CHAPTER XXIX

_GAMES OF SKILL_

CONJURING

There are no theatres in China, like the Egyptian Hall in London, that is to say, conjuring theatres. The conjurer has to perform in public, in the squares, and places like his European brethren at the different fairs. Conjurers are often hired to perform at family parties, and never fail to win great applause. The Chinese conjurer is, at the same time, an acrobat, and knows both his trades very well indeed. The proverbial skill of our artists is really astonishing. The performance is generally opened with acrobatic feats, and after having swallowed swords, juggled with weights, and gone through exercises of this description, the acrobat transforms himself into a magician. He throws off his gown, and as it falls to the earth, asks the spectators what object they would like to see. Something very difficult to produce is naturally chosen, and the sorcerer begins to make strange gestures with his fingers. He then approaches the gown, mutters some mysterious word of command to it, mesmerises it with strange mesmeric passes, and suddenly the gown is seen to rise from the earth, and rises and rises until the master, drawing back this moving curtain, discloses beneath it smoking dishes, or a large bowl filled with water, in which quantities of gold and silver fish are disporting themselves. This is one of the tricks that I have seen performed, and have never been able to understand how it was done. But one of my friends told me of something that he had seen which was much more astonishing. One day, in the course of one of these performances, the conjurer asked his audience to name what they desired to see. One of the spectators asked for a pumpkin. The conjurer, at first, pretended that that was out of the question, as it was not in season. But, the public insisting, he gave way. He then took a pumpkin seed and planted it in the earth, and made his son—a lad of four or five years—lie down, and thrust his knife into his throat, as if he had been slaughtering an animal. The blood poured out into a pot, and when it had been collected the conjurer watered with it the spot where he had just planted the seed. He then covered the corpse up with a cloth, and placed a wooden bell over the seed. A few moments later a sprout was seen rising from the soil, which grew and grew and burst into flower. The flower fell, and the pumpkin showed itself, growing with extraordinary rapidity. When it was ripe, the magician picked it off its stalk, showed it to the public, and began making his collection. He then lifted up the cloth from his son, and instead of disclosing a corpse, brought to light a very healthy youth, who did not bear the vestige of a wound. All this was done with surprising neatness.

Another of my friends told me, on his return from Pekin, that he had seen still more extraordinary things. One day, after the literary examinations, the candidates clubbed together and sent for a troupe of conjurers. The chief, having shown certain tricks, asked if the audience would like to see some rare thing that they might choose. “A peach,” cried one of the spectators. It was then the month of March, when the land is still ice-bound, especially in the north of China. “A peach!” said the conjurer; “that is the only fruit that it is impossible for me to procure. At this time of the year, peaches can only be found in Paradise.”

“But as you are a magician,” was the answer, “you ought to be able to bring one down from heaven.”

After grumbling a good deal, the conjurer said he would try what he could do for them, and began weaving a roll of ribbon, which he cast into the air, and which took the shape of a ladder, which went up and up to a tremendous height. He then placed a child on this ladder, who ran up the rungs with the agility of a monkey, and was soon lost to sight in the clouds. Some moments passed, when suddenly a peach fell from the skies. The magician picked it up, cut it into slices, and offered it to the audience. It was a real peach. Hardly had the peach been eaten, when something else fell from the skies. Horror! It was the head of the child, which was speedily followed by the trunk and the limbs. The sorcerer picked them up with tears in his eyes, and said that the audience was to blame for the loss of his child by its absurd request, and that the guardians of Paradise had taken his child for a thief, and had cut him into pieces. The spectators, touched at the sight of his sorrow, and believing that they were really to blame for a murder, and wanting to do all in their power to comfort the unhappy father, made a collection, and presented him with a handsome sum of money. Meanwhile, the magician had placed the fragments of his son’s corpse in a box, which he always carried round with him. As soon as he had received the amount of the subscription, he opened the box and cried out—

“Come forth, my child, and thank these kind gentlemen.” And out sprang the youth, alive and well.

In concluding this chapter, I must tell a story about a ventriloquist. It was at a dinner given by a gentleman, who, as a rule, was very unhappy in life, and bored himself dreadfully when alone. He used to say that when he had no friends to talk to, the softest carpets appeared to him like bundles of needles, and the most beautifully decorated walls like bucklers. He used to write poems to kill time. When people knocked at his door he used to ask them to stay to dinner, whether he knew their names or not. That day not one of the guests who sat at the table knew any of the others. The conversation turned on the question, which sound was the most agreeable. One of the spectators said, “It is the sound of the shuttle as it flies across the loom, or the voice of a reading child.”

“No, no; that is too serious,” said the host.

“Then it is the neighing of horses, or the concert of lady musicians.”

“No; that is too noisy,” said the host.

“The rattle of the pawns at chess played by women.”

“Nor that. That is too monotonous.”

The fourth guest said nothing, but continued quietly emptying his glass.

“What is your opinion?” asked the others.

“I have no opinion to give,” said he; “but I should like to tell you about the sounds I heard in Pekin. They seem to me to be much superior to any others. They were the different noises emitted by a ventriloquist. He was seated behind a screen, where there was only a chair, a table, and a fan, and a ruler. He rapped the ruler on the table to enforce silence, and, when everybody had ceased speaking, there was suddenly heard the barking of a dog; then the movements of a woman, waked by the noisy brute, who shook her husband to say tender things to him. We were just expecting to hear a duet of love between the two spouses when the noise of a crying child was heard. Then we heard the mother giving the breast to the baby, and the sound of it drinking and crying at the same time. The mother tried to console it, and then rose to change its clothes. Meanwhile, another child, waking in its bed, began to make a noise; its father scolded it, whilst the younger child continued crying at its mother’s breast. Then the whole family go back to bed and fall asleep. The patter of a mouse is heard. It climbs up some vase and upsets it, and we hear the clatter as it falls. The woman coughs in her sleep. Cries of ‘Fire, fire,’ are heard. The mouse has upset the lamp, and set fire to the bed-curtains. The husband and the wife, wakened, begin to shout and scream, the children cry, thousands of people come running up, and vociferate; thousands of children cry, dogs bark, the walls come crashing down, squibs and crackers explode—it seems a general _sauve-qui-peut_. The fire-brigade comes racing up; water is pumped up in torrents, and hisses in the flames. It was all so true to life that all present were about to rise to their feet and run away, thinking that fire really had broken out, when a second blow of the ruler was struck on the table, and the most complete silence ensued. We rushed behind the screen, but there was nothing except the ventriloquist, his table, his chair, and his ruler.”