furnace, the veritable abode of an ally of the Evil One.

The magician made his appearance in a costume which, in the public admiration, it must have exhausted the riches of Golconda to buy, and the Festival of Nankin commenced with the very clever trick derived from the Chinese.

Philippe took up several rings about eight inches in diameter, and intertwined them into chains and knots with the greatest possible ease. Then suddenly, when it seemed impossible for him to unravel his handiwork, he blew upon them, and the rings fell separately at his feet. This trick produced a charming illusion.

The one that succeeded it, and which I never saw performed by any one else, was quite equal to the preceding one in interest.

Macalister, the Scotch bricklayer (who on the stage was a negro of the name of Domingo), brought in on a table two sugar-loaves still covered with that horrible paper which the honest grocer sells at the price of colonial wares. Philippe borrowed a dozen handkerchiefs (not from accomplices), and after placing them in a blunderbuss, he fired at one of the sugar-loaves chosen by the audience. He then broke it asunder with an axe, and all the handkerchiefs were found in it.

Next came Fortunatus’s hat. Philippe, after producing from this hat, which he had borrowed from a spectator, an innumerable number of objects, at last pulled out enough feathers to make a bed. The most amusing part of this trick consisted in the conjurer making a lad kneel down, who was completely buried in this avalanche of feathers.

Another striking trick was the one called “The Kitchen of Parafaragarmus.” At Philippe’s request two schoolboys came on the stage, whom he dressed, one as scullion, the other as professed cook. Thus metamorphosed, the two young cordons bleus underwent all sorts of pleasantries and mystifications. (This was a trick of Castelli’s school.)

The conjurer then proceeded to perform the trick; for this purpose he suspended from a tripod an enormous copper caldron full of water, and ordered the two lads to put in it dead pigeons, an assortment of vegetables, and plenty of seasoning. Then he lit some spirits of wine under the caldron, and pronounced some magical incantations. At his voice, the pigeons, returning to life, flew out of the caldron; while the water, vegetables, and seasoning had entirely disappeared.

Philippe usually ended the evening’s performance with the famous Chinese trick, to which he had given the pompous name of “Neptune’s Basins, or the Gold-Fish.”

The magician, clothed in his brilliant costume, mounted on a sort of low table, which isolated him from the stage. After a few manoeuvres to prove he had nothing about him, he threw a shawl at his feet, and, on lifting it up, he displayed a glass basin filled with water, in which gold-fish swam about. This was thrice repeated, with the same result; but, in his desire to improve on his brethren of the Celestial Empire, the French conjurer had added a variation to their trick, which gave an amusing termination to the performance. Throwing the shawl on the ground for the fourth time, several animals, such as rabbits, ducks, chickens, &c., emerged from it. This trick was performed, if not gracefully, at least in a way to excite the lively admiration of the spectators.

Generally, Philippe was very amusing in his entertainment. His experiments were performed with a good deal of conscientiousness, skill, and dash, and I have no hesitation in saying that the conjurer of the Bonne-Nouvelle Bazaar might then be considered one of the best of the day. Philippe quitted Paris the following year, and has since performed entirely in foreign countries, or the provinces.

Philippe’s success would not have failed to rekindle my desire to realize my theatrical schemes, had not, at this period, a misfortune hurled me into a state of profound wretchedness. I lost my wife.

Left with three young children, I was obliged to undertake their charge, although so unskilled in household cares. Thus, at the end of five years, robbed by some, deceived by others, I had almost lost all that my labor had produced me, and was going to ruin.

Forced by my intolerable position, I determined on reconstituting my home, and I married again. I shall have so many occasions of speaking of my new wife, that I shall refrain at present from praising her according to her deserts; besides, I am not sorry to abridge these domestic details, which, though personally important to me, only possess a very slight interest in my story.

The Exhibition of 1844 was about to open, so I asked and obtained leave to exhibit some specimens of my skill. The site granted me, opposite the door of honor, was undoubtedly one of the best in the hall, and I erected a circular stand, on which I placed a specimen of all the mechanical pieces I had as yet made. Among these my Writer took the first place, which M. G—— had been kind enough to lend me for the occasion. I may say I enjoyed all the honor of the exhibition, for my productions were constantly surrounded by a crowd of spectators, who were all the more eager as the performance was gratis.

Louis Philippe paid daily visits to the Palace of Industry, and as my automata had been pointed out as deserving his attention, he evinced a wish to see them, and gave me twenty hours’ notice of his visit. I thus had time enough to make all my arrangements. The king arrived, holding the Comte de Paris by the hand, and I stood on his left hand to explain my various articles. The Duchess of Orleans was by my side, and the other members of the royal family formed a circle around his majesty, while the crowd, kept back by the keepers of the palace and the police agents, left an open space round my exhibition.

The king was in a charming humor, and seemed to take a pleasure in all I showed him. He frequently asked me questions, and missed no occasion to show his excellent judgment. At the end of the sÉance, the party stopped before my Writer. This automaton, it must be borne in mind, wrote or drew according to the question asked. The king made the following inquiry: “How many inhabitants does Paris contain?” The writer raised its left hand as if to indicate that it required a sheet of paper, on receiving which, it wrote very distinctly, “Paris contains 998,964 inhabitants.”

The paper passed from the king’s hand into those of the royal family, and all admired the beauty of the writing; but I saw that Louis Philippe had a critique to offer, his smile proved that plainly enough. Hence I was not surprised when, pointing to the paper which had come back to him, he said:

“Monsieur Robert-Houdin, you did not, perhaps, recollect that this number will not agree with the new census, which is almost completed?”

Contrary to my expectations, I felt quite at ease with my illustrious visitors.

“Sire!” I replied, with sufficient assurance for a man not much accustomed to the society of crowned heads, “I hope at that period my automaton will be intelligent enough to make any necessary corrections.”

The king appeared satisfied with this reply, and I took advantage of his good humor to mention that my Writer was also a poet, and explained that, if he would deign to offer an unfinished quatrain, the automaton would fill up the rhyme in the fourth line. The king chose the following:

L’EspÉrance, the writer added to the fourth line.

“That is really charming,” the king said to me. “But, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” he added, in a confidential tone, “you must have given your writer instructions in the poetic art?”

“Yes, sire, as far as my weak powers permitted.”

“Then my compliment is merited more by the master than the pupil.”

I bowed to thank the king as much for his compliment as for the delicate manner in which it was conveyed.

“Now then, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,” Louis Philippe continued, “I see by the notice attached to this automaton that it is a draughtsman, in addition to its merits as a writer and poet. If it be so, come,” he said, addressing the Comte de Paris, “choose your own subject for a drawing.”

Thinking to cause the prince an agreeable surprise, I had recourse to palmistry to influence his decision, and he, consequently selected a crown. The automaton began drawing the outline of this regal ornament with great skill, and every one followed its movements with interest, when, to my great disappointment, the point of the draughtsman’s pencil broke, and the crown could not be finished. I was going to recommence the experiment, when the king declined, with thanks.

“As you have learned to draw,” he said to the Comte de Paris, “you can finish this for yourself.”

This performance, besides being the prelude of the kindly interest the Orleans family afterwards displayed towards me, probably exerted some influence on the decision of the jury, which granted me a silver medal.