IV.When Herrmann came to Baltimore, he always put up at Barnum’s Hotel, a quaint, old caravansary that had sheltered beneath its hospitable roof such notables as Charles Dickens, Thackeray and Jenny Lind. Alas, the historic hostelry was torn down years ago to make room for improvements. It stood on the southwest corner of Calvert and Fayette streets, within a stone’s throw of the Battle Monument. I spent some happy hours with Herrmann in this ancient hotel, listening to his rich store of anecdotes. I received from him many valuable hints in conjuring. There was something exotic about his tastes. He loved to surround himself with Oriental luxuries, rare curios picked up in the bazaars of Constantinople, Cairo, and Damascus; nargilehs, swords of exquisite workmanship; carved ivory boxes; richly embroidered hangings, and the like. His private yacht, “Fra Diavolo,” and his Pullman car were fitted up regardless of expense. Habited in a Turkish dressing gown which glowed with all the colors of the rainbow; his feet thrust into red Morocco slippers; the inevitable cigarette in his mouth, Herrmann resembled a pasha of the East. He was inordinately fond of pets and carried with him on his travels a Mexican dog, a Persian cat, cages full of canaries, a parrot and a monkey. His rooms looked like a small zoo. He seemed to enjoy the noises made by his pets. His opinions concerning his art were interesting.{227}“A magician is born, not made!” was his favorite apothegm. “He must possess not only digital dexterity, but be an actor as well.”“What is the greatest illusion in the repertoire of the conjurer?” I asked him.“The Vanishing Lady of M. Buatier de Kolta,” was the unhesitating reply.“Why so?” I inquired.“Because of its simplicity. The great things of magic are always the simple things. The ‘Vanishing Lady’ trick has the most transcendant effect when properly produced, but, alas, the secret is now too well known. Its great success proved its ruin. Irresponsible bunglers took it up and made a fiasco of it. In the hands of De Kolta it was perfection itself. There was nothing wanting in artistic finish.”Herrmann related to me some amusing episodes of his varied career. In the year 1863 he was playing an engagement in Constantinople. He received a summons to appear before the Sultan and his court. At the appointed hour there came to the hotel where he was staying a Turkish officer, who drove him in a handsome equipage to a palace overlooking the gleaming waters of the Golden Horn, where “ships that fly the flags of half the world” ride at anchor. It was a lovely afternoon in April. Herrmann was ushered into a luxuriously furnished apartment and invited to be seated on a divan. The officer then withdrew. Presently a couple of tall Arabs entered. One carried a lighted chibouk; the other a salver, upon which was a golden pot full of steaming hot Mocha coffee, and a tiny cup and saucer of exquisite porcelain. The slaves knelt at his feet and presented the tray and pipe to him.“A faint suspicion,” said Herrmann, “crossed my mind that perhaps the tobacco and coffee were drugged with a pinch or two of hasheesh—that opiate of the East, celebrated by Monte Cristo; the drug that brings forgetfulness and elevates its votaries to the seventh heaven of spiritual ecstasy. I thought, ‘what if the Sultan were trying some of his sleight-of-hand tricks on me for the amusement of the thing. Sultans have been known to do such things.’ Now I wanted to keep cool and have all of my wits{228}about me. My reputation as a prestidigitateur was at stake. It was very silly, I suppose, to entertain such ideas. But once possessed of this absurd obsession I could not get rid of it. So I waved off the attendants politely and signified by gestures that I did not desire to indulge in coffee or tobacco. But they persisted, and I saw that I could not rid myself of them without an effort. Happy thought! I just took a whiff of the pipe and a sip of the coffee, when, hey, presto!—I made the chibouk and cup vanish by my sleight of hand and caused a couple of small snakes, which I carried upon my person for use in impromptu tricks, to appear in my hands. The astonishment on the faces of those two Arabs was something indescribable. They gazed up at the gilded ceiling and down at the carpet, puzzled to find out where the articles had gone, but finding no solution to the problem and beholding the writhing serpents in my hands, fled incontinently from the room. These simple sons of the desert evidently thought that I had just stepped out of the Arabian Nights Entertainments. At this juncture a chamberlain entered and in French bade me welcome, informing me that His Imperial Majesty was ready to receive me. He conducted me to a superb salon with a platform at one end. I looked around me, but saw only one person, a black-bearded gentleman, who sat in an armchair in the middle of the apartment. I recognized in him the famous ‘Sick Man of Europe.’ I bowed low to the Sultan Abdul Aziz.“ ‘Well, monsieur, begin,’ he said in French.“And so this was my audience. No array of brilliantly garbed courtiers and attendants; no music. Only a fat gentleman, languidly polite, waiting to be amused. How was it possible to perform with anyélanunder such depressing conditions? It takes a large and enthusiastic audience to inspire a performer. I began my tricks. As I progressed with my programme, however, I became aware of the presence of other persons in the room besides the ruler of the Ottoman Empire. The laughter of women rippled out from behind the gilded lattice work and silken curtains that surrounded the salon. The harem was present though invisible to me. I felt like another being and executed my tricks with more than usual effect. The Sultan was charmed and paid me many compliments. A couple of weeks after the{229}séance, I was invited to accompany him on a short cruise in the royal yacht. On this occasion I created a profound sensation by borrowing the Sultan’s watch, which I (apparently) threw overboard. His face fairly blazed with anger; his hand involuntarily sought the handle of his jeweled sword. Never before had the Commander of the Faithful been treated so cavalierly. Seeing his agitation, I hastened to explain. ‘Don’t be alarmed, your Majesty, for the safety of your timepiece. It will be restored to you intact. I pledge my honor as a magician.’ He sneered incredulously, but vouchsafed no reply. ‘Permit me to throw overboard this hook and line and indulge in a little fishing.’ So saying, I cast into the sea the line, and after a little while brought up a good sized fish. Cutting it open, I produced from its body the missing watch. This feat, bordering so closely on the sorcery of the Arabian Nights, made a wonderful impression on the spectators. I was the lion of the hour. Constantinople soon rang with my fame. In the cafés and bazaars the ignorant populace discussed my marvelous powers with bated breath. The watch trick, however, proved my undoing. One morning I was sitting in my room at my hotel, idly smoking a cigarette and building palaces as unsubstantial as those erected by the Genii in the story of ‘Aladdin and his wonderful lamp,’ when a messenger from his Imperial Majesty was announced. He made a low obeisance and humbly laid at my feet a bag containing 5,000 piastres, after which he handed me an envelope inscribed with Turkish characters and sealed with large seals.“ ‘Ah,’ I said to myself, ‘the Sultan is going to confer upon me the coveted order of the Medjidie.’ My heart swelled with pride. I was like the foolish Alnaschar, who, while indulging in day dreams of greatness, unconsciously overturned his stock of glassware in the market, thereby ruining himself. I prolonged opening the envelope in order to indulge my extravagant fancies. Finally I broke the seals and read the enclosed letter, which was written in French:“ ‘It would be better for you to leave Constantinople at once.’“My budding hopes were crushed. I left the city that afternoon in a British steamer bound for a Grecian port. Either{230}watch tricks were unpopular in the Orient, or I was encroaching upon the preserves of the Dervishes—a close corporation for the working of pious frauds. But things have changed in Turkey since then.”
When Herrmann came to Baltimore, he always put up at Barnum’s Hotel, a quaint, old caravansary that had sheltered beneath its hospitable roof such notables as Charles Dickens, Thackeray and Jenny Lind. Alas, the historic hostelry was torn down years ago to make room for improvements. It stood on the southwest corner of Calvert and Fayette streets, within a stone’s throw of the Battle Monument. I spent some happy hours with Herrmann in this ancient hotel, listening to his rich store of anecdotes. I received from him many valuable hints in conjuring. There was something exotic about his tastes. He loved to surround himself with Oriental luxuries, rare curios picked up in the bazaars of Constantinople, Cairo, and Damascus; nargilehs, swords of exquisite workmanship; carved ivory boxes; richly embroidered hangings, and the like. His private yacht, “Fra Diavolo,” and his Pullman car were fitted up regardless of expense. Habited in a Turkish dressing gown which glowed with all the colors of the rainbow; his feet thrust into red Morocco slippers; the inevitable cigarette in his mouth, Herrmann resembled a pasha of the East. He was inordinately fond of pets and carried with him on his travels a Mexican dog, a Persian cat, cages full of canaries, a parrot and a monkey. His rooms looked like a small zoo. He seemed to enjoy the noises made by his pets. His opinions concerning his art were interesting.{227}
“A magician is born, not made!” was his favorite apothegm. “He must possess not only digital dexterity, but be an actor as well.”
“What is the greatest illusion in the repertoire of the conjurer?” I asked him.
“The Vanishing Lady of M. Buatier de Kolta,” was the unhesitating reply.
“Why so?” I inquired.
“Because of its simplicity. The great things of magic are always the simple things. The ‘Vanishing Lady’ trick has the most transcendant effect when properly produced, but, alas, the secret is now too well known. Its great success proved its ruin. Irresponsible bunglers took it up and made a fiasco of it. In the hands of De Kolta it was perfection itself. There was nothing wanting in artistic finish.”
Herrmann related to me some amusing episodes of his varied career. In the year 1863 he was playing an engagement in Constantinople. He received a summons to appear before the Sultan and his court. At the appointed hour there came to the hotel where he was staying a Turkish officer, who drove him in a handsome equipage to a palace overlooking the gleaming waters of the Golden Horn, where “ships that fly the flags of half the world” ride at anchor. It was a lovely afternoon in April. Herrmann was ushered into a luxuriously furnished apartment and invited to be seated on a divan. The officer then withdrew. Presently a couple of tall Arabs entered. One carried a lighted chibouk; the other a salver, upon which was a golden pot full of steaming hot Mocha coffee, and a tiny cup and saucer of exquisite porcelain. The slaves knelt at his feet and presented the tray and pipe to him.
“A faint suspicion,” said Herrmann, “crossed my mind that perhaps the tobacco and coffee were drugged with a pinch or two of hasheesh—that opiate of the East, celebrated by Monte Cristo; the drug that brings forgetfulness and elevates its votaries to the seventh heaven of spiritual ecstasy. I thought, ‘what if the Sultan were trying some of his sleight-of-hand tricks on me for the amusement of the thing. Sultans have been known to do such things.’ Now I wanted to keep cool and have all of my wits{228}about me. My reputation as a prestidigitateur was at stake. It was very silly, I suppose, to entertain such ideas. But once possessed of this absurd obsession I could not get rid of it. So I waved off the attendants politely and signified by gestures that I did not desire to indulge in coffee or tobacco. But they persisted, and I saw that I could not rid myself of them without an effort. Happy thought! I just took a whiff of the pipe and a sip of the coffee, when, hey, presto!—I made the chibouk and cup vanish by my sleight of hand and caused a couple of small snakes, which I carried upon my person for use in impromptu tricks, to appear in my hands. The astonishment on the faces of those two Arabs was something indescribable. They gazed up at the gilded ceiling and down at the carpet, puzzled to find out where the articles had gone, but finding no solution to the problem and beholding the writhing serpents in my hands, fled incontinently from the room. These simple sons of the desert evidently thought that I had just stepped out of the Arabian Nights Entertainments. At this juncture a chamberlain entered and in French bade me welcome, informing me that His Imperial Majesty was ready to receive me. He conducted me to a superb salon with a platform at one end. I looked around me, but saw only one person, a black-bearded gentleman, who sat in an armchair in the middle of the apartment. I recognized in him the famous ‘Sick Man of Europe.’ I bowed low to the Sultan Abdul Aziz.
“ ‘Well, monsieur, begin,’ he said in French.
“And so this was my audience. No array of brilliantly garbed courtiers and attendants; no music. Only a fat gentleman, languidly polite, waiting to be amused. How was it possible to perform with anyélanunder such depressing conditions? It takes a large and enthusiastic audience to inspire a performer. I began my tricks. As I progressed with my programme, however, I became aware of the presence of other persons in the room besides the ruler of the Ottoman Empire. The laughter of women rippled out from behind the gilded lattice work and silken curtains that surrounded the salon. The harem was present though invisible to me. I felt like another being and executed my tricks with more than usual effect. The Sultan was charmed and paid me many compliments. A couple of weeks after the{229}séance, I was invited to accompany him on a short cruise in the royal yacht. On this occasion I created a profound sensation by borrowing the Sultan’s watch, which I (apparently) threw overboard. His face fairly blazed with anger; his hand involuntarily sought the handle of his jeweled sword. Never before had the Commander of the Faithful been treated so cavalierly. Seeing his agitation, I hastened to explain. ‘Don’t be alarmed, your Majesty, for the safety of your timepiece. It will be restored to you intact. I pledge my honor as a magician.’ He sneered incredulously, but vouchsafed no reply. ‘Permit me to throw overboard this hook and line and indulge in a little fishing.’ So saying, I cast into the sea the line, and after a little while brought up a good sized fish. Cutting it open, I produced from its body the missing watch. This feat, bordering so closely on the sorcery of the Arabian Nights, made a wonderful impression on the spectators. I was the lion of the hour. Constantinople soon rang with my fame. In the cafés and bazaars the ignorant populace discussed my marvelous powers with bated breath. The watch trick, however, proved my undoing. One morning I was sitting in my room at my hotel, idly smoking a cigarette and building palaces as unsubstantial as those erected by the Genii in the story of ‘Aladdin and his wonderful lamp,’ when a messenger from his Imperial Majesty was announced. He made a low obeisance and humbly laid at my feet a bag containing 5,000 piastres, after which he handed me an envelope inscribed with Turkish characters and sealed with large seals.
“ ‘Ah,’ I said to myself, ‘the Sultan is going to confer upon me the coveted order of the Medjidie.’ My heart swelled with pride. I was like the foolish Alnaschar, who, while indulging in day dreams of greatness, unconsciously overturned his stock of glassware in the market, thereby ruining himself. I prolonged opening the envelope in order to indulge my extravagant fancies. Finally I broke the seals and read the enclosed letter, which was written in French:
“ ‘It would be better for you to leave Constantinople at once.’
“My budding hopes were crushed. I left the city that afternoon in a British steamer bound for a Grecian port. Either{230}watch tricks were unpopular in the Orient, or I was encroaching upon the preserves of the Dervishes—a close corporation for the working of pious frauds. But things have changed in Turkey since then.”