Jim Steinmeyer

by The Last Greatest Magician in the World

  We two have run about the slopes,

  And picked the daisies fine.

  We’ve wandered many a weary foot,

  Since auld lang syne.

  As the audience stood as a group and sang one final chorus—“We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne!”—the notes rang through the theater. Kellar wiped his eyes. Thurston turned away, surprised to find that he, too, was looking out at the audience through shimmering tears. He stepped back, allowing the old master to indulge in one final bow at the footlights, and the curtain fell.

  The next day, the company took the train back to Philadelphia. Kellar and Thurston sat in the train car and talked. Kellar seemed tired and morose. After the warm reception of his last performance, he was saddened to contemplate the end of his career, but his colorful recollections seemed to enliven his spirits. He had worked hard over every one of his illusions. He spoke fondly of each piece of apparatus, every routine, the careful string of words that had been refined for the introductions, and the sequence of maneuvers. They’d all been labors of love. Thurston realized that these prized mysteries were, in many ways, the children that Kellar had never had.

  “He was the kindliest and biggest hearted man I ever knew,” Thurston recalled. He attributed Kellar’s blunt, decisive manner to the many challenges he encountered through his career. Kellar had been endowed with thick, awkward fingers, a speech impediment, and very little natural grace to enhance his stage performances, but he had overcome every challenge. “Kellar was the last of the old-school magicians,” Thurston wrote years later. “Mystery came first with him. Entertainment was not considered.”

  As a sign of his devotion to Kellar, and the slippery, fluid qualities of his own biography, for several years Thurston changed his childhood story, insisting that it was a performance of Kellar, not Herrmann, that had initially inspired him in Columbus. This not only omitted the awkward reference to Herrmann, Kellar’s longtime rival, but it completed the father-and-son analogy with some poetic publicity.

  In his year of touring with Kellar, Thurston had seen the old wizard at his most stubborn, argumentative, and old-fashioned. But he also understood how, above all else, Kellar had been devoted to magic. He fussed over it, defended it, and loved bringing it to his audiences.

  THURSTON’S YEAR on the road with Kellar had been a financial drain. Anxious to make the best impression, to hire his own assistants and technicians, during his months on tour Thurston’s payroll had been $350 a week, but he had been receiving just $150 from Kellar. In fact, he’d never learned how to budget a show. He insisted on what he wanted, and was constantly at odds with his managers, like Dudley McAdow, to balance the books.

  Thurston’s sudden fame led to a number of impulsive purchases and more than a few terrible investments. For example, he had paid $15,000 for nine acres of property in Cos Cob, Connecticut. Thurston had imagined a restful, elegant country estate outside of New York City, something that would remind him of Mount Hermon Academy. The property in Cos Cob fell short of his ideal, although it was certainly rustic. The land was at the corner of Bible and Hardscrabble streets—one could not imagine a better intersection to summarize Thurston’s early career.

  “It is indeed a farm,” reported one friend after he visited it, “he has horses, cows, and chickens.” The farm was supervised by a foreman and was always on the brink of disaster. Thurston joked that the property was distinguished by having the largest rocks in Connecticut. The farmhouse, situated on a bluff, was called Hillcrest, and a few small buildings around the property provided space for his twelve mechanics and carpenters to live.

  His first priority was the barn, which was converted into a forty-by-hundred-foot workshop, complete with a blacksmith shop and woodworking facilities. Thurston also set up his own rehearsal stage so that he could test scenery, lighting, and new illusions. Thurston had vowed to replace the old-fashioned elements of the Kellar show. Kellar had always conducted a leisurely show, filled with benign chat and emphasizing the small tricks. Every year he had tried to include two or three large illusions—a levitation or disappearing lady—to vary the procedure and entice the press. Thurston wanted to turn that formula on its ear, with a bigger, flashier show. He eliminated all of Kellar’s material except the Spirit Cabinet and the famous Levitation of Princess Karnac.

  Perhaps Thurston’s greatest extravagance was the formation of the Thurston Amusement Company, an enterprise designed to franchise Thurston’s success, indulge his interest in invention, and occupy his brother Harry, who was now underfoot in New York City. The letterhead explained that Howard was president and Harry was the manager, “Constructors of Original Riding Devices for Parks, Automatic Games, Novel Features for 5 and 10 Theaters.” In other words, they were in the dime museum business.

  Howard Thurston, the World’s Famous Magician, Has Invented the Greatest Money-Making Device Ever Exhibited at Parks, Fairs, Carnivals, Penny Arcades, Etc.

  Five beautiful illusions combined in one. Nothing objectionable. For men, women and children.

  The Maid of Mystery, their first product, was an elaborate coin-operated arcade device. It sounded like the perfect combination of Harry and Howard’s interests. A tall, five-sided kiosk was equipped with five small windows, one in each side. A spectator could stand at each window and place a penny in a slot. A timer opened the window for ten seconds, allowing each spectator to peer inside. Each spectator was allowed to spy a sideshow illusion; although it wasn’t specified, presumably this was a variation on the usual effects, like a living half-lady or disembodied head. The Thurstons’ brochure did the math: “Net profits larger than a 5-cent Theater. Earning capacity, 5 cents every ten seconds, 30 cents a minute, $18 per hour, $180 for 10 hours, $1,260 per week.”

  Another idea that Thurston had been toying with for some time was a spinning amusement ride for carnivals and parks. A circular track contained individual cars; each was like a large canister, just the size to contain a couple standing together. As the cars revolved around the track, they also spun like a top, giving the riders a wild, whirling thrill.

  Each of these ideas had been easy to draw on a scrap of paper and sounded exciting and profitable. But each required months of work and experimentation with a staff of metal workers, engineers, and then patent lawyers and salesmen, before the idea could be evaluated in the marketplace.

  Thurston’s last project, and maybe the most important of all, was to take the necessary steps to marry Beatrice Foster, now officially billed on his programs and posters as the “Queen of Magic.” Howard hired an attorney and filed to divorce Grace at the end of 1907, noting that they had been separated for four years.

  IN THE AUTUMN OF 1908, Howard Thurston took his new production on the road. A special series of brightly colored stone lithographs advertised the show with extravagant scenes. Thurston hired the Strobridge Lithographic Company of Cincinnati, which had created Kellar’s artistic posters. For more than a decade, Kellar’s posters had incorporated images of tiny red devils, perched on his shoulder or whispering secrets into his ear. Now these little devils, presumably the helpmates of the magician, became the property of Thurston; they were seen scampering across his advertising materials.

  One of Thurston’s most impressive new posters portrayed Kellar bestowing a scarlet “mantle of magic” on Thurston’s shoulders as Mephistopheles stood to the side and watched. Each poster included the words “Kellar’s Successor,” and “Mr. Kellar says Thurston will be the Greatest Magician the World Has Ever Known.”

  The show now opened with a striking image, reminding the audience of Thurston’s progenitors. The curtains raised on an enormous upright book with the title Masters of Magic. Two assistants stood at the sides and opened the cover, like a door. On the first page was a full-length, life-sized image of Philippe, the nineteenth-century French magician. They continued to turn the pages, revealing Heller, Herrmann, and Kellar. When the final page was turned, the assistants revealed Thurston, standing sta
tionary within the frame of the book before stepping out and beginning his act.

  Bella Husssan worked for part of the season, and Thurston also filled out the program with a European vaudeville act, Paul Kleist, who performed a pantomime clown magic act. Thurston added illusions with boxes, ducks, crystal lanterns, and trunks. And now the show closed with a series of big, fast, impressive magic—oddly shaped cabinets and cases that filled the stage with color and action. The Lady and the Boy was probably inspired by Devant and Fasola. Thurston introduced it by explaining, “My object in presenting this effect is to demonstrate the possibility of passing a living person through space on a well-lighted stage!” Two assistants, a young lady and a young man, stood on a large platform. A curtain covered them for an instant, and they both disappeared. One reappeared in a locked case beneath the curtain. The other assistant emerged from a suspended cabinet on the opposite side of the stage.

  Before the applause had subsided, Thurston was introducing the final feat. “We shall conclude our evening’s entertainment with our most interesting illusion, entitled the Flight of Princess Kiyo, or the Triple Mystery.” This was a combination of three sensational surprises. Two large boxes were shown empty and nested together. Thurston clapped his hands, and Beatrice Foster popped out of the box. She stepped over to an Egyptian mummy case, entered, and closed the door. The case was lifted into the air on cables.

  Thurston took a blank revolver in his hand and fired it into the air. With a crash, the panels of the mummy case fell open. She was gone. Now Thurston called attention to the brightly painted, square trunk that had been hanging over the audience’s head since they entered the theater at the beginning of the show. The trunk slid down a loop of rope onto the stage, and inside Thurston’s nest of three trunks, Beatrice emerged.

  The critics praised Thurston’s sensational efforts, but “The World’s Greatest Magician” was broke. Late in the season, when ticket sales were slow in Canada, he wired his brother Harry for more cash—anything he could pull out of the amusement company or personal funds he might have on hand—to keep the show open. When he limped across the finish line in April 1909, at New York’s Metropolis Theater, he transported the crates back to Connecticut and began rehearsing the next season’s show.

  THURSTON WAS CONVINCED that his show needed new features every year, and he was eager to prove his versatility and creativity to his audiences—despite his depleted bank account. For the 1909-1910 season, Thurston had planned even more new sensations, and had been horse-trading to get the material. Thurston sent his friend David Devant the details of his egg trick, titled The Boy, the Girl and the Eggs. The trick was now a complete comedy routine in his show, and the previous season, when he performed it in Washington, President Roosevelt’s young son, Quentin, was the boy recruited to drop the eggs. It was a perfect routine for Devant’s breezy style. Thurston wrote:

  This trick will create as much talk as anything l have ever seen performed on the magic stage. If you cannot get seven minutes of good solid laughter from the trick, let me hear from you, and I will do what I can. I am anxious to get good small comedy tricks, and I hope that our exchanges from time to time will prove satisfactory.

  In return, Thurston desperately wanted David Devant’s version of the Rope Trick, and he went so far as to have posters printed announcing it. Unfortunately, the trick proved too complicated for Devant, and the result was disappointing in his show. Thurston scrapped his plans for it. Another sensational illusion, the Witch’s Cauldron, was based on an illusion of Billy Robinson’s. It was built at Cos Cob but never used, as it was too difficult to install on stages.

  In exchange for a duplicate of his Coconut Trick for Gus Fasola, Thurston obtained some of Fasola’s best ideas. Thurston wrote to Fasola:

  Remember, Gus, that you and I are the two best friends possible for two magicians to be, and that we have given our word to assist each other to the best extent and not to hold back any secrets.

  Fasola’s new trick was called the Lady and the Lion, and Thurston’s shop was kept busy building it through the summer of 1909. The final result proved to be a fantastic illusion, a stage-filling marvel that generated headlines across the country.

  On the left side of the stage was a curtained cabinet, roughly the size of a large closet. On the right side of the stage was a sort of square, four-post framework, consisting of a plywood top and a platform. Thurston invited a gentleman to step on stage; he asked him to tie his handkerchief around the wrist of his female assistant, so the man would be sure to be able to identify her later.

  The lady entered the cabinet to the audience’s left, and Thurston drew the curtains around both enclosures. He fired his pistol. Both sets of curtains were ripped away from the cabinets. The lady was now discovered on the opposite side of the stage, sitting inside an enormous suspended birdcage to the audience’s right. In her place, on the left, was a strong steel cage containing a growling, pacing lion. The man from the audience, standing near Thurston and watching the action, saw the lion and invariably dashed back to his seat.

  The trick was accomplished with an array of ingenious principles taken right from Fasola’s show—false compartments, collapsible containers, flaps, traps, and special concealments. The entire sequence depended upon the smooth, instantaneous operation of a number of mechanical devices, and the cooperation of the lion, which was hidden in the back of the cabinet until his sudden appearance. Thurston provided the final touch. As he positioned the man at the side of the stage, he whispered under his breath, “When you see the lion, run like hell. I’ll tell you when to run.” The lion appeared, and as the audience cheered, Thurston added one final sotto voce growl in the direction of the man: “Run!” His exit, which seemed so unexpected, provided the laugh to punctuate the mystery.

  DURING HIS SECOND SEASON, Thurston finally had an opportunity to meet Paul Valadon when their paths crossed. Valadon had faced a difficult year. After he left Kellar’s show, his wife had died, in April 1909, and Valadon and his son were then touring smaller vaudeville theaters. He had added a levitation illusion, and even worked under the name Briscoe, in an effort to draw more attention to his act.

  When they met, Valadon was impatient and chilly with Thurston, seeing no reason to be gracious to the new “World’s Greatest.” But Thurston applied his confidence man’s charm, flattering Valadon with compliments and easing him into a good humor. Thurston provided passes, so that Valadon could see his new show, and asked him to take note of any improvements that he could make.

  Valadon was perplexed by the new material. He was only two years older than Thurston, but his sensibilities were trapped in the era of Kellar’s slow, serious Victorian conjuring. Thurston’s flashy new tricks—the cabinets, cages, and containers that now filled the stage and punctuated the show with the bangs and crashes of slamming doors—merely annoyed him. Afterward Thurston took him to dinner and asked for suggestions. “Herr Valadon, is there anything that my show needs?” Valadon glared at him. “Thurston, you need another box!”

  In fact, many magicians thought that Thurston’s quick, pyrotechnic changes to the show were a sign of desperation, not expertise. “Thurston is not a magician,” Dr. James Elliott wrote to Downs. Elliott had given Thurston his lessons in the Back Palm, and now considered that he had turned his back on real magic. “His only hand work was what I taught him with cards. Then on come the boxes, lion cages, refrigerators, ash cans, ladders, water tanks, and other huge affairs. God only knows what you can call them. He carries an army of assistants and the railroad and hotels are happy.”

  UNFORTUNATELY, it was only a matter of time before Kellar began to have his doubts. Harry and Eva Kellar had just retired to a pretty house in Los Angeles, when, on March 28, 1910, Eva Kellar died of a heart attack. It was within a year of Mrs. Valadon’s death.

  With Eva gone, Kellar increasingly turned to his other love, magic. He visited the local magic shops and attended meetings of the Society of American Magicians, bestowi
ng genial praise and pats on the back to amateurs and professionals alike. He became the beloved old master of magic. In particular, Kellar spent his time fussing and fuming over the state of his child—the show that he had sold to Thurston.

  Kellar was enough of a showman to understand that Thurston would present the magic with his own style, and he didn’t object to the inclusion of big illusions. But Kellar was particular about the quality of each piece of the show. He now feared that many of Thurston’s new ideas were slapdash and careless, designed to provide production value instead of mystery. Florenz Ziegfeld, the Follies producer, was famous for insisting that his girls wore expensive French silk underwear—not because the audience would see it, but because the girls knew it was there. Similarly, Kellar had once purchased a prop from a magic dealer and found that the inside of it had not been painted. “No one sees it,” the dealer told him. “I see it,” Kellar snarled.

  It was a line drawn in the sand. Thurston was the sort of magician who did not paint the insides of props. He used to tell colleagues, “Magic comprises only about thirty percent of a magic show.” To him, the tricks were only a small part of the formula. The rest was showmanship, presentation, stage deportment, and all those indefinable elements that intrigued an audience. But these were fighting words for Kellar, who had devoted his career to the finding the finest tricks and always making them shine.