He employed a wood-carver to make the head, but the result was so unsatisfactory that in the end he was obliged, not only to make all the complicated machinery which operated the figure, but to carve the head itself, which, he adds, in some miraculous fashion, resembled himself. This resemblance, however, cannot be traced in existing cuts of the figure.
The chapter devoted to this particular automaton is so diverting that I quote literally from its pages, thus giving my readers an opportunity to take the true measure of the writer and the literary style of his “Memoirs.” Here is his description of his moment of triumph:
“I had only to press a spring in order to enjoy the long-waited-for result. My heart beat violently, and though I was alone I trembled at the mere thought of this imposing trial. I had just laid the first sheet of paper before my writer and asked him this question: ‘Who is the author of your being?’ I pressed the spring, and the clockwork started—began acting. I dared hardly breathe through fear of disturbing the operations. The automaton bowed to me, and I could not refrain from smiling on it as on my own son. But when I saw the eyes fix an attentive glance on the paper—when the arm, a few seconds before numb and lifeless, began to move and trace my signature in a firm hand—the tears started in my eyes and I fervently thanked Heaven for granting me success. And it was not alone the satisfaction I experienced as an inventor, but the certainty I had of being able to restore some degree of comfort to my family, that caused my deep feeling of gratitude.
“After making my Sosia repeat my signature a thousand times, I gave it this question: ‘What o’clock is it?’ The automaton, acting in obedience to the clock, wrote, ‘It is two in the morning.’ This was a timely warning. I profited by it and went straight to bed.”
Robert-Houdin injects a little humor into this chapter, for he relates that as Molière and J. J. Rousseau consulted their servants, he decided to do likewise; so early the next morning he invited his portress and her husband, Auguste, a stone-mason, to be present at the first performance of the figure. The mason’s wife chose the question, “What is the emblem of fidelity?” The automaton replied by drawing a pretty little greyhound, lying on a cushion. The stone-mason wished to see the works, saying: “I understand about that sort of thing, for I have always greased the vane on the church steeple, and have even taken it down twice.”
When the work was completed, according to page 208 of the American edition of his “Memoirs,” he returned to Paris, collected the remaining two thousand five hundred francs due him from Monsieur G——, to whom he delivered the figure, and two thousand francs more on an automatic nightingale made for a rich merchant of St. Petersburg. Incidentally he mentions that during his absence his business had prospered, but he fails to state who managed it for him, and here is where I believe credit should be given Opre, the Dutch inventor, who was unquestionably Robert-Houdin’s assistant for years.
In 1844 he claims to have borrowed the writing and drawing figure from the obliging Monsieur G—— to exhibit it at the Quinquennial Exposition, where it attracted the attention of Louis Philippe and his court, thus insuring its exhibitor the silver medal.
At this point Robert-Houdin deliberately drops the writing and drawing figure, leaving his readers to believe that it was returned to its rightful owner, Monsieur G——, but, unfortunately for his claims, another historian steps in here to cast reflections on Monsieur G—— ‘s ownership of the figure. This writer is the world’s greatest showman, the late P. T. Barnum, who purchased the figure at this same exposition of 1844, paying for it a goodly sum, and this incident is one of the significant omissions of the Robert-Houdin “Memoirs.” Either Robert-Houdin sold the figure to Mr. Barnum for Monsieur G——, or such a person as Monsieur G—— never existed, for in his own book Mr. Barnum writes: