I.
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.