Need I describe the delight with which I presented myself once more before a Parisian audience, whose kind patronage I had not forgotten? Those professional men who, like myself, have been long absent from Paris, will understand it, for they know nothing is so sweet to the heart as the applause given by a man’s fellow-citizens.
Unfortunately, when I recommenced my performances, I noticed with sorrow the change which had taken place in my health: the performances which I formerly went through with no fatigue, now caused me a painful state of exhaustion.
It was easy to find a reason for this disagreeable change; fatigue, the incessant thought connected with my performances, and still more the foggy atmosphere of England, had exhausted my strength. My life had been in some degree used up during my emigration. I should require a lengthened rest to restore it, and I could not think of it at this period, the best part of the season. I could only take precautions for the future, in case I should find myself suddenly compelled by my health to stop; so I decided on educating a pupil to take my place in case of need, and whose labor might assist me in the meanwhile.
A young man of pleasing exterior, and whose talent I was acquainted with, seemed to offer the conditions I required. My proposals suited him, and he immediately joined me. The future sleight-of-hand professor evinced great aptitude and zeal in learning my lessons. I employed him in a short time to prepare my experiments, then he aided me in the management of my theatre, and when the summer of 1850 arrived, instead of closing my rooms as usual, I continued to send out my bills; the only change was that Hamilton’s name was substituted for mine.
Considering his short period of study, my provisional substitute could not be yet very expert; still, he pleased, and the public were satisfied. During this period I enjoyed in the country a repose that had been long desired.
A man who has made a long journey never feels the fatigue so acutely as when he proposes to continue his journey after a few moments of rest. This was what I experienced when, my holiday being ended, I was obliged to leave the country to begin again the feverish existence of a theatre. I never felt such lassitude; never had I a greater desire to enjoy perfect liberty, to renounce those fatigues of an appointed hour, which may be justly called the collar of misery.
At this word, I see many of my readers start. “Why,” they will say, “thus call a labor whose object is to astonish an audience, and the result to gain honor and profit?”
I find myself compelled to prove the justice of the expression.
The reader will easily understand that the fatigue, preoccupation and responsibility attached to a magical performance do not prevent the conjurer being subjected to the ordinary sufferings of humanity. Now, whatever may be the nature of his sufferings or his grief, he must, at an appointed hour each night, hide them in his bosom, and assume the mask of happiness and health.
This is, in itself, a painful task, but, believe me, reader, it is not all; he must—and this is applicable to all professionals—under penalty of ruin, enliven, animate and excite the public, or, in other words, give them pleasure for their money.