Chapter VII: Introduction: By Dr. Paul Carus (6)

Nostradamus is said to have constructed a magic mirror of great power. In its shining surface, he conjured up many remarkable visions. But I know of a more wonderful wizard’s glass than that of the French necromancer. It is the “mirror of the mind”—that mystery of mysteries. I am able, at will, to evoke in it a phantasmagoria of the past. I need no aid from cabalistic spells, no burning of incense. Presto!—a picture appears radiant with light and life. I see a wainscoted room in a quaint old mansion. Logs are ablaze on the hearthstone. A boy is ensconced in the deep embrasure of the window. He is immersed in a book, and entirely oblivious of the scene without, where the Snow King is busy laying a white pall upon the frozen earth. Snow flakes like white butterflies skim hither and thither. The wind rumbles mournfully in the chimneys like a lost spirit. It is the witching Christmas Tide, when of old the Magi led by the burning star (the weird pentagram of the Initiates) came from afar to visit the lowly cradle of the Nazarene {124} child. Beautiful old legend! It still haunts these later years of mine, breathing joy and peace ineffable; for is it not an allegory of the search for, and the discovery of, the Lost Word of the Adepts of the Temples—the word that signifies eternal life?

Let us take a peep over the reader’s shoulder, at the volume in his hand. It is the autobiography of “Robert-Houdin, conjurer, author, and ambassador.” And the reader is myself. O vanished years of boyhood: you still live in the magic mirror of memory! And intimately associated with those years is the mystic book of Robert-Houdin. Can I ever forget the enjoyment I had in poring over the faded yellow leaves of that fascinating work? Happy the youth who early dips into its golden pages. The Arabian Nights forms a fitting prologue to it. I followed Houdin in the Conjurer’s Caravan; rejoiced in his successes at the Palais Royal; and in far-off Algeria, watched him exhibiting his magic feats before the Marabouts.

Speaking of this autobiography, Professor Brander Matthews of Columbia College, New York, says: “These _Confidences of a Prestidigitateur_ are worthy of comparison with all but the very best autobiographies—if not with Cellini’s and Franklin’s, at least with Cibber’s and Goldoni’s. Robert-Houdin’s life of himself, quite as well as any of the others, would justify Longfellow’s assertion that ‘autobiography is what biography ought to be.’ ”

In my humble opinion Houdin’s autobiography is worthy to be classed with the best, even that of Cellini and Franklin; yes, even with Chateaubriand’s superb _Memories beyond the Tomb_. It is replete with interesting information about old time necromancers; constructors of automata; good stories of contemporary magicians; exposés of Marabout miracles; and last, but not least, the fascinating adventures of Houdin himself,—the archmaster of modern magic. It bears the stamp of truth on every page, and should be placed in the hands of all students of psychology and pedagogy. His _Trickeries of the Greeks_, an exposé of gambling devices, is also an interesting work and should be read in conjunction with his _Stage Magic_ and _Conjuring and Magic_.

The Confidences end with Houdin’s retirement from the stage to his villa at St. Gervais, near Blois. The book on {125} _Conjuring and Magic_ gives us a slight sketch of his villa and the ingenious contrivances arranged therein for the amusement and mystification of visitors. The curtain, alas, then rings down on the scene. The theatre is left dark and cold. We are told nothing more concerning the great conjurer’s life, or the manner of his death. All is a blank. Through my own efforts, however, and those of my friends made in recent years, at my instigation, I have been able to supply the missing data. It is very entertaining indeed. But let us begin at the beginning.

II.

On a certain day in the year 1843, the Count de l’Escalopier, a scion of the old régime of France, and a great lover of curios, was strolling along the Rue de Vendôme, in the Marais Quarter, of Paris. He stopped to look at some mechanical toys displayed in the window of a dark little shop, over the door of which was painted the following modest sign: “M. Robert-Houdin, Pendules de Précision.” This sign noted the fact that the proprietor was a watchmaker, and that his wares were distinguished for precise running. What particularly attracted the nobleman’s attention was a peculiar looking clock of clearest crystal that ran apparently without works, the invention of M. Robert-Houdin. The Count, who was a great lover of _science amusante_, or science wedded to recreation, purchased the magic clock, and better than that, made the acquaintance of the inventor, the obscure watchmaker, who was destined to become a great prestidigitateur, author, and ambassador. The Count became a frequent visitor at Houdin’s shop, to watch the construction of various automata, which the inventor intended some day to use in public performances. Says Houdin: “A kind of intimacy having thus become established between M. de l’Escalopier and myself, I was naturally led to talk to him of my projects of appearing in public; and, in order to justify them, I had given him, on more than one occasion, specimens of my skill in sleight of hand. Prompted doubtless by his friendly feelings, my spectator steadily applauded me, and gave me the warmest encouragement to put my schemes into actual practice. Count de l’Escalopier, who was the {126} possessor of a considerable fortune, lived in one of those splendid houses which surround the square which has been called _Royale_, or _des Vosges_, according to the color of the flag of our masters of the time being. I myself lived in a humble lodging in the Rue de Vendôme, in the Marais, but the wide disproportion in the style of our respective dwelling-places did not prevent the nobleman and the artist from addressing each other as ‘my dear neighbor,’ or sometimes even as ‘my dear friend.’

]

[21] “The cut represents the magic clock invented by
Robert-Houdin about sixty years ago. This very remarkable
time-piece consists of a dial composed of two juxtaposed
disks of glass, one of which is stationary and carries the
hours, while the other is movable and serves for the motion
of the hands. This latter disk is provided with a wheel
or rather a toothed ring concealed within the metallic
ring forming a dial. The glass column which constitutes
the body of the piece is formed of two tubes which operate
according to the principle of the dial, that is to say,
one is stationary and the other movable. To each of the
extremities of the latter is fixed a wheel. These wheels
gear with transmission pinions which communicate, one of
them at the top with the movable plate of glass of the
dial, and the other at the bottom with the movement placed
in the wooden base which supports the glass shade covering
the clock. All these concealed transmissions are arranged
in a most skillful manner, and complete the illusion. The
movable glass of the dial, carried along by the column,
actuates a small dial-train mounted in the thickness of
the stationary glass, and within an extremely narrow space
in the center of the dial. It is covered by the small hand
and is consequently invisible. The hands are very easily
actuated by it on account of their extreme lightness and
perfect equilibrium.”—_Scientific American, N. Y._

{127}

“My neighbor then being, as I have just stated, warmly interested in my projects, was constantly talking of them; and in order to give me opportunities of practice in my future profession, and to enable me to acquire that confidence in which I was then wanting, he frequently invited me to pass the evening in the company of a few friends of his own, whom I was delighted to amuse with my feats of dexterity. It was after a dinner given by M. de l’Escalopier to the Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Affre, with whom he was on intimate terms, that I had the honor of being presented to the reverend prelate as a mechanician and future magician, and that I performed before him a selection of the best of my experiments.

“At that period—I don’t say it in order to gratify a retrospective vanity—my skill in sleight of hand was of a high order. I am warranted in this belief by the fact that my numerous audiences exhibited the greatest wonderment at my performance, and that the Archbishop himself paid me, in his own handwriting, a compliment which I can not refrain from here relating.

“I had reserved for the last item of my programme a trick which, to use a familiar expression, I had at my fingers’ ends. In effect it was shortly as follows:—After having requested the spectators carefully to examine a large envelope sealed on all sides, I handed it to the Archbishop’s Grand Vicar, begging him to keep it in his own possession. Next, handing to the prelate himself a small slip of paper, I requested him to write thereon, secretly, a sentence, or whatever he might choose to think of; the paper was then folded in four, and (apparently) burnt. But scarcely was it consumed and the ashes scattered to the winds, than, handing the envelope to the Archbishop, I requested him to open it. The first envelope being removed a second was found, sealed in like manner; then another, until a dozen envelopes, one inside another, had been opened, the last containing the scrap of paper restored intact. It was passed from hand to hand, and each read as follows:—

“ ‘Though I do not claim to be a prophet, I venture to predict, sir, that you will achieve brilliant success in your future career.’ {128}

“I begged Monseigneur Affre’s permission to keep the autograph in question, which he very graciously gave me.”

Poor Archbishop Affre; he was killed at the barricades in the Revolution of 1848. Though he confessed that he was no prophet, yet his prediction was fulfilled to the letter. Houdin became the foremost conjurer of his age, of any age in fact, and has left to posterity more than a name:—his fascinating memoirs, and several works in which the psychology of deception is treated in a masterly manner. The slip of paper given to him by the Archbishop he preserved as a religious relic. “I kept it,” he said, “in a secret corner of my pocket-book which I always carried about my person. During my travels in Algeria I had the misfortune to lose both this pocket-book and the precious object it contained.”

After the séance recorded above, the Count de l’Escalopier urged Houdin continually to abandon the watchmaking and mechanical-toy trade and go on the stage as a prestidigitateur. Finally Houdin confessed his inability to do so, owing to lack of means, whereupon the kind-hearted nobleman exclaimed: “_Mon cher ami_, I have at home, at this very moment, ten thousand francs or so, which I really don’t know what to do with. Do me the favor to borrow them for an indefinite period: you will be doing me an actual service.”

But Houdin would not accept the offer, for he was loth to risk a friend’s money in a theatrical speculation. The Count in a state of pique left the shop and did not return for many days. Then he rushed excitedly into the workroom, sank upon a chair, and exclaimed:

“My dear neighbor, since you are determined not to accept a favor from me, I have now come to beg one of you. This is the status of the case. For the last year my desk has been robbed from time to time of very considerable sums of money. In vain have I endeavored to ascertain the thief. I have sent away my servants, one after another. I have had the place watched, changed the locks, and placed secret fastenings on the doors, but none of these safeguards and precautions have foiled the cunning of the miscreant. This very morning a couple of thousand {129} franc-notes disappeared. Think of the frightful position the entire family is placed in. Can you not come to my assistance?”

“Count,” replied Houdin, “I fail to see how I can help you in the present instance. My magic power, unfortunately, extends only to my finger tips.”

“That is true,” said the Count, “but you have a mighty aid in mechanics.”

“Mechanics,” exclaimed the magician. “Stop a bit! I remember when I was a boy at school that I invented a primitive piece of apparatus to apprehend a rascal who was in the habit of stealing my boyish possessions. I will improve upon that idea. Come to see me in a few days.”

Houdin put on his thinking-cap and shut himself up in his workshop.

From his inner consciousness he evolved a singularly ingenious contrivance, designed not only to discover a thief, but to brand him indelibly for his crime. In brief let me describe it. It was an apparatus to be fastened to the inside of a desk. When the desk was unlocked, and the lid raised ever so little, a pistol was discharged; at the same time a claw-like arrangement, attached to a light rod and impelled by a spring, came sharply down on the back of the hand which held the key. This claw was a tatooing instrument. It consisted of “a number of very short but sharp points, so arranged as to form the word _Robber_. These points were brought through a pad impregnated with nitrate of silver, a portion of which was forced by the blow into the punctures, and made the scars indelible for life.”

When the Count saw this apparatus at work, the inventor using a heavily-padded glove to prevent being wounded by the claw, he objected to it strenuously, remarking that he had no right to brand a criminal. That was the province of Justice. He also argued that it would be wrong from a humanitarian standpoint. A poor wretch thus branded could only get rid of it by a horrible self-mutilation. If he failed in his endeavor, it might close the door of repentance forever against him, and class him permanently among the enemies of the social order. “Worse than that,” said the Count, “suppose some member of {130} my family by inadvertence, or through some fatal mistake, should fall a victim to our stern precautions; and then⸺”

“You are quite right!” said Houdin. “I had not thought of those objections. I was carried away by my enthusiasm as an inventor. You are quite right! I will alter the apparatus at once.”

In the place of the branding contrivance, he inserted a kind of cat’s-claw, which would make a slight scratch on the hand—a mere superficial wound, readily healed. The Count was satisfied with the alteration, and the apparatus was secretly fixed to the desk in the nobleman’s bed-room.

In order to stimulate the cupidity of the robber, the Count drew considerable money from his bankers. He even made a pretence of leaving Paris on a trip to a short distance. But the bait did not take. Sixteen days passed away. The Count had almost despaired of catching the culprit, when one morning while reading in his library, which was some little distance from the bed-room, he heard the report of a pistol.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, excitedly. “The robber at last.” Picking up the first weapon to hand, a battle axe from a stand of ancestral armor near by, he ran quickly to the bed-room. There stood his trusted valet, Bernard, who had been in his household for many years.

“What are you doing here?” asked the Count.

With great coolness and audacity, Bernard explained that he had been brought thither by the noise of the explosion, and had just seen a man making his escape down the back stairs. The Count rushed down the stairs only to find the door locked. A frightful thought overcame him: “Could Bernard be the thief?” He returned to the bed-room. The valet, he noticed, kept his right hand behind him. The Count dragged it forcibly in sight, and saw that it was covered with blood.

“Infamous scoundrel!” said the nobleman, as he flung the man from him in disgust.

“Mercy, mercy!” cried the criminal, falling upon his knees. {131}

“How long have you been robbing me?” asked the Count, sternly.

“For nearly two years.”

“And how much have you taken?”

“I cannot tell exactly. Perhaps 15,000 francs, or thereabouts.”

“We will call it 15,000 francs. You may keep the rest. What have you done with the money?”

“I have invested it in Government stock. The scrip is in my desk.”

The thief yielded up the securities to the amount of fifteen thousand francs, and wrote a confession of his guilt, which he signed in the presence of a witness. The kind-hearted nobleman, bidding the valet repent of his crime, forthwith dismissed him from his employ, agreeing not to prosecute him provided he led an honest life. One year from that date, the wretched Bernard died. Remorse hastened his end.

M. de l’Escalopier took the money thus recovered to Houdin, saying: “I do hope, my dear friend, that you will no longer refuse me the pleasure of lending you this sum, which I owe entirely to your ingenuity and mechanical skill. Take it, return it to me just when you like, with the understanding that it is to be repaid only out of the profits of your theatre.”

Overcome by emotion at the generosity of his benefactor, Houdin embraced the Count. “This embrace,” he says, “was the only security which M. de l’Escalopier would accept from me.”

This was the turning point of the conjurer’s life. “It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

With this money Houdin without further delay built in the Palais Royal a little theatre. “The galleries which surround the garden of the Palais Royal are divided,” says Houdin, “into successive arches, occupied by shops. Above these arches there are, on the first floor, spacious suites of apartments, used as public assembly rooms, clubs, cafés, etc. It was in the space occupied by one of these suites, at No. 164 of the Rue de Valois, {132} that I built my theatre, which extended, in width, over three of the above-mentioned arches; and in length the distance between the garden of the Palais Royal and the Rue de Valois, or, in other words, the whole depth of the building.” The dimensions of this miniature theatre were very limited. It would not seat over two hundred people. Though the seats were few in number, their prices were tolerably high. Children were paid for as grown persons.

The Palais Royal was formerly the residence of Cardinal Richelieu, the “Red Duke,” and afterwards became the home of the Orléans family. The Regent d’Orléans, in the reign of Louis XV, experimented with magic mirrors in this building. It was in the Palais Royal that the French Revolution was hatched. Could a more favorable place have been selected in which to start a revolution in conjuring? I think not.

The following is the announcement of Houdin’s first performance, which appeared on the bill-boards of Paris:

Aujourd’hui Jeudi, 3 Juillet 1845. Première Représentation des Soirées Fantastiques de Robert-Houdin.

“On this day,” says Houdin, “by a strange coincidence, the Hippodrome and the ‘Fantastic Soirées’ of Robert-Houdin, the largest and smallest stage in Paris, were opened to the public. The 3d of July, 1845, saw two bills placarded on the walls of Paris; one enormous belonging to the Hippodrome, while the other of far more modest proportions, announced my performances. Still as in the fable of the reed and the oak, the large theatre, in spite of the skill of the managers, has undergone many changes of fortune; while the smaller one has continually enjoyed the public favor. I have sacredly kept a proof of my first bill, the form and color of which have always remained the same since that date. I copy it word for word here, both to {133} furnish an idea of its simplicity, and to display the programme of the experiments I then offered to the public:”—

TO-DAY, THURSDAY, JULY 3, 1845

FIRST REPRESENTATION

OF

THE FANTASTIC SOIRÉES

OF

ROBERT-HOUDIN

AUTOMATA, SLEIGHT OF HAND, MAGIC

The Performance will be composed of entirely novel Experiments invented by M. ROBERT-HOUDIN

AMONG THEM BEING:

THE CABALISTIC CLOCK AURIOL AND DEBUREAU THE ORANGE-TREE THE MYSTERIOUS BOUQUET THE HANDKERCHIEF PIERROT IN THE EGG OBEDIENT CARDS THE MIRACULOUS FISH THE FASCINATING OWL THE PASTRYCOOK OF THE PALAIS ROYAL

TO COMMENCE AT EIGHT O’CLOCK

Box-office open at Half-past Seven

Price of places: Upper Boxes, 1 fr. 50 c.; Stalls, 3 fr.; Boxes, 4 fr.; Dress Circle, 5 fr.

These fantastic evenings soon became popular. When the Revolution of 1848 ruined the majority of Parisian theater managers, Houdin simply locked the door of his hall, and retired to his little workshop to invent new tricks and automata. His loss was very slight, for he was under no great expense. When order was restored, he resumed the _soirées magiques_. The newspapers rallied to his assistance and made playful allusions to his {134} being related to the family of _Robert le Diable_. The leading illustrated journals sent artists to draw pictures of his stage. Houdin found time, amid all his labors, to edit a little paper which he called _Cagliostro_, full of _bon mots_ and pleasantries, to say nothing of cartoons. Copies of this _petit journal pour rire_ were distributed among the spectators at each performance.

As each theatrical season opened, Houdin had some new marvel to present to his audiences. His maxims were: “It is more difficult to support admiration than to excite it.” “The fashion an artist enjoys can only last as long as his talent daily increases.” Houdin had but few, if any, rivals in his day. His tricks were all new, or so improved as to appear new. He swept everything before him. When he went to London for a prolonged engagement, Anderson, the “Wizard of the North,” who was a great favorite with the public, retired into the Provinces with his antique repertoire. What had the English conjurer to offer alongside of such unique novelties as the _Second Sight_, _Aerial Suspension_, _Inexhaustible Bottle_, _Mysterious Portfolio_, _Crystal Cash Box_, _Shower of Gold_, _Light and Heavy Chest_, _Orange Tree_, _the Crystal Clock_, and the automaton figures _Auriol and Debureau_, _the Pastry Cook of the Palais Royal_, etc., etc.

III.

Jean-Eugène Robert (Houdin) was born on December 6, 1805, in the quaint old city of Blois, the birth-place of Louis XII. and of Papin, the inventor of the steam engine. Napoleon was at the zenith of his fame, and had just fought the bloody battle of Austerlitz.

Luckily for the subject of this sketch, he was born too late to serve as food for powder. He lived to grow to man’s estate and honorable old age, and became the veritable Napoleon of necromancy. His career makes fascinating reading. Houdin’s father was a watchmaker, and from him he inherited his remarkable mechanical genius. At the age of eleven, Jean-Eugène was sent to college at Orleans. On the completion of his studies, he entered a notary’s office at Blois, but spent most of his time inventing little mechanical toys and devices, instead of engrossing {135} dusty parchment, so the notary advised him to abandon the idea of becoming a lawyer and take up a mechanical trade. Houdin joyfully took up his father’s occupation of watchmaking, for which he had a decided bent. One evening the young apprentice went to a bookseller’s shop in Blois and asked for a work on horology by Berthoud. The shopman by mistake handed him a couple of odd volumes of the _Encyclopédie_, which somewhat resembled Berthoud’s book. Jean-Eugène went home to his attic, lit a candle, and prepared to devote an evening to hard study, but judge of his surprise to find that the supposed treatise on watchmaking was a work on natural magic and prestidigitation, under the head of scientific amusements. He was delighted at the revelations contained in the mystic volume, which told how to perform tricks with the cards, to cut off a pigeon’s head and restore it again, etc., etc. Here was an introduction to the New Arabian Nights of enchantment. He slept with the book under his pillow, and possibly dreamed of African wizards, genii, and all sorts of incantations. This little incident brought about great changes in Houdin’s life. He secretly vowed to become a prestidigitateur,—a rôle for which he was eminently fitted, psychologically and physically. The principles of sleight of hand Houdin had to create for himself, for the mystic volume, though it revealed the secrets of the tricks, gave the neophyte no adequate idea of the subtle passes and misdirection required to properly execute them.

Though an ardent devotee of legerdemain, Houdin did not neglect his trade of watchmaker. When his apprenticeship was over, he went to Tours as a journeyman, in the shop of M. Noriet, who afterwards became a noted sculptor. While in the employ of M. Noriet, Houdin was poisoned by eating a ragôut cooked in a stew pan in which there chanced to be verdigris. He was very ill, and his life was saved with difficulty. Possessed with the idea that he was soon to die, he escaped one day from his nurse and doctor and set out for Blois to bid adieu to his family before he departed from this sublunary sphere. A most singular adventure befell him, which reads like a romance. Those who believe in destiny have here a curious example of its {136} strange workings. The jolting of the lumbering old diligence gave Houdin great pain. He was burning with fever and delirious. Without any one knowing it, he opened the door of the _rotonde_, in which he happened to be the only passenger, and leaped out on the high road, where he lay unconscious. When he recovered his senses, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed. An unknown man with a phial of medicine in his hand bent over him. By the strangest luck, Houdin had fallen into the hands of a traveling conjurer named Torrini, who went about the country in a sort of house on wheels, which was drawn by a pair of big Norman horses. This unique vehicle which was six yards in length could be converted into a miniature theatre twice its size by an ingenious mechanical arrangement. The body was telescopic and could be drawn out, the projection being supported by trestles. Torrini early in life had been a physician and was able to tend his patient with intelligence and skill. Finding the young watchmaker a clever mechanician, Torrini gave him some magical automata to repair, and Houdin was introduced for the first time to the little Harlequin that jumps out of a box and performs various feats at the mandate of the conjurer. A delightful friendship began between the watchmaker and the wizard. Torrini, who was an expert with cards, initiated Houdin into the secrets of many clever tricks performed with the pasteboards. He also corrected his pupil’s numerous mistakes in legerdemain, into which all self-educated amateurs fall. It was a fascinating life led in this conjurer’s caravan. Besides Torrini and Houdin there was Antonio, the assistant, and man of all work. Torrini related many amusing adventures to his young pupil, which the latter has recorded in his admirable autobiography. It was he, the _ci-devint_, Comte de Grisy who performed the famous watch trick before Pius VII. and had so unique revenge upon the Chevalier Pinetti.

Torrini’s son was accidentally shot by a spectator in the gun trick during a performance at Strasburg, as has been explained in the chapter on the “History of Natural Magic and Prestidigitation.” Overcome with grief at the loss of his only child and at the subsequent death of his wife, he abandoned the great cities {137} and wandered about the French Provinces attended by has faithful assistant and brother-in-law, Antonio. But to return to Robert-Houdin.

One day at Aubusson the conjurer’s caravan collided with an enormous hay cart. Houdin and Antonio escaped with light contusions, but the Master had a leg broken and an arm dislocated. The two horses were killed; as for the carriage, only the body remained intact; all the rest was smashed to atoms. During Torrini’s illness, Houdin, assisted by Antonio, gave a conjuring performance at the town hall to replete the exchequer. Houdin succeeded very well in his first attempt, with the exception that he ruined a gentleman’s chapeau while performing the trick of the omelet in the hat.

Soon after this Houdin bid adieu to Torrini and returned to his parents at Blois. He never saw Torrini again in this life. After following watchmaking at Blois for quite a little while, he proceeded to Paris, with his wife,—for he had not only taken unto himself a spouse, but had adopted her name, Houdin, as part of his own cognomen. He was now Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, master-watchmaker. His recontre with the Count de l’Escalopier and the result have already been given.

Houdin completely revolutionized the art of conjuring. Prior to his time, the tables used by magicians were little else than huge confederate boxes. Conjuring under such circumstances was child’s play, as compared with the difficulties to be encountered with the apparatus of the new school. In addition, Houdin discarded the long, flowing robes of many of his predecessors, and appeared in evening dress. Since his time all first-class prestidigitateurs have followed his example, both as to dress and tables.

Houdin’s center-table was a marvel of mechanical skill and ingenuity. Concealed in the body were “vertical rods, each arranged to rise and fall in a tube, according as it was drawn down by a spiral spring or pulled up by a whip-cord which passed over a pulley at the top of the tube and so down the table-leg to the hiding-place of the confederate.” There were “ten of these pistons, and ten cords passing under the floor of the stage, {138} terminating at a key-board. Various ingenious automata were actuated by this means of transmitting motion.”

Houdin’s stage was very handsome. It was a replica in miniature of a salon of the Louis XV. period—all in white and gold—illuminated by elegant candelabra and a chandelier. The magic table occupied the center of the room. This piece of furniture was flanked by little guéridons. At the sides were consoles, with about five inches of gold fringe hanging from them, and across the back of the apartment ran a broad shelf, upon which was displayed the various apparatus to be used in the séances. “The consoles were nothing more than shallow wooden boxes with openings through the side-scenes. The tops of the consoles were perforated with traps. Any object which the wizard desired to work off secretly to his confederate behind the scenes was placed on one of these traps and covered with a sheet of paper, pasteboard cover or a handkerchief. Touching a spring caused the article to fall noiselessly through the trap upon cotton batting, and roll into the hand of the conjurer’s concealed assistant.”

Now for a few of the tricks of this classic prestidigitateur. His greatest invention was the “light and heavy chest.” Speaking of this remarkable experiment he wrote: “I do not think, modesty apart, that I ever invented anything so daringly ingenious.” The magician came forward with a little wooden box, {139} to the top of which was attached a metal handle. He addressed the audience as follows: “Ladies and gentlemen. I have a cash-box which possesses strange properties. It becomes heavy or light at will. I place in it some banknotes for safekeeping and deposit it here on the ‘run-down’ in sight of all. Will some gentleman test the lightness of the box?”

When the volunteer had satisfied the audience that the box could be lifted with the little finger, Houdin executed some pretended mesmeric passes over it, and bade the gentleman lift it a second time. But try as he might, the volunteer would prove unequal to the task. At a sign from Houdin the box would be restored to its pristine lightness. This trick was performed with a powerful electro-magnet with conducting wires reaching behind the scenes to a battery. At a signal from the performer an operator turned on the electric current, and the box, which had an iron plate let into its bottom, covered with mahogany-colored paper, clung to the magnet with supernatural attraction. In the year 1845, the phenomena of electro-magnetism were unknown to the general public, hence the spirit cash-box created the most extraordinary sensation. When the subject of electricity became better known, Houdin made an addition to the feat which threw his spectators off the scent. After first having shown the trick on the “run-down,” he hooked the box to one end of a cord which passed over a pulley attached to the ceiling of the hall. A spectator was requested to take hold of the other end of the cord and keep the chest suspended.

“Just at present,” remarked the conjurer, “the chest is extremely light; but as it is about to become, at my command, very heavy, I must ask five or six other persons to help this gentleman, for fear the chest should lift him off his feet.”

No sooner was this done than the chest came heavily to the ground, dragging along and sometimes lifting off their feet all the spectators who were holding the cord. The explanation is this: On a casual inspection of the pulley and block everything appears to indicate that, as usual in such cases, the cord passes straight over the pulley, in on one side and out on the other; but such is not really the fact, as will be seen upon tracing the course {140} of the dotted lines (Fig. 1), which, passing through the block and through the ceiling, are attached on either side to a double pulley fixed in the room above. To any one who has the most elementary acquaintance with the laws of mechanics, it will be obvious that the strength of the person who holds the handle of the windlass above is multiplied tenfold, and that he can easily overcome even the combined resistance of five or six spectators.

The “Bust of Socrates” was another favorite experiment with Houdin. In this illusion a living bust with the features of Socrates was suspended in the middle of the stage without visible support. The performer, habited as an Athenian noble, addressed questions to the mutilated philosopher and received replies in stanzas of elegiac verse. The _mise en scène_ is represented in Fig. 2. Houdin explains the illusion as follows:

“_A_, _B_, _C_, _D_, (Fig. 3) represent a section of the stage on which the trick is exhibited. A sheet of silvered glass, _G_, _G_, occupying the whole width of the stage, is placed in a diagonal position, extending from the upper part of the stage at the rear, down to the footlights, so as to form an angle of forty-five degrees with the floor. In the center of the glass is an opening through which {141} the actor passes his head and shoulders, as shown in the figure. It should be further mentioned that the ceiling and the two sides of the stage are hung with wall-paper of the same pattern, and are brilliantly illuminated, either by means of footlights at _C_, or by gas-jets placed behind the border _A_. Such being the condition of things, the effect is as follows: The ceiling _A_ is reflected in the mirror, and its reflection appears to the spectators to be the paper of the wall _B_, _D_, which in reality is hidden by the glass.

“By means of this reflection, of which he is of course unaware, the spectator is led to believe that he sees three sides of the stage; and there being nothing to suggest to his mind the presence of the glass, he is led to believe that the bust is suspended in mid-air and without any support.”

“Aerial Suspension” was one of Houdin’s inventions. It has been a favorite trick since his time. In the original illusion Houdin had one of his young sons, who was dressed as a page, stand on a small stool. The performer then placed a walking-stick under the extended right arm of the boy, near the elbow, and one under the left arm. First the stool was knocked away and the youthful assistant was suspended in the air, held up only by the two frail sticks, which were in themselves inadequate to support such a weight. Then the left stick was removed, but the boy did not fall. To the astonishment of every one, the youth {142} was placed in a horizontal position. He remained in a perfectly rigid attitude with his head leaning on his arm, the top of the cane under his elbow.

This very ingenious trick was suggested to Houdin on reading stories about the alleged levitation of Hindoo fakirs. The walking-stick that supported the right arm of the assistant was of iron, painted to resemble wood. It fitted into a slot in the stage; its top connected with a bar concealed in the sleeve of the boy. This bar formed part of a strong steel framework worn under the assistant’s clothing. Thus was the page suspended in the air.

Houdin’s trick of the “orange-tree” was a capital one. The tree blossomed and bore fruit at the command of the conjurer. All the oranges were distributed among the spectators except one on the topmost branch of the tree. In this orange the magician caused a handkerchief to appear, which had been previously borrowed. The handkerchief was made to vanish from the hands of the performer. “Hey, presto!” the orange fell apart in four sections, whereupon two butterflies sprang out and fluttered upward with the handkerchief. The explanation of this beautiful trick is as follows: The tree was a clever piece of mechanism, so closely fashioned to resemble a plant that it was impossible to detect the difference. The blossoms, constructed of white silk, were pushed up through the hollow branches by pistons rising in the table and operating upon similar rods contained in the tree. When these pedals were relaxed the blossoms disappeared, and the fruit was slowly developed. Real oranges were stuck on iron spikes protruding from the branches of the tree, and were concealed from the spectators by hemispherical wire screens painted green. The screens were also partly hidden by the artificial foliage. By means of cords running down through the branches of the tree and off behind the scenes, an assistant caused the screens to make a half-turn, thereby developing the fruit. The borrowed handkerchief was exchanged for a dummy belonging to the conjurer, and passed to an assistant who placed it in the mechanical orange. The tree was now brought forward. After the real fruit had been distributed, the magician called attention to the orange on the top (the mechanical one). By {143} means of sleight of hand the handkerchief was made to vanish, to be discovered in the orange. The butterflies, which were fastened by wires to the stalk and fixed on delicate spiral springs, invisible at a little distance, flew out of the orange of their own accord, carrying with them the handkerchief, as soon as the fruit fell apart.

IV.

In the year 1846 Houdin was summoned to the Palace of Saint-Cloud to give a performance before Louis Philippe and his Court, whereupon he invented his remarkable trick of the enchanted casket, which created great excitement in the Parisian journals, and gained him no little fame. He had six days to prepare for the _séance magique_. Early on the appointed morning a van from the royal stables came to convey him and his son, together with the magic paraphernalia, to the palace of the king. A stage had been erected in one of the handsome salons of St. Cloud, the windows of which opened out on an orangery lined with double rows of orange-trees, “each growing in its square box on wheels. A sentry was placed at the door to see that the conjurer was not disturbed in his preparations. The King himself dropped in once to ask the entertainer if he had everything necessary.”

At four o’clock in the afternoon, a brilliant company assembled in the hall to witness the performance. The _pièce de résistance_ of the séance was Cagliostro’s casket, the effect of which is best described in Houdin’s own words:

“I borrowed from my noble spectators several handkerchiefs, which I made into a parcel, and laid on the table. Then, at my request, different persons wrote on blank cards the names of places whither they desired their handkerchiefs to be invisibly transported.

“When this had been done, I begged the King to take three of the cards at hazard, and choose from them the place he might consider most suitable.

“ ‘Let us see,’ Louis Philippe said, ‘what this one says: “I desire the handkerchiefs to be found beneath one of the {144} candelabra on the mantelpiece.” That is too easy for a sorcerer; so we will pass to the next card: “The handkerchiefs are to be transported to the dome of the Invalides.” That would suit me, but it is much too far, not for the handkerchiefs, but for us, ‘Ah, ah!’ the King added, looking at the last card, ‘I am afraid, Monsieur Robert-Houdin, I am about to embarrass you. Do you know what this card proposes?’

“ ‘Will your majesty deign to inform me?’

“ ‘It is desired that you should send the handkerchiefs into the chest of the last orange-tree on the right of the avenue.’

“ ‘Only that, sir? Deign to order, and I will obey.’

“ ‘Very good, then; I should like to see such a magic act: I, therefore, choose the orange-tree chest.’

“The king gave some orders in a low voice, and I directly saw several persons run to the orange-tree, in order to watch it and prevent any fraud.

“I was delighted at this precaution, which must add to the effect of my experiment, for the trick was already arranged, and the precaution hence too late.

“I had now to send the handkerchiefs on their travels, so I placed them beneath a bell of opaque glass, and, taking my wand, I ordered my invisible travelers to proceed to the spot the king had chosen.

“I raised the bell; the little parcel was no longer there, and a white turtle-dove had taken its place.

“The King then walked quickly to the door, whence he looked in the direction of the orange-tree, to assure himself that the guards were at their post; when this was done, he began to smile and shrug his shoulders.

“ ‘Ah! Monsieur Houdin,’ he said, somewhat ironically, ‘I much fear for the virtue of your magic staff.’ Then he added, as he returned to the end of the room, where several servants were standing, ‘Tell William to open immediately the last chest at the end of the avenue, and bring me carefully what he finds there—if he _does_ find anything.’

“William soon proceeded to the orange-tree, and though much astonished at the orders given him, he began to carry them out. {145}

“He carefully removed one of the sides of the chest, thrust his hand in, and almost touched the roots of the tree before he found anything. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise, as he drew out a small iron coffer eaten by rust.

“This curious ‘find,’ after having been cleansed of the mould, was brought in and placed on a small ottoman by the king’s side.

“ ‘Well, Monsieur Robert-Houdin,’ Louis Philippe said to me, with a movement of impatient curiosity, ‘here is a box; am I to conclude it contains the handkerchiefs?’

“ ‘Yes, sire,’ I replied, with assurance, ‘and they have been there, too, for a long period.’

“ ‘How can that be? the handkerchiefs were lent you scarce a quarter of an hour ago.’

“ ‘I cannot deny it, sire; but what would my magic powers avail me if I could not perform incomprehensible tricks? Your Majesty will doubtless be still more surprised, when I prove to your satisfaction that this coffer, as well as its contents, was deposited in the chest of the orange-tree sixty years ago.’

“ ‘I should like to believe your statement,’ the King replied, with a smile; ‘but that is impossible, and I must, therefore, ask for proofs of your assertion.’

“ ‘If Your Majesty will be kind enough to open this casket they will be supplied.’

“ ‘Certainly; but I shall require a key for that.’

“ ‘It only depends on yourself, sire, to have one. Deign to remove it from the neck of this turtle-dove, which has just brought it to you.’

“Louis Philippe unfastened a ribbon that held a small rusty key, with which he hastened to unlock the coffer.

“The first thing that caught the King’s eye was a parchment on which he read the following statement:

“ ‘This day, the 6th June, 1786, This iron box, containing six handkerchiefs, was placed among the roots of an orange-tree by me, Balsamo, Count of Cagliostro, to serve in performing an act of magic, which will be executed on the same day sixty years hence before Louis Philippe of Orleans and his family.’

{146}

“ ‘There is decidedly witchcraft about this,’ the king said, more and more amazed. ‘Nothing is wanting, for the seal and signature of the celebrated sorcerer are placed at the foot of this statement, which, Heaven pardon me, smells strongly of sulphur.’

“At this jest the audience began to laugh.

“ ‘But,’ the king added, taking out of the box a carefully sealed packet, ‘can the handkerchiefs by possibility be in this?’

“ ‘Indeed, sire, they are; but, before opening the parcel, I would request your majesty to notice that it also bears the impression of Cagliostro’s seal.’

“This seal once rendered so famous by being placed on the celebrated alchemist’s bottles of elixir and liquid gold, I had obtained from Torrini, who had been an old friend of Cagliostro’s.

“ ‘It is certainly the same,’ my royal spectator answered, after comparing the two seals. Still, in his impatience to learn the contents of the parcel, the king quickly tore open the envelope and soon displayed before the astonished spectators the six handkerchiefs which, a few moments before, were still on my table.

“This trick gained me lively applause.”

Robert-Houdin never revealed the secret of this remarkable experiment in natural magic, but the acute reader, especially if he be a student of legerdemain, will be able to give a pretty shrewd guess as to the _modus operandi_. The best analysis of this trick has been lately given by Professor Brander Matthews. He writes as follows (_Scribner’s Magazine_, May, 1903):

“Nothing more extraordinary was ever performed by any mere conjurer; indeed, this feat is quite as startling as any of those attributed to Cagliostro himself, and it has the advantage of being accurately and precisely narrated by the inventor. Not only is the thing done a seeming impossibility, but it stands forth the more impressively because of the spectacular circumstances of its performance,—a stately palace, a lovely garden, the assembled courtiers, and the royal family. The magician had to depend on his wits alone, for he was deprived of all advantages of his own theatre and of all possibility of aid from a confederate mingled amid the casual spectators. {147}

“Robert-Houdin was justified in the gentle pride with which he told how he had thus astonished the King of the French. He refrained from any explanation of the means whereby he wrought his mystery, believing that what is unknown is ever the more magnificent. He did no more than drop a hint or two, telling the reader that he had long possessed a cast of Cagliostro’s seal, and suggesting slyly that when the King sent messengers out into the garden to stand guard over the orange-tree the trick was already done and all precautions were then futile.

“Yet, although the inventor chose to keep his secret, any one who has mastered the principles of the art of magic can venture an explanation. Robert-Houdin has set forth the facts honestly; and with the facts solidly established, it is possible to reason out the method employed to accomplish a deed which, at first sight, seems not only impossible but incomprehensible.

“The first point to be emphasized is that Robert-Houdin was as dexterous as he was ingenious. He was truly a prestidigitateur, capable of any sleight of hand. Nothing was simpler for so accomplished a performer than the substitution of one package for another, right before the eyes of all the spectators. And it is to be remembered that although the palace was the King’s the apparatus on the extemporized stage was the magician’s. Therefore, when he borrowed six handkerchiefs and went up on the stage and made them up into a package which remained on a table in sight of everybody, we can grant without difficulty that the package which remained in sight did not then contain the borrowed handkerchiefs.

“In fact, we may be sure that the borrowed handkerchiefs had been conveyed somehow to Robert-Houdin’s son who acted as his assistant. When the handkerchiefs were once in the possession of the son out of sight behind the scenery or hangings of the stage, the father would pick up his package of blank visiting-cards and distribute a dozen of them or a score, moving to and fro in very leisurely fashion, perhaps going back to the stage to get pencils which he would also give out as slowly as possible, filling up the time with playful pleasantry, until he should again {148} catch sight of his son. Then, and not until then, would he feel at liberty to collect the cards and take them over to the King. When the son had got possession of the handkerchiefs, he would smooth them swiftly, possibly even ironing them into their folds. Then he would put them into the parchment packet which he would seal twice with Cagliostro’s seal. Laying this packet in the bottom of the rusty iron casket, he would put on top the other parchment which had already been prepared, with its adroit imitation of Cagliostro’s handwriting. Snapping down the lid of the casket, the lad would slip out into the corridor and steal into the garden, going straight to the box of the appointed orange-tree. He could do this unobserved, because no one was then suspecting him and because all the spectators were then engaged in thinking up odd places to which the handkerchiefs might be transported. Already, in the long morning, probably while the royal household was at its midday breakfast, the father or the son had loosened one of the staples in the back of the box in which the designated orange-tree was growing. The lad now removed this staple and thrust the casket into the already prepared hole in the center of the roots of the tree. Then he replaced the staple at the back of the box, feeling certain that whoever should open the box in front would find the soil undisturbed. This most difficult part of the task once accomplished, he returned to the stage, or at least in some way he signified to his father that he had accomplished his share of the wonder, in the performance of which he was not supposed to have any part.

“On seeing his son, or on receiving the signal that his son had returned, Robert-Houdin would feel himself at liberty to collect the cards on which various spectators had written the destinations they proposed for the package of handkerchiefs which was still in full sight. He gathered up the cards he had distributed; but as he went toward the King, he substituted for those written by the spectators others previously prepared by himself,—a feat of sleight of hand quite within the reach of any ordinary performer. Of these cards, prepared by himself, he forced three {149} on the sovereign; and the forcing of cards upon a kindly monarch would present little difficulty to a prestidigitateur of Robert-Houdin’s consummate skill.

“When the three cards were once in the King’s hands, the trick was done, for Robert-Houdin knew Louis Philippe to be a shrewd man in small matters. Therefore, it was reasonably certain that when the King had to make a choice out of three places, one near and easy, a second remote and difficult, and a third both near and difficult, Louis Philippe would surely select the third which was conveniently at hand and which seemed to be at least as impossible as either of the others.