Kate Berridge (26 page)

As she familiarizes herself with her new surroundings, her impressions are favourable: ‘a beautiful little city from which one can see
snow-covered mountains'. True to form, it is not long before she is surveying another summit–in the form of Edinburgh Castle, where she was soon in the lower foothills of the social mountaineering that gave her so much pleasure. ‘I have discovered some compatriots at the castle and one lady-in-waiting has spent all her life in France. She is friendly and we spend a lot of time together.' She had also turned Little Bonaparte into Little Lord Fauntleroy: ‘Monsieur Nini is dressed like a prince and spends all day at the castle playing with a little French boy.'

But there was not much time for relaxing. An advertisement in the
Edinburgh Evening Courant
on 7 May 1803 announced the forthcoming opening of the exhibition on Wednesday 18 May. The resumption of war gave topicality to the relevant French protagonists, advertised as ‘Accurate models from life of Bonaparte First Consul of the French Republic, Madame Bonaparte, Cambacérès, le Brun, Moreau and Kleber plus numerous other distinguished characters of the French Revolution, accurately modelled from life by the Great Curtius of Paris'. The steep entrance fee of two shillings was an effective invisible cordon to keep out those who favoured the wax-works of the fair. Madame Tussaud aimed for a more exclusive ambience: she was determinedly not in the business of providing cheap thrills for hard-working labourers who paid for their pleasures in pennies.

The exhibition duly opened on 18 May, and on the 26th Marie wrote home. The earlier expressions of affection for her husband are now replaced by admonishment for not answering her letters. ‘This is the hundredth letter I have written to you without reply. Why have you not written? Remember that I am your wife and that you are the father of my children.' Presumably the fact that the Channel was closed constituted extenuating circumstances, but to prevent him from using this as an excuse in the future she advises him from now on to direct letters to her via Hamburg. Her main news, however, is the resounding success of the opening. Takings had risen from £314
s
. on the first day to £13 6
s
. by the eighth–a sum that signified a healthy headcount of 133 visitors. She was clearly encouraged by the reception: ‘Everyone is astonished by my figures, the equal of which no one has seen here.' However, Philipstal, who had only just arrived,
was piqued by her good reception, even though he was a beneficiary of it: ‘Philipstal is worrying about my success, and wondering how to get more money out of me.' What the scribbled script here also conveys is the physical labour of running the exhibition: ‘Sometimes we are too tired for supper.' The pleasures interspersing the daily grind are small, and involve no outlay of money, such as going to the countryside (her idiosyncratic style has
kambain
for
campagne
) on a Sunday afternoon to collect wild honey.

A few days later a rare non-collective letter to Paris, directed to a Madame Allemand, whose relationship to Marie is not clear, gives a further glowing progress report. The exhibition is permanently packed in both the morning and evening hours (11 until 4, 6 until 8). She confides her mounting concern about her contractual ties to Philipstal. ‘I think I shall stay in Edinburgh for three months and if all goes well pay off Monsieur Philipstal…I have good friends, and if he thinks that I am afraid of him he is mistaken. According to our dreadful arrangement I alone have had to pay all expenses and buy materials out of my half of the receipts…I do hope to be finished with him.' In a characteristic flash of the social insecurity that made her prone to delusions of grandeur she adds, ‘I am regarded as a great lady here and have everyone on my side.'

Her deteriorating faith in Philipstal and eagerness to escape from his financial clutches–what she terms ‘his insupportable domination'–is the principal theme of her next long letter to her husband, dated 9 June. Interestingly, perhaps because François was exasperated by the illegibility of her own handwriting, she dictates this letter to the interpreter. In a further twist, this interpreter seems to have been an old hand in the entertainment business, and there is a reference in the letter to his having met Marie's husband when the latter was in London: ‘You know him–he is the Swiss with whom you once went to the opera in London. He wishes to send you his best wishes.' This casual reference can be interpreted as further evidence that François may well have toured with Curtius's cabinet on its earlier visit to London and a number of other towns in 1795–6. If, as her earlier letter claimed, she had been left alone this would explain her resentment of her husband and shows the conflict between their livelihood and their relationship.

After two weeks the takings stood at an impressive £190. This raised Marie's hopes for the forthcoming horse fair in July, when she hoped the influx of country people would boost takings to an ambitious £20 a day. In a manner reminiscent of Curtius, she is clearly making an effort to network and to make friends in high places: ‘I have had the good fortune to become acquainted with the governor of Edinburgh Castle.' But it is her lowly friend Monsieur Charles (also remembered to her husband in this letter) who is the stalwart of her daily life, and a source of reliable support. Their rapport is evident from the fact that he wanted to go into partnership with her once she had managed to extricate herself from Philipstal: ‘Monsieur Charles has done very well here and he has suggested joining with me–but once I have got away from Philipstal, I don't want any more joint ventures.' The unequivocal message is ‘Once bitten twice shy.'

This letter also provides a psychological sketch of the Tussauds' marriage, with several interesting insights. We learn that François had bid his wife to return to Paris. Her response is baffled indignation: ‘I am not ready to return yet, and can't help being surprised that you suggest it before my business is cleared up, and when all the ports are closed.' She goes on, ‘I will not return without a well-filled purse.' This reinforces the impression of a marriage of reversed roles, with the financial responsibility and reliability resting with Marie. François comes across as her dependant, reliant on her to be bailed out and funded as each of his half-hearted ventures comes to nothing. One can't help but speculate whether his desire for her to come back was motivated less by love than by money. Power of attorney meant he could whittle away at what was already there, but the goose was ultimately a more valuable asset than a finite number of golden eggs, and François probably knew that Marie's work ethic combined with her talent would be a good vehicle on which to travel through life, and a means of subsidizing his schemes. To date she had indulged him. Bucking all norms at the time, she was the main provider, and perhaps the combination of the eight-year age difference and his perception of her status as an heiress from the outset weighted the relationship unequally. This sense of vocational cross-dressing continues when she asks him if he has ‘taken a turn at the cooking', and she entreats him to take care of her mother,
two aunts and little Francis. ‘I do urge you to take my place at home–and work hard and change the exhibition as you like while I'm not there to argue with you.' There is no doubting who wore the trousers at the Boulevard du Temple.

The earliest surviving catalogue for Marie's version of the exhibition dates from this time. Entitled
Biographical Sketches of the Characters Composing the Cabinet of Composition Figures Executed by the Celebrated Curtius of Paris and his Successors
, it points to the pedagogic packaging of Marie's exhibition. The provision of a catalogue in itself elevates the tone of her enterprise, and shows her commitment from the outset to distinguishing her exhibition from those of her rivals by marketing its educational value. For example, when the gruesome spectacle of Marat in the agonies of death is accompanied by a brief account of his life, what would otherwise be a horror show turns into a history lesson. But it is accessible history–gossipy, opinionated and at times waspish. For example, Madame Du Barry is described as ‘elevated by accident from a brothel to a partnership in the throne', and Joséphine is described as a woman of great abilities of mind and body. The core of the catalogue is the recent history of the Revolution, and there is nothing impartial about Marie's perspective. Napoleon is condemned for his despotism, ‘for whether the ruler be called a monarch or a consul, it is of little consequence to the people, if their liberties must be sacrificed for his aggrandisement'. But of course Napoleon is also the main theme of current affairs, and she condemns his ambition to invade England and to ‘overthrow…her people, their laws and their liberties'.

While Marie was basking in her success, Philipstal was baulking at it. It is evident from the pre-publicity for his show that in conjunction with the phantasmagoria he was also featuring mechanical automata on the bill. The
Edinburgh Evening Courant
gave a taste of these. Again appealing to public fascination with likenesses, there were a pair of life-size automatic figures ‘as large as nature'. One was a small boy, the other a six-foot-tall Spanish rope dancer ‘that seems almost endowed with human faculties, the power of respiration which the mechanism here demonstrates is incredible–he will smoke a pipe and mark the time of the music with a small whistle besides exhibiting the other feats of a rope dancer in exact imitation of life.'

But his first night was nothing short of disastrous. The automata worked satisfactorily, but they were the supporting act for his signature phantasmagoria, and here a succession of technical hitches resulted in a farce for the audience and a horror show of public derision for Philipstal. Not even an apology in the
Edinburgh Evening Courant
on 18 June, when he expressed regret that the apparatus ‘was not completely in order and failed of producing the effect intended', could restore the public's confidence, and they stayed away. Another factor working against him was that the citizens of Edinburgh, far from being terrified by these Gothic slide shows, were tiring of them. In the past eighteen months there had been so many spooky exhibitions haunting the city it had been like a permanent Halloween. Philipstal had not taken into account the critical factor of novelty, and contrast between the lack of enthusiasm for his show and the critical acclaim of Marie's must have been galling. While the public continued to stream to her exhibition, his audiences dwindled. His Scottish hosts were in effect shooing him away, and on 23 July, under Philipstal's orders, both his and her exhibitions closed.

Rueing her decision to enter into partnership with him, Marie was desperate to extricate herself from the arrangement. Although her takings had been good (box-office receipts for the period 18 May to 23 July totalled £420), she realized to her dismay that she still could not afford to buy him out. Her expenses were £118, and from the remaining £302 she had to pay Philipstal £150 16
s
. Her expectations of bumper takings during the horse fair had not been met, and disappointing numbers had prompted her to halve the admission fee to one shilling, a rate that became the standard admission charge. She shared her predicament with François in a letter dated 28 July. With talk of lawyers and litigation, rows and recriminations with Philipstal, it is a portrait of a person feeling horribly trapped. As she says, she is a woman ‘bowed down with anxiety and fear':

‘Slave', ‘grindstone'–the words are like the bars of Marie's prison. Yet, down but not defeated, she rallied, and in October she opened the exhibition in Glasgow. Unlike in Edinburgh, she lodged away from the exhibition. Her new landlord was a pastrycook, in Wilson Street, and she hired the New Assembly Hall, in Ingram Street, to display the figures. With her usual aplomb, she orchestrated a carefully prepared pre-publicity campaign, with handbills and notices in the local press, and she took great care over set design and all the touches which put her waxworks into a different league. This last point is shown by her studiously avoiding the W-word: her advertisements refer to ‘Accurate models from life in Composition by the Great Curtius of Paris'. They are tailed by the intriguing small-print announcement: ‘Ladies and gentlemen may have their portraits taken in the most perfect imitation of life; Models are also produced from PERSONS DECEASED, with the most correct appearance of animation.'

At the New Assembly Hall she had the luxury of much larger premises than in Edinburgh and could arrange her figures in two rooms, setting what would become her trademark style of dividing gore and glitz. A letter home to Madame Allemand dated 10 October points to precocious success at the box office. After barely two weeks she had taken £40–more than enough to cover expenses.

Philipstal is conspicuous by his absence. Like a pimp, he was happy to exploit Marie's earnings; but, unlike a pimp, he didn't hover in the background. Confident that the law upheld his position of power in their ‘partnership', and that Marie couldn't afford to pay him off, he disappeared–refusing to let her know his whereabouts. They had no contact with one another until December, when out of the blue he summoned her to join him in Dublin. Still legally obligated to him by the terms of the cursed contract, she had no option but to obey.

With a naval convoy flanking the packet that took her across to Ireland–a powerful reminder of the state of war–she was eventually reunited with Philipstal in Dublin. He had opened his phantasmagoria on 23 January at the Little Theatre, Capel Street. In early February she took premises at the Shakespeare Gallery, near the
fashionable area of Grafton Street. Advertisements she placed during her season in Dublin show her capitalizing on the lure of likeness. ‘Figures executed from life consisting of accurate models in wax, of the invention of the celebrated Curtius, than which nothing can be a closer resemblance of Nature–the Figures being elegantly dressed in their proper costume, are scarcely distinguishable from life.' The reference to wax is a very rare case of her mentioning the medium in publicity material.