Алан Милн - The Sunny Side

Behold me on the night, the latest word In all that separates the gentleman (And waiters) from the evening–dress–less mob, And graced, moreover, by the latest word In waistcoats such as mark one from the waiters. My shirt, I must not speak about my shirt; My tie, I cannot dwell upon my tie— Enough that all was neat, harmonious, And suitable to Mrs. Philby Phipp. Behold me, then, complete. A hasty search To find the card, and reassure myself That this is certainly the day—(It is)— And 10 p.m. the hour; "p.m.," not "a.m.," Not after breakfast—good; and then outside, To jump into a cab and take the winds, The cold east winds of March, with beauty. So.

Let us get on more quickly. Looms ahead Tragedy. Let us on and have it over.

I hung with men and women on the stairs And watched the tall white footman take the names, And heard him shout them out, and there I shaped My own name ready for him, "Mr. Brown." And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name, Would, I imagined, brighten suddenly And smile and say, "How are you, Mr. Brown?" And in an instant I'd remember her, And where we met, and who was Mr. Phipp, And all the jolly time at Grindelwald (If that was where it was); and she and I Would talk of Art and Politics and things As we had talked these many years ago…. So "Mr. Brown" I murmured to the man, And he—the fool!—he took a mighty breath And shouted, "Mr. BROWNIE!"—Brownie! Yes, He shouted "Mr. BROWNIE" to the roof. And Mrs. Philby Phipp, hearing the name, Brightened up suddenly and smiled and said, "How are you, Mr. Brownie?"—(Brownie! Lord!) And, while my mouth was open to protest, " How do you do?" to some one at the back. So I was passed along into the crowd As Brownie!

Who on earth is Mr. Brownie? Did he, I wonder, he and Mrs. Phipp Talk Art and Politics at Grindelwald, Or did one simply point him out to her With " That is Mr. Brownie?" Were they friends, Dear friends, or casual acquaintances? She brightened at his name, some memory Came back to her that brought a happy smile—Why surely they were friends! But I am Brown, A stranger, all unknown to Mrs. Phipp, As she to me, a common interloper—I see it now—an uninvited guest, Whose card was clearly meant for Mr. Brownie. Soft music fell, and the kaleidoscope Of lovely woman glided, swayed and turned Beneath the shaded lights; but Mr. Brownie ( Né Brown, not Brownie) stood upon one side And brooded silently. Some spoke to him; Whether to Brown or Brownie mattered not, He did not answer, did not notice them, Just stood and brooded…. Then went home to bed.

Now that the "festive season" ( copyright ) is approaching, it behoves us all to prepare ourselves in some way to contribute to the gaiety of the Christmas house–party. A clever conjurer is welcome anywhere, and those of us whose powers of entertainment are limited to the setting of booby–traps or the arranging of apple–pie beds must view with envy the much greater tribute of laughter and applause which is the lot of the prestidigitator with some natural gift for legerdemain. Fortunately there are a few simple conjuring tricks which are within the reach of us all. With practice even the clumsiest of us can obtain sufficient dexterity in the art of illusion to puzzle the most observant of our fellow–guests. The few simple tricks which I am about to explain, if studied diligently for a few days before Christmas, will make a genuine addition to the gaiety of any gathering, and the amateur prestidigitator (if I may use that word again) will find that he is amply repaying the hospitality of his host and hostess by his contribution to the general festivity.

So much by way of introduction. It is a difficult style of writing to keep up, particularly when the number of synonyms for "conjuring" is so strictly limited. Let me now get to the tricks. I call the first

HOLDING THE LEMON

For this trick you want a lemon and a pack of ordinary playing–cards. Cutting the lemon in two, you hand half to one member of your audience and half to another, asking them to hold the halves up in full view of the company. Then, taking the pack of cards in your own hands, you offer it to a third member of the party, requesting him to select a card and examine it carefully. When he has done this he puts it back in the pack, and you seize this opportunity to look hurriedly at the face of it, discovering (let us say) that it is the five of spades. Once more you shuffle the pack; and then, going through the cards one by one, you will have no difficulty in locating the five of spades, which you will hold up to the company with the words "I think this is your card, sir"—whereupon the audience will testify by its surprise and appreciation that you have guessed correctly.

It will be noticed that, strictly speaking, the lemon is not a necessary adjunct of this trick; but the employment of it certainly adds an air of mystery to the initial stages of the illusion, and this air of mystery is, after all, the chief stock–in–trade of the successful conjurer.

For my next trick, which I call

THE ILLUSORY EGG

and which is most complicated, you require a sponge, two tablecloths, a handful of nuts, a rabbit, five yards of coloured ribbon, a top–hat with a hole in it, a hard–boiled egg, two florins and a gentleman's watch. Having obtained all these things, which may take some time, you put the two tablecloths aside and separate the other articles into two heaps, the rabbit, the top–hat, the hard–boiled egg, and the handful of nuts being in one heap, and the ribbon, the sponge, the gentleman's watch and the two florins in the other. This being done, you cover each heap with a tablecloth, so that none of the objects beneath is in any way visible. Then you invite any gentleman in the audience to think of a number. Let us suppose he thinks of 38. In that case you ask any lady in the audience to think of an odd number, and she suggests (shall we say?) 29. Then, asking the company to watch you carefully, you—you—

To tell the truth, I have forgotten just what it is you do do, but I know that it is a very good trick, and never fails to create laughter and bewilderment. It is distinctly an illusion worth trying, and, if you begin it in the manner I have described, quite possibly some way of finishing it up will occur to you on the spur of the moment. By multiplying the two numbers together and passing the hard–boiled egg through the sponge and then taking the … or is it the—Anyway, I'm certain you have to have a piece of elastic up the sleeve … and I know one of the florins has to—No, it's no good, I can't remember it.

But mention of the two numbers reminds me of a trick which I haven't forgotten. It is a thought–reading illusion, and always creates the maximum of wonderment amongst the audience. It is called

THE THREE QUESTIONS

As before, you ask a gentleman in the company to write down a number on a piece of paper, and a lady to write down another number. These numbers they show to the other guests. You then inform the company that you will ask any one of them three questions, and by the way they are answered you will guess what the product of the two numbers is. (For instance, if the numbers were 13 and 17, then 13 multiplied by 17 is—let's see, thirteen sevens are—thirteen sevens—seven threes are twenty–one, seven times one is—well, look here, let's suppose the numbers are 10 and 17. Then the product is 170, and 170 is the number you have got to guess.)

Well, the company selects a lady to answer your questions, and the first thing you ask her is: "When was Magna Charta signed?" Probably she says that she doesn't know. Then you say, "What is the capital of Persia?" She answers Timbuctoo, or Omar Khayyam, according to how well informed she is. Then comes your last question: "What makes lightning?" She is practically certain to say, "Oh, the thunder." Then you tell her that the two numbers multiplied together come to 170.