The Automaton

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The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011 though. “You have to take what you can,” he had said. “You seem to go where you are sent.” But then I can think of worse people than Mrs Lisle from whom to take orders. It was during a somewhat prolonged fallow season that the Automaton arrived, on the back doorstep, as it were. I was present in the cobbled mews at the back of the theatre, returning from an errand one misty afternoon, when the cart, drawn by an ancient cob, drew up — it appeared out of the river-mist looking for all the world like a tumbrel with a shrouded figure in it, apparently seated. I later learned that the Automaton had arrived at the dock on the morning’s tide, part of the manifest of the SS Foxglove, a steam coaster. Had it not been for my errand I would undoubtedly have gone to the dock to meet the Foxglove; she is a handsome vessel, and I admire the way she is handled in a dock-entrance known for its difficulty. The Automaton was covered in dun, dark sheeting, but I could make out the shape of a head, and then a rather narrow pair of shoulders: also, below the lower edge of the sheeting, dark-green satin or watered silk. The tumbrel drew up at the stagedoor. My offer to hold the horse was accepted. I was fascinated by the shrouded shape. What would it be like? My imagination took full rein. And then the Automaton was laboriously lifted from the cart. A pole was slid either side of the figure, and two labourers took the poles afore and aft. And so the Automaton was carried, Sedan-chair style, blind as fortune beneath its sheeting, into the darkness of the Comedy. Advertisements had been placed in the papers, and sensational bills posted around the town. I stood at the side of the stage (quite literally in the wings), fascinated by the sheeted figure. ‘Well, Madame! You are almost ready to take a look at your new surroundings!’ cried the impresario, removing the sheeting with a flourish. The Automaton was a slim waxwork woman in green seated at a desk. Her head was covered with a close-fitting calico slip which reached down to her shoulders. ‘My boy!’ shouted the impresario; he had seen me — his sight must have been very sharp. ‘Come here! Make haste!’ I walked slowly from the wings, crossed the stage and jumped down into the orchestra pit. I climbed up into the auditorium. ‘What is your name, my boy?’ ‘William Bradney, sir.’ ‘Well, Master Bradney, to you shall fall the honour of uncovering the lady.’ He indicated the calico slip with a hand. I lifted the hem of the slip: the creature beneath my hands gave a long but gentle sigh. Her head was warm and there was a sensation of life. Holding the empty calico tube in my hands I looked at her. ‘Thank you, Master Bradney. The lady impresses you. And fascinates you with her qualities. And why should she not?’ He put a hand on the Automaton’s shoulder. He spoke softly. ‘Well, Madame. Regard your new environment! See what you have come down to!’ His voice was too low to find an echo in the empty auditorium. ‘Oh! Your hair! You need a hand-maid to brush it!’ said the impresario in his soft voice. ‘But please, Madame, make do with me.’ He ran a comb mockingly through her luxurious tresses of long, black hair and held up a mirror before her sightless face. I stood before her, watching her in awe. Of what was she capable? And so people came to see the mysterious Automaton. Now, as a spectacle, the Automaton could only have been expected to be truly successful in a major city. The 4
The Automaton ~ David Wheldon ~ 6/11/2011 Automaton played chess, and that was what the Automaton was billed to do: but really, at the root of it, the Automaton was a stage property in a gambling scheme. No more than that, it seemed: at least, that was how the Automaton’s proprietor — impresario — treated her; and this upset me, for the Automaton had a feminine appearance without any kind of that exaggeration so beloved of puppet-makers: her face was vigilant, perceptive and wise: had she been alive you could easily have loved her. Yes, a gambling act: the truly remarkable achievement — the ability of a machine to play chess — was in his eyes merely a novelty. He would refer to her, somewhat mockingly, as ‘Madame’. Every evening she was taken (Sedan-chair style) into the centre of the auditorium (which was primitive and untiered) sitting at her kneehole desk on which lay a very large chessboard of red and white inlaid marble, and red and white chessmen, again large; their height was exaggerated to allow their identification at some distance. Now, the general public — men and youths, mostly — would pay to engage her in a game of chess. She would sit upright in front of the board in her darkgreen satin dress, her long-fingered right hand resting on a large sand-glass. Money having changed hands, her opponent would sit opposite her and toss a coin for colour. And the game would begin. Moves were timed. The Automaton would turn over her sand-glass and make her move. Her movements were very smooth and graceful: and, it has to be said, authoritative. This amazed me. I had always thought that automata would have a mechanical, jerky kind of action. Not she. She would give a long sigh, almost below the level of hearing, and her right hand would move with a fluid deliberation, her eyes — almost but not quite unblinking — following the action of her hand. Her fingers would gently touch the piece and lift it, carry it, and set it down on its allotted square. Her fluidity and grace of movement unnerved most of her opponents. And she didn’t seem to need much time to think. No sooner had her opponent made his move than, with a sigh, she would reach her right hand above the board, its motion that of a conjuror or a healer. And she appeared to be unbeatable. Well, I was fascinated by her. I hadn’t been taught to play chess, but even so I could gather progress from the behaviour of her opponents. Frustration, anger, even: the inevitability of that smooth right hand reaching for the enemy king: her eyes would open and her dark irises would regard her opponent, as though absorbed in his emotions. Then that long-fingered right hand would silently lay the defeated king on its side. ‘Thank you, lady,’ some opponents would say, on standing, involuntarily bowing before her, taking their humiliation in their stride. Others would remain silent and perturbed. And then there was the gambling. There were many ways in which the gambling was done. You could simply place a wager on the final result: the checkmate. At first this was highly successful and made the impresario a lot of money. He was an ostensibly honest man and gave the agreed percentage of takings to my father, who stowed it in the office safe. However, the certainty of outcome after a while naturally made people reluctant to bet on the Automaton’s losing. So the proprietor would advertise for good players. And they arrived, full of confidence, a circle of their friends around them, and heavy money would be put on their success. At the inevitable conclusion the loser would receive banter from his friends: ‘see if you can do any better,’ he would say; and soon they were all a good deal worse off. Then they retired to the bar. 5
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The Automaton

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