THE STRANGENESS OF LAFAYETTE.

CALLERS at my office often become interested in a life size portrait in oils which hangs opposite my desk. Age has darkened it somewhat now, but it is still a picture that commands attention. It shows a slim, middle aged man with pince-nez, his chin resting on his left hand, his eyes gazing thoughtfully into space. There is something queer about the face; it wears an expression difficult to describe. You become uneasy under the steadfast stare from those searching eyes, you feel they are piercing you through and through, and probing into your innermost secrets. Many of my visitors resent this silent examination.

"Who is that man?" they ask.

"Lafayette," I reply.

And then perhaps their eyes will wander to a long sword in a glass case hanging on the wall above my head. It is curious how the subconscious mind seems to connect the sword with Lafavette's portrait. They hang at extreme ends of the room, but time and again, I have noticed people glance unconsciously from one to the other.

"That is Lafayette's sword," I tell them. "It was found on his charred body on the stage of the Empire Theatre, Edinburgh. It was given to Harry Houdini, and he passed it on to me."

"Tell us the story," they say.

So I tell them.

Lafayette was the most hated magician that ever lived. This is strange when one recalls that it was he who established the first class illusionist as an artist worthy of a high salary. He proved to the management of the Holborn Empire that he was worth every penny of the £500 a week he demanded, by taking over the theatre himself for a fortnight, and running it at a huge profit.

He was unsociable to a point of rudeness, and it was for this reason that he was universally disliked. His constant refusals to meet his brother conjurers, both here and in America, made him so intensely unpopular that he was greeted everywhere with the most utter and open contempt.

I have always been convinced that Lafayette was too scared to meet his fellow illusionists. His knowledge of true conjuring was negligible, and, rather than demonstrate his appalling ignorance of the profession of which he was so eminent a member, he preferred to keep his company to himself.

As an illusionist he was wonderful, and as a showman I rank him in the same class as Houdini and John Nevil Maskelyne. Only those who saw the latter two in their heyday can realise how great a compliment this is. But the ability to stage a sensational illusion does not necessitate a knowledge of real magic. It was this knowledge which Lafayette lacked.

He was a mechanical illusionist, pure and simple. He was clever enough to build an entirely different programme from any other magician of his time, and it was in this manner he made his reputation. "It must be spectacular" was his motto, and well he lived up to it. His act was typified by gorgeous scenery, showy curtains, and loud and soul-stirring music.

Lafayette came from German stock, and started life originally as a scenic artist. It was due to this fact, no doubt, that he picked his illusions with such discriminating taste. I have never learned how he came to adopt magic as a profession, but it was doubtless his position as a scenic painter which first gave him the idea.

He has been called eccentric. That is putting it mildly. I considered him quite mad. He drilled his assistants like soldiers and demanded they should salute him in the street. He bought a diamond collar for his dog. He paid all his accounts by cheque, no matter if the debt was only a penny. A man who does all these things, I repeat, must be mad.

His dog "Beauty" was his greatest weakness. It was this animal whose portrait was on all the magician's cheques and theatrical contracts. A special bathroom was built for the dog at Lafayette's house in Torrington Square, and at night-time the animal was served with a regular table d'hote meal, complete from soup to sweets. Beauty's portrait hung outside the house with the following quaint inscription beneath: "The more I see of men, the more I love my dog."

Lafayette was a great booster, and resorted to the most irritating form of publicity that has ever been brought to my notice. He had his name and photo printed on a number of small sticky labels, and caused them to be stuck on the exterior and interior of the public lavatories of the town in which he was appearing. This foolish proceeding did him far more harm than good.

He was something of a pugilist too, as a certain Mr. Inglish of Chicago found out to his cost. When Lafayette was performing in that town, he became very friendly with a young and pretty lady whose husband knew nothing of the affair. We can well imagine the gentleman's surprise, therefore, when he entered a restaurant and saw his wife, whom he imagined was appearing as a manequin in a fashionable dress parade, sitting at a table with the great magician.

"So this is what she does, is it?" thought Mr. Inglish. "I'll see about it." He approached Lafayette, and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Do you know this lady is my wife?" he demanded.

"Is that so?" returned Lafayette, not in the least disturbed.

"What do you mean by taking her out to dine without my permission?"

Lafayette made no reply, but hit the unfortunate man a terrific blow on the point of the jaw. It was the easiest way of settling the dispute. Inglish collapsed, and on recovering was asked what he meant by assaulting so eminent a client as Lafayette. Such are the trials of a wronged husband!

How many people know the truth of Lafayette's death? Not many, I can wager. He was burned to death in the disastrous fire at the Empire Theatre, Edinburgh, on May 9th, 1911. It is popularly supposed that he made good his escape, and then returned to save his white horse, which was still inside the building. There is little truth in this story.

What actually happened was this. Lafayette always insisted that the "pass door"--the small iron door which leads from the stalls into the wings--should be kept locked during his performance. This he did in order that no intruders should discover the secrets of his illusions. It was a foolish stipulation, and cost him his life.

When the fire broke out on the stage, he rushed to the pass door to make good his escape. For the moment, he had forgotten it was locked by his own orders. Before he could make his way to the other exit, the stage was a raging mass of flames and smoke, and, overcome by the fumes, he fell unconscious to the boards. When his body was recovered, it was charred beyond recognition.