MAGICIANS I HAVE MET.“To succeed as a conjurer, three things are essential—first, dexterity; second, dexterity; and third, dexterity.”—ROBERT-HOUDIN.I.Imro Fox, “the comic conjurer,” was born May 21, 1852, in Bromberg, Germany. He came to the United States in 1874, and after serving as achef de cuisinein several New York hotels, finally came to Washington, where he presided over the kitchen of the old Hotel Lawrence, a famous resort for vaudeville people. When not engaged in his culinary duties, he practised sleight of hand tricks. In the year 1880, a strolling company came to the city, having as its bright, particular star a magician. The man of mystery, alas, was addicted to the flowing bowl, and went on a spree after the first night’s performance. The manager of the troupe, who was staying at the Lawrence, was in despair. He told his woes to the proprietor of the hotel, who informed him that thechefof the establishment was a conjurer. Descending to the “lower regions” (a capital place, by the way, in which to seek a disciple of the black art), the theatrical man discovered the genial Imro studying a big volume. Near by a black cat sat blinking at him. Upon the stove was a huge caldron. Themise en scèneof the place was decidedly that of a wizard’s studio. But things are seldom what they seem.The book which Fox was so industriously conning proved to be a dictionary of the French language, not a black-letter tome on sorcery. Thechefwas engaged in making up a ménu card, in other words, giving French names to good old Anglo-Saxon dishes. The caldron contained soup. The cat was the regular feline habitué of the kitchen, not an imp or familiar demon.{272}“Thechef, I believe,” said the manager, politely.“I am,” said Fox.“You are an amateur conjurer?”“I amuse myself with legerdemain occasionally.”“You’re the man I’m looking for. I am the proprietor of a vaudeville company playing at . . . . . . The gentleman who does the magic turn for me has disappeared; gone on a prolonged debauch. . . .”“Ah, I see,” interrupted Imro, “a devotee of the ‘inexhaustible bottle’ trick.”“I want you to take his place,” said the manager, “and fill out the week’s engagement. I will arrange matters with the hotel proprietor for you.”“Donner und Blitzen!” cried Fox. “Why, I never was on a stage before in my life. I’d die with fright. Face an audience? I’d rather face a battery of cannons.”“Nonsense,” answered the theatrical man. “Do help me like a good fellow. It will be money in your pocket.”After considerable persuasion, Fox consented. The culinary department was turned over to an assistant. That night Imro appeared on the stage, habited in a hired dress suit that did not fit him like the proverbial “paper on the wall.” With fear and trembling he made his bow, and broke the ice by the following allusion to his very bald pate: “Ladies and gentlemen, why is my head like Heaven? . . . . You give it up! Good! Because there is no parting there!” Amid the shout of laughter occasioned by this conundrum, Fox began his card tricks. In the argot of the stage, he “made good.”This event decided him; he abandoned cooking for conjuring; ménu cards for the making of programmes.His entertainment is quite original. The curtain rises on a gloomy cavern. In the middle is a boiling caldron, fed by witchesà laMacbeth. An aged necromancer, dressed in a long robe with a pointed cap on his head, enters. He begins his incantations, whereupon hosts of demons appear, who dance about the caldron. Suddenly amid the crash of thunder and a blinding flash of light, the wizard’s cave is metamorphosed into a twentieth century drawing-room, fitted up for a{273}conjuring séance. The decrepit sorcerer is changed into a gentleman in evening dress—Mr. Fox—who begins his up-to-date entertainment of modern magic. Is not this cleverly conceived?
“To succeed as a conjurer, three things are essential—first, dexterity; second, dexterity; and third, dexterity.”—ROBERT-HOUDIN.
“To succeed as a conjurer, three things are essential—first, dexterity; second, dexterity; and third, dexterity.”—ROBERT-HOUDIN.
Imro Fox, “the comic conjurer,” was born May 21, 1852, in Bromberg, Germany. He came to the United States in 1874, and after serving as achef de cuisinein several New York hotels, finally came to Washington, where he presided over the kitchen of the old Hotel Lawrence, a famous resort for vaudeville people. When not engaged in his culinary duties, he practised sleight of hand tricks. In the year 1880, a strolling company came to the city, having as its bright, particular star a magician. The man of mystery, alas, was addicted to the flowing bowl, and went on a spree after the first night’s performance. The manager of the troupe, who was staying at the Lawrence, was in despair. He told his woes to the proprietor of the hotel, who informed him that thechefof the establishment was a conjurer. Descending to the “lower regions” (a capital place, by the way, in which to seek a disciple of the black art), the theatrical man discovered the genial Imro studying a big volume. Near by a black cat sat blinking at him. Upon the stove was a huge caldron. Themise en scèneof the place was decidedly that of a wizard’s studio. But things are seldom what they seem.
The book which Fox was so industriously conning proved to be a dictionary of the French language, not a black-letter tome on sorcery. Thechefwas engaged in making up a ménu card, in other words, giving French names to good old Anglo-Saxon dishes. The caldron contained soup. The cat was the regular feline habitué of the kitchen, not an imp or familiar demon.{272}
“Thechef, I believe,” said the manager, politely.
“I am,” said Fox.
“You are an amateur conjurer?”
“I amuse myself with legerdemain occasionally.”
“You’re the man I’m looking for. I am the proprietor of a vaudeville company playing at . . . . . . The gentleman who does the magic turn for me has disappeared; gone on a prolonged debauch. . . .”
“Ah, I see,” interrupted Imro, “a devotee of the ‘inexhaustible bottle’ trick.”
“I want you to take his place,” said the manager, “and fill out the week’s engagement. I will arrange matters with the hotel proprietor for you.”
“Donner und Blitzen!” cried Fox. “Why, I never was on a stage before in my life. I’d die with fright. Face an audience? I’d rather face a battery of cannons.”
“Nonsense,” answered the theatrical man. “Do help me like a good fellow. It will be money in your pocket.”
After considerable persuasion, Fox consented. The culinary department was turned over to an assistant. That night Imro appeared on the stage, habited in a hired dress suit that did not fit him like the proverbial “paper on the wall.” With fear and trembling he made his bow, and broke the ice by the following allusion to his very bald pate: “Ladies and gentlemen, why is my head like Heaven? . . . . You give it up! Good! Because there is no parting there!” Amid the shout of laughter occasioned by this conundrum, Fox began his card tricks. In the argot of the stage, he “made good.”
This event decided him; he abandoned cooking for conjuring; ménu cards for the making of programmes.
His entertainment is quite original. The curtain rises on a gloomy cavern. In the middle is a boiling caldron, fed by witchesà laMacbeth. An aged necromancer, dressed in a long robe with a pointed cap on his head, enters. He begins his incantations, whereupon hosts of demons appear, who dance about the caldron. Suddenly amid the crash of thunder and a blinding flash of light, the wizard’s cave is metamorphosed into a twentieth century drawing-room, fitted up for a{273}conjuring séance. The decrepit sorcerer is changed into a gentleman in evening dress—Mr. Fox—who begins his up-to-date entertainment of modern magic. Is not this cleverly conceived?