Howard Thurston, five years older, some four inches taller, wore a stylish felt hat and embroidered vest, twirled a cane, and worked as the “talker,” standing in front of the Dahomey Village, a collection of “authentic African” attractions. When the crowds thinned out, Thurston used to pull a pack of cards from his pocket, performing a little magic, flourishing the cards from hand to hand, and changing one card into another by waving his hand over the face of the deck.
In Chicago, the two young men quickly found each other, and then found each other obnoxious. Thurston was bemused by Houdini’s aggressive, boastful New York East Side personality. Houdini watched the card moves with disinterest. Yeah, he told his new acquaintance, he did all that stuff too, and better. No, the Hindu thing was just a temporary job; he actually had a sensational new act, an escape from a trunk, if only you could see it.
Houdini found Thurston’s smooth, evangelical manner condescending. Actually, Thurston purred to his young compatriot, his work as a pitchman was just something to keep him busy. He had plans for a sensational new act, with brand-new card tricks. At the Columbian Exposition, the magicians were perfectly matched because they were both perfectly miserable—two young men teetering between the brink of success or failure, who could take no pride in anything they had done, but indulged in boasts of what they might accomplish someday ... with the right show ... with the right breaks.
Now, on December 6, 1920, at the Folly Theater in Brooklyn, they were both stars, and Houdini had agreed to watch Thurston’s show once more. The timpani rolled, and the curtain was raised, showing a stage glowing with light and circled with pretty showgirls in bright silk dresses. The children seated around Houdini squealed and the audience burst into applause. Howard Thurston quickly stepped to the center of the stage, cupping the palm of one hand inside of the other hand and bowing slightly to the audience. And then he turned his eyes to Houdini’s seat—a professional greeting that was brief and distinct—acknowledging his fellow magician with a nod.
ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES into the show—after a flurry of fishbowls and silk handkerchiefs, after Thurston had neatly plucked dozens of cards from the air at his fingertips, then hurled hundreds more into the audience, after finding a man inside an empty barrel and catching invisible pigeons in a long-handled net—his quick, colorful tricks reached a crescendo and Thurston stepped forward to introduce his feature illusion.
The music slowed and stopped. The stage was bathed in a mysterious blue light.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls ... it was more than a decade ago, when I was performing in India, that I had the opportunity to study the methods of the Indian magicians, especially the wonderful effect in which a young lady is hypnotized and then suspended in mid air. Tonight, I shall place the young lady in mid air and pass a hoop over her form, from head to toe. That was the ritual that I witnessed ... at the Temple of Love ... in Allahabad ... in India.
Orson Welles, who saw Thurston perform when he was a boy, always remembered the magician’s beautiful, hypnotic intonations. “He was the master,” according to Welles. “And I idolized him. He was the finest magician I’ve ever seen.” Thurston’s voice was a deep baritone with a slight nasal quality, which imparted a drone or hum, like the secondary notes of a musical instrument. He spoke without any of the usual tricks or affectations of actors, but a pure Midwest “accentless” accent; instead of the singsong modulation of orators, Thurston used delicate pauses to emphasize individual words or syllables.
Just before we attempt this mystery, I would like to say to you in confidence, that I am playing the part of a magician, and it is my object to mystify you and entertain you. Whatever I may say or do on the stage this evening, please remember ... I wouldn’t ... deceive you ... for the world!
William Lindsay Gresham, the author of Nightmare Alley and a biographer of Houdini, first saw Thurston perform in 1916. “I had no preconceived notions as to what a magician should be like, but from the first moment when he began to speak, I knew. I knew I was seeing greatness, and I have never changed my opinion for all of the magicians I have ever seen. Thurston was the most magical. His voice was the most musical I ever heard. It rippled. It purled. It chanted, effortless, apparently artless, so profoundly moving that a word from him was misdirection enough.”
Tonight, by special arrangement with the British government, we have brought with us from the Ancient Temple, Abdul. Abdul from Secundabad ... Hitherow, Abdul, Hitherow!
Abdul, in an embroidered robe, white turban, and slippers with curled toes, hurried out from the wings, bowing to Thurston and kneeling obediently at one side. The curtain opened on a brightly lit stage draped with swags of Indian curtains. In the center of the stage was an upholstered sofa. The orchestra began a low, tinkling Oriental theme.
Allow me to introduce Fernanda, the Princess Karnac. Abdul ... Fernanda, around you I cast a mystic spell.
Fernanda Myro portrayed the Indian princess, entering in a white and pink harem costume. She entered from the side, walking to the center of the stage, followed by two male assistants. Thurston held a crystal ball in front of Fernanda’s eyes and paused, surveying her expression. After a moment, her long dark lashes fluttered closed. He snapped his fingers, and she fell backward, rigid as a board, into the hands of a waiting assistant. Two men supported her and placed her, horizontally, on the sofa. She was isolated in the center of the stage, some ten feet from the nearest scenery.
Abdul lowered his eyes and began praying in a quiet Hindi singsong, as Thurston continued.
Fernanda, Fernanda, I command you to rise. In the name of the Yogi and the wise men of the Orient, I command you to rise.
Gresham remembered the magical ritual that followed. “Thurston stands behind her. A rustle from the audience and he lays his finger to his lips. Silence, then soft chords ... a wave of his hand and surely, the girl has moved. She moved as softly as a sigh, gently, lovely, light as thistle down, Fernanda floated in mid air, up and up, above the magician’s head. When at last she came to rest with a spotlight centered on her face, the crowd was hushed with an almost religious awe.”
Safely, securely, rise. Rest, Fernanda. Nothing above, nothing below. Rest. There is the young lady, completely resting in mid air. And she could remain there for hours, for she is practically ... dead ... to the world.
The sofa was lifted and taken offstage. Another assistant appeared with a short stepladder as Thurston picked up a large metal hoop. He took two steps up the ladder, so that his shoulders were just above the level of the floating princess. The hoop was passed horizontally, from the lady’s head to her feet, in one graceful swoop. Then Thurston paused, looking into the lady’s face as he held the hoop, and repeated the motion—head to toe—once more, slowly, smoothly. He stepped from the stool and rolled the hoop along the stage so that it fell into the audience, allowing spectators to examine it.
The movement of the hoop tumbling into the auditorium and Thurston’s steps forward invariably broke the spell, and the audience would start to applaud. But he immediately raised his hand, holding them in breathless anticipation.
Rest, Fernanda, sleep, Fernanda, dream, Fernanda. Safely, securely. She floats in the air, just as she did at the Temple of Love. True in India, true here. This evening, I shall ask on stage a number of ladies and gentlemen, to witness a genuine miracle. Anyone may come. Those interested in the occult or the mysterious. Come right down the aisle and on the side of the stage. Come as quietly as you can. Come now, for in a few moments there will be so many coming that you can’t come.
There was a clatter of seats in the audience as five, ten, fifteen spectators took advantage of his invitation and made their way down the aisle. Thurston’s assistants and Abdul gathered the spectators into a crowd at one side of the stage as the magician turned his attention to his special guest on the aisle.
Would you like to come?
He stretched his hand toward the audience members at the side of the stage. Houdini smiled and shook
his head. Now another delicate routine began, the dance of two professionals negotiating a performance.
You’re welcome to come onto my stage.
Houdini shrugged, and remained in his seat. He was now aware that the eyes of the audience were on him. It was the third request that would solve the problem. Any good showman knows the rule of three; three repetitions to the climax, three steps to the trick, three beats to the joke.
Mr. Houdini, please honor me as my guest.
And Houdini rose from his seat, bouncing lightly up the steps and onto the stage. “You know, I am very modest,” he wrote to a friend the next day—and of course, he was never modest. “I did not want [Thurston] to think that there was anything in his repertoire that baffled me, or that it was my intention to solve tricks. At the third request, however, I went up on the stage and became one of the committee of twenty to witness Princess Karnac at close range.” Houdini took his place at the side of the group of spectators, aware that everyone in the audience would be watching him. But Thurston turned his attention back to the action on stage.
The surakabaja blessing is imparted by the high priests at the Temple of Love. Surakabaja means, among other things, that those who love shall be loved. That anyone touching the ring of the floating princess will be granted a wish. Abdul, hitherow!
“Surakabaja” was gobbledygook, a bit of slang that Thurston had picked up in India. But the word was intoned with such reverence that it had the feeling of a real spell. Abdul took his place in the center of the stage, prostrate, facing the floating princess. Meanwhile, Thurston selected a gentleman from the group on stage.
Sir, you are in love? Don’t laugh. We’re all in love, every one of us. I ask you to touch the ring of the floating princess. That the one you love, loves you in return. Abdul!
Abdul sat upright, chanting the word “Surakabaja, surakabaja,” as Thurston placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and led him beneath the floating lady, stopping in front of her so the man could reach his hand up to the lady’s ring.
Surakabaja means that your wish will come true. True in India, true here.
The man was led to the auditorium steps, and he wandered back to his seat, gazing backward at the marvel and scratching his head.
Meanwhile, the group of spectators was slowly led across the front of the stage, from one side to the other, so that they could appreciate the vision of the floating lady. Houdini followed dutifully, now lost in the crowd.
Thurston found a young boy in the group, bringing him to the center of the stage.
And what’s your name, son?
The boy responded: Albert.
Albert, I’ll ask you to make a wish. A real wish. A solemn wish. Every good boy knows how to make a real wish. Don’t you? For if you believe, your wish will come true.
He slowly walked the boy beneath the floating lady, and then lifted him straight up so that he could reach the princess’s ring. Abdul began a series of chants, “Surakabaja, surakabaja.” When Thurston lowered the boy to the stage again, his pumping legs immediately propelled him off the front steps, dashing back to his seat as if he’d seen a ghost. The audience giggled in approval. Then the applause started. A gasp, turning into a ripple of handclapping, rolling into a wave, to an ovation, to roars and cheers. As the assistants exited and the spectators were dismissed from the stage, Thurston reached over to Houdini, gripping him by the arm, so the two men were alone on stage with the floating princess.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to tell you that my good friend, the magician and vaudeville star Harry Houdini, has honored me by coming to see my show tonight. There are only three human beings in the world who know the secret of this levitation.... Harry Kellar, Harry Houdini ... and myself. And now, Houdini, will you please touch the princess’s ring, and make a wish?
Harry Kellar was the American magician who had developed this incredible illusion, and then turned it over to Thurston more than decade earlier. The little speech delighted Houdini, a fairy-tale fantasy wrapped up in show business lore. And then, Thurston made a grand gesture toward the princess, indicating that Houdini could step back and take a look for himself, without any guiding hand. It was the ultimate compliment to a fellow performer, a very public, ostentatious show of trust. Thurston crossed his arms, and Houdini took his cue. Slowly turning away from the audience, he took several steps and reached up to touch the ring. As he did, he was able to examine the astonishing, secret apparatus from the perfect angle, an incredible assemblage of steel, brass, and fabric, neatly tucked into the space behind the lady’s body.
Houdini turned, facing the audience again. He was grinning with giddy self-satisfaction but managed a stately bow to Thurston. He left the stage and returned to his seat. “He paid me a very pretty compliment,” Houdini wrote the next day, “of being alone with the apparatus. Knowing exactly how it is done, it seems to me that I admire it even more than the public, who have not the slightest inkling of the mechanical problems.”
Having completed his scene with Houdini, Thurston returned to the fairy tale that he’d arranged onstage. He stood to one side, undulating his hands in hypnotic gestures, and Fernanda slowly descended. The assistants entered with the sofa, placing it beneath her. Her body nestled into the cushions, suggesting that the illusion had been nothing more than a fantastic dream. Thurston’s men lifted her to her feet; he snapped his fingers and her eyes opened again.
Now comes a miracle, a mystery not presented outside the Himalaya Mountains of India. Fernanda, do you give your willing consent?
She nodded her head.
Then prepare yourself for a flight into the astral world, and by the power of my right hand I command you to rest and sleep, rest and sleep.
Thurston raised his hand dramatically, and the lady fell backward into the arms of the two assistants, so her shoulders were supported, as two more assistants entered with a large silken sheet. This was draped over the lady. The assistants lifted her, horizontal, and then slowly removed their hands, stepping back so that the covered lady was once again floating over the stage.
Thurston stepped just behind Fernanda, waving his hands over her. As he took several careful steps forward, approaching the orchestra, the lady followed his gestures, hovering closer and closer to the audience. He turned on his heel, and the floating lady, just beneath his hands, turned with him.
Now Fernanda rose into the air, higher and higher. She drifted to the right side of the stage, and then to the left, finally describing a soft circular sweep, revolving in space so that the audience could see the floating lady from each angle. It seemed as if gravity had been suspended: no longer a person, but a flower petal turning pirouettes in a spring breeze.
I know the trend of your thoughts. Many of you are thinking that it is impossible for Fernanda to float in the air without any support. I beg you to remember you are attending a magic performance and that Fernanda is hypnotized. I’ll prove it to you. Wake, wake Fernanda, and raise your right hand.
Still floating beneath the sheet, Fernanda raised her right hand, and then lowered it again.
In all our lives there are certain events that stand out that cannot be forgotten. I am going to show you something now ... you will remember ... as long ... as you live! Behold a miracle. Abdul! Fernanda! Allah, Allah, Fernanda, Go!
Thurston reached up to grasp the lower edge of the sheet. He twitched it and it fell away, revealing that the lady had disappeared in mid air. Thurston tossed the sheet to his assistant and bowed a deep, solemn bow. It took the audience several seconds—a tense moment of stunned silence—until they came to their senses and remembered that they’d been watching a magic show. The crowded theater erupted in applause, and then cheers. In the fifth row, Houdini joined in the happy ovation.
HARRY HOUDINI HAD BEEN FLATTERED, flummoxed, and outmaneuvered by a master of the art. Just like when they were boys at the World’s Fair, Thurston had proved a little more experienced and a little slicker, neatly sidestepping his competition and distrac
ting him with pure theatricality.
It was a typical con game, first appealing to the pride or cupidity of the mark, and then offering a reward that makes the sucker complicit in the fraud. Of course Houdini wasn’t one of just three men; he didn’t even know how the levitation worked when Thurston coaxed him onto the stage and offered his wheedling praise. The quick glances as he stood in front of the princess might have been interesting, but it never showed Houdini the complicated machinery, concealed above and below the stage, that actually accomplished the illusion. Thurston knew that he had to satisfy Houdini’s ego, not his curiosity.
More important, Houdini missed the fact that he’d just been publicly knee-capped. If he had ever been scheming to copy Thurston’s Princess Karnac mystery, he now had been shown so much, so generously, that he would be forced to avoid the floating lady illusion in the future.
That night in December 1920, Houdini had seen the World’s Greatest Magician.
WHO WAS HOWARD THURSTON? He was the hero of generations of American boys, like Orson Welles and William Lindsay Gresham, who sat spellbound in a theater, and pledged their lives to magic. Remembering Thurston’s inspirations, many of them went on to make their own sort of magic. Thurston was a real innovator and a real adventurer. Every boy who studied the souvenir program knew that the great magician had been to India, and seen the photos that portrayed him in a pith helmet, studying the wonders of the Indian fakirs.
The Last Greatest Magician in the World Page 2