Chapter XI: The Decapitated Speaking

This ingenious illusion did not originally bear so ghastly a title. It was exhibited under the name of the “_Sphinx_,” at the Egyptian Hall, London, in 1865, by a conjuror known as Colonel Stodare. The inventor of the trick, Mr. Tobin, the secretary of the Polytechnic Institution, sold the secret to M. Talrich, a skilful modeller in wax, who was then exhibiting on the Boulevard de la Madeleine, in Paris, a wax-work collection, under the title of the _Musée Français_. His collection was composed of a number of groups, mythological and otherwise, executed with extraordinary perfection, particularly a scene representing the celebrated surgeon, Dupuytren, delivering an anatomical lecture to his numerous pupils. The scene in question was a happy thought of M. Talrich, inasmuch as it gave him the opportunity to bring prominently forward specimens of those anatomical preparations to which he owed his reputation.

The trick of the _Sphinx_ suggested to M. Talrich the idea of adding to his museum an exhibition of like nature to that of the famous _Chamber of Horrors_, which Madame Tussaud had established in London, in connection with her wax-work collection. With this notion, he was induced to alter the _mise en scène_ of the _Sphinx_, which he regarded, reasonably enough, as too mild for his intended purpose. He transformed it into the _Decapitated Speaking_, and arranged it for exhibition as follows:-- Underneath his museum there was a large unoccupied cellar, accessible by means of a winding stair, the door of which opened in the exhibition-room. This vacant space was appropriated to the exhibition of the bodiless head. The cunning artist knew better than to clean up and replaster the walls; on the contrary, he carefully preserved their greenish mould and earthy dampness, and took special pains that the surroundings should be in strict harmony with the spectacle which was intended to be exhibited there, as the reader may judge for himself by the following description. The staircase had no light, save the dim yellow glimmer of one or two antique lamps which hung from the vaulted roof. When the visitor reached the bottom, he found himself face to face with a group, modelled in wax, representing a scene under the Inquisition, every detail of the torture chamber being represented in the most realistic manner. A burning torch, held by an assistant executioner, alone illuminated the ghastly scene. Moving onward and turning to the right, the spectator passed through a dimly lighted corridor, and found himself in front of a balustrade, breast-high, which extended across the entrance of a narrow recess. In the middle of this gloomy cellar, the floor of which was carpeted with musty straw, was seen a table, on which rested a human head leaning slightly to one side, and apparently asleep. On being addressed by the exhibitor, the head raised itself, opened its eyes, and related its own history, including the details of its decapitation, after which it replied, in various languages, to questions put by those present. The whole exhibition was intensely horrible. So far, this eccentric exhibition promised very favourably, and it is likely enough that the public curiosity, which at once manifested itself, would have continued for a long period, but the proprietor made one great mistake, and that mistake was the ruin of his whole exhibition. The charge for admission to the _Musée Français_ was one franc each person, which was undoubtedly a very moderate price; but, if the visitor desired to see the _Decapitated Speaking_, he had to pay five francs additional. Five francs, for an exhibition which lasted for only five minutes, was out of all reason. However, curiosity generally carried the day, and five, ten, fifteen or twenty francs were handed over, according to the number of the party. But the gentleman doing the polite to a party of ladies, the paterfamilias with his children, the bachelor treating his friends, though they paid without openly grumbling, felt a suppressed annoyance, which not unfrequently expressed itself in the form of some petty act of mischief. It was doubtless under the influence of a feeling of this kind, that some persons were guilty of decidedly unjustifiable conduct with reference to the Decapitated: they threw pellets at the enchanted head, in order to test whether it had entirely lost all sensation. At the first shot, the unhappy performer whose head alone was visible, or at any rate, the head itself, made a wry face; at the second, it looked very savage; at the third, forgetting its passive character, it began to roundly abuse the offenders, and the exhibitor to call for help, and to drive the spectators before him down the corridor. Scenes of this kind got noised about in society, and sundry “swells,” having nothing better to do, found it very good sport to go and take out the worth of their five francs by shooting pellets at the infuriated head, an amusement which they christened “pop-gun practice.” Some of the pellets, being aimed by unskilful hands, struck certain portions of the table, which were apparently _open_, but from which they rebounded, clearly indicating that the supposed vacant space was really a sheet of looking-glass. From this time forward the trick was “blown,” and the public seemed to take a spiteful pleasure in spreading as widely as possible the secret of the famous Decapitated. M. Talrich had put a stop to the projectiles by placing a close-meshed wire grating between the spectators and their victim, but the precaution came too late, and proved superfluous. The struggle ceased for lack of combatants; and the day of the _Musée Français_ was over. The _Decapitated Speaking_ had been the ruin of the Olympian Deities, as well as of Dr. Dupuytren’s scientific lecture.

The cause of M. Talrich’s failure was the same that brought disaster to the brothers Davenport. Too great a confidence in the indulgence of the Parisian public led both parties to offer what, after all, were but ingenious conjuring tricks, as supernatural phenomena. On the other hand, their imperfect acquaintance with our habits caused them to raise the price of their exhibition beyond all reasonable limits.

Colonel Stodare, more sagacious or better skilled in theatrical management, placed no such exaggerated value on his _Sphinx_, he simply introduced it in his performances as an interlude between other attractions, and claimed for it no higher prestige than that of an ingenious trick. However, the _mise en scène_ demanded that some sort of story should be told respecting it; and, accordingly, the trick was presented after the following manner. The Colonel came forward to the audience, carrying in his hand a closed box, and told them how, in the course of his travels in Egypt, he had made the acquaintance of a Magician, who, happening to die, had bequeathed to him the small box in question, in which had been contained for ages past, the living head of a _Sphinx_ endowed with the faculty of answering any questions put to him. The performer then addressed the _Sphinx_ by name; when it was heard to answer him from within the box. (It should here be stated that Colonel Stodare was a ventriloquist.) He then placed the precious chest upon a table, and let down the front, revealing to the public gaze a handsome _Sphinx’s_ head, wearing an Egyptian head-dress ornamented with golden fillets. The space under the table on which the box was placed appeared to be entirely open. The _Sphinx_, intelligent and ready-witted, replied with much tact and appropriateness to the questions proposed by the spectators; after which, the Colonel closed the box, took it again in his hand, made the prisoner say “Goodnight” to the company, and retired behind the scenes with his precious burden. Thus arranged, the trick became extremely popular, and its success was only interrupted by the untimely death of the talented exhibitor.

The explanation of the trick is the simplest possible, and will be understood without the slightest difficulty. The head which is seen on the table belongs to the body of some poor devil whom poverty has compelled to play daily the uncomfortable part of a man in the pillory. Under cover of an arrangement of mirrors fitted to the legs of the table, the confederate can place himself under the table, unseen, and pass his head through a hole in the top. A special collar hides the edges of the opening.

The table rests only on three legs--C, D, E (Figs. 20 and 21), although to the eye it appears to have four. Between these three legs, in grooves made on purpose, are two sheets of silvered glass, G, G (Fig. 21), behind which, as we have said, the confederate conceals himself, taking up his position at H. These glasses are at a right angle to each other, and at an angle of about 45° to the hangings on either side of them. These latter, A and B, when reflected, correspond with A′ and B′, and replace, to the imagination, that portion of the drapery which is concealed by the two mirrors; so that the spectator is persuaded that he still sees, under the table, the drapery in the rear.

The _Sphinx_ was arranged after the same manner. The chest was empty when Colonel Stodare first brought it forward; his ventriloquial faculty producing the supposed voice from within. As soon as the chest was placed on the table, the confederate beneath opened the trap which closed the hole in the top, passed his head through the opening, and, lifting up the bottom of the chest, which was movable, introduced his head without any difficulty. The conjuror had then only to let fall the front of the box, in order to display the head therein.

With a very slight knowledge of the laws of reflection, the reader can easily satisfy himself that, unless they were quite close to and at the side of the table, it is impossible that the spectators should see in the mirrors anything but the reflected drapery. In point of fact, matters are purposely so arranged that it cannot be otherwise. In the case of Talrich’s exhibition, the actual walls of the cellar were reflected in the mirrors.