IV.When I was searching among the books of the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, for material concerning Robertson and others, a very remarkable ghost show was all the rage in the Montmartre Quarter of the city, based on the Pepper illusion. I will endeavor to describe it. It was held at theCabaret du Néant, or Tavern of the Dead. “Anything for a new sensation” is the motto of the Boulevardier. Death is no laughing matter, but the gay Parisian is ready to mock even at the Grim Tyrant, hence the vogue of the Tavern of the Dead. I went to this lugubrious cabaret in company with a student of medicine. He seemed to{105}think the whole affair a huge joke, but then he was a hair-brained, thoughtless young fellow.The Inn of Death was located in the Rue Cujas, near by the Rue Champollion. Over its grim black-painted portal burned an ashy blue and brimstone flame. It seemed like entering a charnel house. My student friend led the way down a gloomy passage into a room hung with funeral cloth. Coffins served as tables, and upon each was placed a lighted taper. From the ceiling hung a grewsome-looking chandelier, known as “Robert Macaire’s chandelier.” It was formed of skulls and bones. In the skulls were placed lights. The waiters of the cabaret were garbed likecroque-morts(undertaker’s men). In sepulchral tones one of these gloomy-looking garçons, a trifle more cadaverous than his confrères, sidled up to us like a huge black raven and croaked out, “Name your poison, gentlemen. We have on tap distilled grave-worms, deadly microbes, the bacteria of all diseases under the sun,” etc. Whatever one called for in this undertaking establishment, the result was the same—beer of doubtful quality. After drinking a bock we descended a flight of grimy stairs to another apartment which was hung with black cloth, ornamented with white tears, like the decorations furnished by thePompes Funèbres(Undertakers’ Trust) of Paris, on state occasions. Here we were solemnly greeted by a couple of quasi Capuchin monks with the words: “Voilà des Machabées!” We seated ourselves on a wooden bench and waited for the séance to begin. Among the spectators were several students and their grisettes, a little piou-piou (soldier), and a fat gentleman with a waxed moustache and imperial, who might have been achef de cuisinein disguise or a member of theAcadémie Française. A curtain at one end of the room was pulled aside, revealing a stage set to represent a mouldy crypt, in the center of which stood upright an empty coffin. A volunteer being called for, my medical friend agreed to stand in the grim box for the dead. One of the monks wrapped about the young man’s body a winding sheet. A strong light was turned on him. Presently a deathly pallor overcame the ruddy hue of health on his cheeks. His face assumed the waxen color of death. His eyes resolved themselves{106}into cavernous sockets; his nose disappeared; and presently his visage was metamorphosed into a grinning skull. The illusion was perfect. During this ghastly transformation the monks intoned: “Voilà Machabæus!He dies! He wastes away! Dust to dust! The eternal worm awaits you all!” A church bell was solemnly tolled and an organ played. The scene would have delighted that stern genius, Hans Holbein, whose Dance of Death has chilled many a human heart. We looked again, and the skeleton in the coffin vanished. “He has risen to Heaven!” cried the Capuchins.In a little while the figure reappeared. The fleshless skull was merged into the face of my friend. He stepped out of the box, throwing aside the shroud, and greeted me with a merry laugh. Other people volunteered to undergo the death scene. After the exhibition was over one of the Capuchins passed around a skull for penny contributions, and we left the place.Now for an explanation of the illusion.A sheet of glass is placed obliquely across the stage in front of the coffin. At the side of this stage, hidden by the proscenium, is another coffin containing a skeleton robed in white. When the electric lights surrounding the first coffin are turned off and the casket containing the skeleton highly illuminated, the spectators see the reflection of the latter in the glass and imagine that it is the coffin in which the volunteer has been placed. To resurrect the man the lights are reversed.
When I was searching among the books of the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, for material concerning Robertson and others, a very remarkable ghost show was all the rage in the Montmartre Quarter of the city, based on the Pepper illusion. I will endeavor to describe it. It was held at theCabaret du Néant, or Tavern of the Dead. “Anything for a new sensation” is the motto of the Boulevardier. Death is no laughing matter, but the gay Parisian is ready to mock even at the Grim Tyrant, hence the vogue of the Tavern of the Dead. I went to this lugubrious cabaret in company with a student of medicine. He seemed to{105}think the whole affair a huge joke, but then he was a hair-brained, thoughtless young fellow.
The Inn of Death was located in the Rue Cujas, near by the Rue Champollion. Over its grim black-painted portal burned an ashy blue and brimstone flame. It seemed like entering a charnel house. My student friend led the way down a gloomy passage into a room hung with funeral cloth. Coffins served as tables, and upon each was placed a lighted taper. From the ceiling hung a grewsome-looking chandelier, known as “Robert Macaire’s chandelier.” It was formed of skulls and bones. In the skulls were placed lights. The waiters of the cabaret were garbed likecroque-morts(undertaker’s men). In sepulchral tones one of these gloomy-looking garçons, a trifle more cadaverous than his confrères, sidled up to us like a huge black raven and croaked out, “Name your poison, gentlemen. We have on tap distilled grave-worms, deadly microbes, the bacteria of all diseases under the sun,” etc. Whatever one called for in this undertaking establishment, the result was the same—beer of doubtful quality. After drinking a bock we descended a flight of grimy stairs to another apartment which was hung with black cloth, ornamented with white tears, like the decorations furnished by thePompes Funèbres(Undertakers’ Trust) of Paris, on state occasions. Here we were solemnly greeted by a couple of quasi Capuchin monks with the words: “Voilà des Machabées!” We seated ourselves on a wooden bench and waited for the séance to begin. Among the spectators were several students and their grisettes, a little piou-piou (soldier), and a fat gentleman with a waxed moustache and imperial, who might have been achef de cuisinein disguise or a member of theAcadémie Française. A curtain at one end of the room was pulled aside, revealing a stage set to represent a mouldy crypt, in the center of which stood upright an empty coffin. A volunteer being called for, my medical friend agreed to stand in the grim box for the dead. One of the monks wrapped about the young man’s body a winding sheet. A strong light was turned on him. Presently a deathly pallor overcame the ruddy hue of health on his cheeks. His face assumed the waxen color of death. His eyes resolved themselves{106}into cavernous sockets; his nose disappeared; and presently his visage was metamorphosed into a grinning skull. The illusion was perfect. During this ghastly transformation the monks intoned: “Voilà Machabæus!He dies! He wastes away! Dust to dust! The eternal worm awaits you all!” A church bell was solemnly tolled and an organ played. The scene would have delighted that stern genius, Hans Holbein, whose Dance of Death has chilled many a human heart. We looked again, and the skeleton in the coffin vanished. “He has risen to Heaven!” cried the Capuchins.
In a little while the figure reappeared. The fleshless skull was merged into the face of my friend. He stepped out of the box, throwing aside the shroud, and greeted me with a merry laugh. Other people volunteered to undergo the death scene. After the exhibition was over one of the Capuchins passed around a skull for penny contributions, and we left the place.
Now for an explanation of the illusion.
A sheet of glass is placed obliquely across the stage in front of the coffin. At the side of this stage, hidden by the proscenium, is another coffin containing a skeleton robed in white. When the electric lights surrounding the first coffin are turned off and the casket containing the skeleton highly illuminated, the spectators see the reflection of the latter in the glass and imagine that it is the coffin in which the volunteer has been placed. To resurrect the man the lights are reversed.