Jim Steinmeyer (18 page)

It would be a dozen years before the cracks began to appear in vaudeville; twenty years before vaudevillians began to see the end of the road. But by 1902, Thurston was scheming his way out. His plan was to develop an elaborate, star turn in vaudeville that consisted of innovative large illusions. This would be his first step toward his own show.

In the early years of the twentieth century, London was a magnet for the greatest magicians of the world. In Piccadilly was the famous Egyptian Hall, a creaky Victorian theater painted with faux Egyptian hieroglyphics and scarabs that accommodated a small audience of just 275 people. Since 1873, the theater had been operated by John Nevil Maskelyne, an inventive magician and impresario, and his partner George A. Cooke, who often played the assistant in Maskelyne’s magic.

Maskelyne and Cooke’s Egyptian Hall was a laboratory of great magic, responsible for many of the finest new illusions. The performances were organized around a sort of repertory company of magicians, and American performers like Alexander Herrmann, Harry Kellar, and even Billy Robinson had pillaged Maskelyne’s latest ideas for their own programs.

The new century seemed to instill a new energy at Egyptian Hall. David Devant, Maskelyne’s new partner, joined the company in 1893. He provided a perfect mixture of the new style of magic—stark, pointedly elegant manipulations with a handful of ivory billiard balls—with the traditional Maskelyne specialties—ingenious optical effects or stage illusions worked into scenes or playlets. Most important, Devant was a warm, ingratiating performer with a natural flair for comic patter. He quickly became the ideal of the new generation of magicians. Maskelyne kept Devant busy working at Egyptian Hall or managing the provincial tours through Great Britain. Thurston and Devant quickly became friends. They were close in age and shared similar tastes, hardheaded about the business of magic but artistic in their approaches.

Another important presence at Egyptian Hall was the German magician Paul Valadon, who was hired in 1900 to fill the program when Devant was working outside of London. Valadon’s specialties were billiard balls, in the style of Devant; back palming, in the style of Thurston; and Chinese magic, in the style of Billy Robinson.

But Thurston was most interested in the incredible, inventive illusions featured at Egyptian Hall. The most puzzling of these was John Nevil Maskelyne’s levitation of “the Entranced Fakir,” introduced in 1901. Set within a short farce about a visiting confidence man and an Indian fakir, the highlight of the evening was when the robed fakir, played by George Cooke, floated horizontally out of a coffin, rising into the air. Unlike the awkward, mechanical levitations performed by magicians, Maskelyne had really seemed to conquer the force of gravity. Cooke floated far from any scenery or drapes, on a brightly lit stage, and Maskelyne paced around the floating man throughout the effect. At the climactic moment, the magician passed a solid metal hoop over the floating man, proving that he was not using any wires.

It was easy for magicians to think that it had all been done, that the finest mysteries had already been invented or performed, that the glory days of magic were in the past. But the Entranced Fakir reminded Thurston that the very best magic, the most incredible illusions, had yet to be invented. Here, in 1901, John Nevil Maskelyne had managed to create a totally new illusion that bamboozled Thurston completely.

When he discreetly asked his friend, Devant, about the miracle, Devant smiled. “Howard, that’s one of Mr. Maskelyne’s very best efforts,” he said. “Of course, I can’t talk about it. But I have seen the mechanism. Do yourself a favor and don’t think about it. It’s nothing that you could ever use. Much too complicated for your sort of show.”

Of course, Devant’s advice just steeled Thurston’s resolve. “Maybe you’re right,” he told Devant, “but you don’t know what sort of show I’m going to build.”

 

 

HOWARD AND GRACE
rented a flat in Torrington Square, and Thurston opened a workshop near Bedford Square, hiring several carpenters and scenic artists to build his illusions. Thurston had collected files of new ideas; he selected a dozen original effects and combined them into a new act. For eight months in 1902, he worked evenings performing at private parties or in music halls and spent his days at the shop, supervising the new effects or rehearsing each sequence of moves. Grace stuck by his side, realizing that he desperately needed her help to organize the new enterprise, assisting off and on the stage. She recalled that, at one point, they were employing eight people, laborers or artists, as well as another seven or eight special engineers for the illusions. This time he wouldn’t make any mistakes by scrimping on the production or underestimating his abilities. Each illusion, each piece of scenery and costume was striking and brand-new. The act would be adorned with full orchestrations and a cast of six, plus Grace and George. Soon the rumor of Thurston’s lavish new act spread through the London theatrical community. “I am inclined to think it will be a winner,” T. Nelson Downs reported from London.

Thurston had miscalculated the amount of work involved and the costs. After several months of work, he had spent the $10,000 he had put aside for the new act—a princely sum for magic props—and was now borrowing money to finish the production. Thurston sent a note to his fellow vaudevillian, Harry Houdini. “We never know our luck until we try, therefore I take the liberty to ask you to loan me five pounds,” he wrote. The amount translated to about $25. “I would do the same for you if you needed it.” Houdini sent the money. An urgent telegram was sent to his brother Harry in Chicago for a much larger loan. “My future success depends upon you,” it began. Harry scraped together the profits from his dime museums and cabled the money to his older brother in London.

With the quick infusion of cash, Howard rented the Princess Theater in London on December 15, 1902, for a trial performance. Grace sent telegrams to theatrical managers and vaudeville agents. After ten years of performing with playing cards, just three years from the misery of a Union Square park bench, Thurston was now ready to make his premiere as the world’s greatest magician. Or maybe it was a simple case of his complete confidence in his own con.

F
irst the audience noticed the colors. As the timpani drums rolled, the theater curtain ascended on a blaze of vibrant colors that filled the stage from corner to corner—electric bulbs had been tinted to produce warm gold and rose-colored light. The scenery was painted in bright, pure colors to resemble the courtyard of a mysterious Oriental palace, with a view of a formal garden beyond the walls. Tiny, twinkling electric lights outlined the edges of the palace. Glowing, golden suspended lamps hung overhead, surrounded by swags of peacock blue silk. Revolving color wheels, concealed above the stage, gave the impression of flickering flames in each lamp.

And then the audience at the Princess Theater in London noticed the Great Thurston. He was standing, with his arms crossed, draped with a long cape of dark green velvet and embroidered gold. His costume was a fantasy of the mysterious Orient: a colorful green-and-maroon-striped turban, a short velvet riding coat, high riding boots of embroidered bloodred Moroccan leather, bright green jodhpurs, and a maroon silk cummerbund.

The London public had become familiar with Thurston, the handsome young America in his black formalwear with his long locks of brown hair. But now, he was suddenly presenting himself as a swashbuckling star of a Scheherazade story, the romantic prince welcoming us to his palace. It was no longer a music hall, but a fairy tale.

The orchestra began a bright march. George entered, dressed in a green silk tunic, and removed Thurston’s cape. Another pretty female assistant, dressed in silk harem pants, offered her shawl, twirling as it was pulled from her shoulders. Thurston waved the shawl in the air, draped it over his arm, and reached beneath it. He emerged with a large brass bowl filled with water. He placed it on a table, and a ring of fountains spurted up from the bowl.

He reached beneath the shawl a second time, and his hand emerged with another brass bowl filled with fire. He produced a large porcelain platter, which floated in the air in front of him. He smashed it with a small hammer to prove that it was solid and heavy.

Thurston stepped to a table that supported a tall high hat. He twirled it in his hands, showing it empty, and then reached inside. His fingers emerged with a pastel-colored balloon that seemed to fill the interior of the hat. He released it from his hands and it floated up to the ceiling of the theater. Thurston repeated the trick, shaking the hat gently and dislodging a second balloon that floated away. He produced four large, gas-filled balloons from the empty hat.

Then he picked up a small gilded ball, the size of a small globe, and carried it into the audience. It remained suspended over his fingers as he passed a hoop over it. Thurston returned to the stage, with the golden ball floating between his hands.

Thurston followed with several more unusual effects. George entered holding a tray. Thurston produced a dozen eggs, one after another from George’s mouth. The trick became more and more ridiculous with each egg. Then eggs seemed to be produced from George’s chest, his back, and his elbow. For the finale, a real chicken appeared to push its way through George’s chest, tumbling onto the tray.

The orchestra began Thurston’s lilting favorite, “Zenda Waltzes,” as the magician and George presented the popular card act—card manipulations, the Rising Cards, and the finale with Socrates the duck.

Next came one of Thurston’s most amazing accomplishments. He picked up a simple coconut shell, half of an empty coconut. Thurston stood on a small stool to isolate him from the stage floor, alongside a table that supported a basin of water. He dipped the shell into the water, filling it, and then tipped the shell over the basin, pouring the water out again. He repeated the motion, filling and emptying the shell, even slower this time. The third time he filled the shell with water and turned it upside down, holding it over the basin. The audience was amazed to see a torrent of water gushing from the shell. It poured, and poured, until water ran over the side of the basin and was caught in a metal sluice, running down to another tall metal vase. Within seconds, this was also filled with water, which poured down into a third can. Just as the audience began to suspect that the water might have been coming from concealed hoses, up through his boots and then down his sleeve, Thurston lifted his feet from the raised stool with a few delicate steps. There was no explanation for the deluge. As a perfect climax, Thurston held his other hand aloft, and a blaze of fire burst from his fingers.

Grace entered and reclined on a low Moorish sofa. The orchestra hit a chord and barely paused before the woodwinds began a sinuous, mysterious Oriental melody. Thurston stood above her and, with a ripple of his delicate fingers, she rose slowly into the air. When she was about two feet above the sofa, resting peacefully in space, he passed a metal hoop over her, from head to feet. She descended back to the sofa again. Admittedly, Thurston’s feat was not as miraculous as Maskelyne’s incredible levitation at Egyptian Hall—that one still eluded him—but this version, titled the Aga Levitation, was a good fit in his mysterious Oriental act.

The finale involved several large illusions. The music quickened as Thurston produced a statue of a lady atop a table, and then slowly the statue turned into a real person. Four harem ladies stood on a raised platform above the stage. Thurston covered the platform with a cloth, pulled it away, and the ladies had disappeared.

The entire cast rushed onto the stage for the final bow as the light wheels played on the columns, turning them rainbow colored, and twinkling water fountains spurted into view across the stage. Thurston took a long bow as the audience kept applauding, one curtain call after another. He was happy, relieved, vindicated, and proud.