Many professionals, like Thurston and Houdini, found it advantageous to contribute little “do-it-yourself” pocket tricks to newspapers and advertising promotions. As a schoolboy, Thurston had been inspired by learning the secret of the Ink to Water Trick. David Devant, Thurston’s friend in London who retired in 1920, wrote a series of beginner’s books, and always considered that spectators with a real knowledge of magic formed the very best audience for a magician—patronizing shows and appreciating the finer points of presentation and style. The magicians’ clubs had devised various rules to deal with the subject. It was acceptable to sell books of secrets, but unacceptable to give secrets away in an article or advertising promotion. Certain simple tricks could be explained, but others that might hint at professional secrets were strictly off-limits. Still, magicians realized that the simplest trick, in the hands of a good performer, was capable of becoming a masterpiece. The subject was hotly debated among the Society of American Magicians, and Evans’s sudden pronouncement was a cruel rebuke of his friend.
In his conversation with Evans, Thurston had probably been quoting Paul Carus, a theologian and publisher. In one of Thurston’s press releases, Carus’s remarks were reproduced in full, and they constitute a wholesale endorsement of the importance of magic:We should all know something of the general methods of magic, and some time in our lives witness the extraordinary feats with which a prestidigitator can dazzle our eyes and misguide our judgment. The boy who has studied magic will not be so apt in later years to take up with every new fad of mysticism and will not be so easily duped.
READING ALL OF EVANS’S ARTICLE, it seems inspired by the subject of Kellar’s passing, nostalgically recalling the “palmy days of magic,” as the historian put it, when “only two magicians held the field—Herrmann and Kellar.”
Ah, for the good old days, when magic was a genuine mystery, and one had to learn it from a professor of sleight-of-hand; when books and boxes of magic did not exist, and stage secrets were as closely guarded as the formula of certain patent medicines.
Even worse, Henry Ridgely Evans’s “Is Magic Decadent?” seemed to let loose a floodgate of criticism. A month later, a columnist and amateur magician, Gene Gordon, arrogantly wrote in The Sphinx:Thurston sure has queer ideas when it comes to the popularization of magic—queer, at least, for one who owes so much to it. Harry Kellar’s title of “World’s Greatest Magician” may now be held by Howard Thurston, but it is a certainty that [Kellar’s] title, “Dean of Magicians,” will never grace the name of Thurston. The first requisite to that honor is respect from all fellow magicians, and who is there that can say Thurston has that?
In the same issue, editor Dr. A. M. Wilson criticized Thurston for offering coupons to children, which could be collected and redeemed to purchase tricks, ranging in price from fifteen cents to a dollar. Evans quoted one of Thurston’s flyers, “The most wonderful tricks are all done with special apparatus.” Wilson snapped, “If this is promoting magic, I have missed my calling as an exponent of magic.” Several pages later, Evans continued with another sarcastic remark. “If such an institution as a College of Magic ever be established ... among the professional chairs will be the gentle art of exposés in public magazines, to be filled by Prof. Thurston.”
Dante wrote a nasty reply to Gene Gordon’s article. Thurston himself lodged a protest with A. M. Wilson, who quickly retracted his comments. It turned out that Thurston was not “giving” coupons to children, but selling them in boxes of candy, Wilson explained. Magic organizations defined exposure with just this sort of odd hairsplitting: if a secret was sold with candy, it was not exposure; it the candy was given away, it constituted a breech of the magician’s art.
Thurston contributed a long, sarcastic response to Evans in the April issue of The Sphinx: I venture to reply to my old friend, Dr. Henry R. Evans. I am proud of his friendship because he is the greatest historian of magic of all times. Did I say historian? Yes, and it is well said, for sad to relate our dear Doctor thinks in the past and writes best of the past. He cites the “palmy days of magic” when only two performers were known and there were no books on magic. Now we have a source of prominent professionals, thousands of books, thousands of clever amateurs and more than 50,000 people who buy magic literature. How can the Doctor explain the difference? Magic is in greater fervor today than ever, more magicians are working and more people pay to see a magic show now than ever in the past. It has achieved a great distinction and higher perfection.
Thurston went on to clarify his point: he did not tell Evans that he advocated teaching magic to the public, but suggested setting up a permanent school of magic and teaching the public some elementary principles to demonstrate the “vulnerability of the senses” so that the public had a better ability when it came to “accepting new theories and doctrines ... to guard them in their business relations.”
Privately Thurston wrote to John Mulholland, another writer and historian of magic, complaining about the insult. “If I am not entitled to the title of dean of magicians, I would like to know who is.” The Society of American Magicians finally selected Fredrick Eugene Powell, a late-nineteenth-century magician for the honor of dean. Powell was one of the last—and least effective—of the old guard, but his selection was a sentimental favorite, avoiding all of the controversy within the club.
THURSTON WAS RIGHT to imply that his show was profitable and successful with the public. More than any other magician, he had established magic as a popular attraction and inspired a generation of magic-mad young boys. Thurston now billed his production as “The Wonder Show of the Universe,” and his marketing relied upon the same theaters and the same cities year after year. This meant that his show had to always be fresh, promising new marvels.
In 1919 he added the Water Fountains to his show, providing a new finale. Thurston purchased the act from an old vaudeville couple named the DeBars, but the idea was actually based on a Japanese spectacle, first introduced in America by the Ten Ichi Troupe in the early twentieth century. Thurston would coax a small spray of water from a bowl on a table; the fountain could apparently be lifted on the end of a wand, transferred to different spots on the stage, or even made to multiply, spouting in arrays from the costumes or the heads of his assistants. Gradually the sprays of water increased until the stage twinkled with dozens of mysterious fountains. The act was accomplished with a large container of water, suspended backstage, which was attached, with rubber tubing, to various spots onstage, costumes, or props. The Water Fountains was first costumed as a Chinese act; in the 1920s Thurston re-dressed it with white polka-dot costumes to suggest circus props. Dante added a number of additional tricks, and Thurston included his old Coconut Illusion. The finale was an elaborate fountain, center stage, with a lady reclining horizontally, on the tops of the water jets. She revolved above the fountains as the curtain fell on this pretty picture.
The Vanishing Horse was finally ready for the 1925 season. Thurston wanted an illusion that was magnificent and mysterious; he insisted on lifting the horse in the air, over the stage, before it disappeared. When this was attempted the first time at Thurston’s Beechhurst factory, the horse bucked and kicked, tumbling from the platform and then galloping, enraged, around the workshop as Thurston and Dante ran. Dante finally decided on a suspended platform, like a swing. The following season, 1926, Thurston’s workmen improved this by using a small, enclosed pen that surrounded the horse’s legs.
The final trick provided a spectacular bit of magic. Beauty, a white Arabian steed, was ridden onstage by Arline Palmer, a stunt rider and animal trainer who had worked with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. She took Beauty through a series of tricks, bowing to the audience and marching around the stage. Thurston entered and supervised as the horse was locked into the small pen. This was then lifted, with Arline on the back of the horse, so that the horse and rider dangled about ten feet over the stage.
A large white net was dropped in front of the pen, and then, for several secon
ds, a white banner was lowered in front of the net. “We use this netting as sometimes the horse becomes frightened and makes a wild jump,” Thurston explained to the audience. “Behold the impossible. Sixteen hundred pounds of rider, horse and stall. Are you ready?” Thurston asked. He fired a gun into the air. The empty pen fell away, landing on the stage with a crash, and the banner dropped. The audience gazed at the empty stage. Within seconds, the horse was gone.
Fasola suggested several new illusions to Thurston, including a new version of the old carnival sword box—in which the lady entered a small wooden chest that was pierced by swords. And Thurston’s success with the Sawing Illusion inspired a new collaboration with P. T. Selbit, who had originated the Sawing Illusion in England. Selbit proposed a series of new torture illusions, Stretching a Lady, The Human Pincushion, Crushing a Lady, Through the Eye of a Needle, apparently pulling an assistant through a small hole in a steel plate, or, for a change of pace, Televising a Lady, in which the assistant seemed to dematerialize in a chair, only to rematerialize in a second chair several feet away.
His dealings with Selbit, like his earlier contracts with Devant, were scrupulously honest. But occasionally, Thurston’s yearly innovations managed to trample on the reputations or innovations of his fellow performers. In 1925 he included an illusion titled Fire and Water, in which a lady seemed to be consumed in flames on one side of the stage, only to be reproduced submerged in a tank of water on the other side of the stage. Fire and Water used a number of mechanical principles that had been created by Valadon, Fasola, and other magicians. But this particular combination of tricks had been created by the Great Leon (Leon Levy), and it became his feature in vaudeville. Leon tended to avoid the controversy, but his wife, Edythe, sent a blistering letter to Thurston, warning him to take it out of his show. “I feel sure you did not read it before it was mailed,” Thurston wrote back to Leon. “Had you read it, you would have advised her not to send it.” He collected a number of excuses, how the trick was based on a number of previous ideas, and shrugged off the complaint.
At the end of 1925, Thurston was playing a New York theater. On one night, Theo Bamberg, his son David, and Harry Houdini were his guests, seated in a box. Thurston hadn’t realized that Leon and Edythe Levy had also purchased tickets for the show and were seated in the middle of the auditorium.
As Thurston introduced the Fire and Water Illusion and opened the curtain, Leon stood up in the auditorium and pointed a finger toward the stage. “You’re a thief and a liar!” Leon shouted. “You’re a pirate. That’s my illusion.”
The audience naturally assumed that the argument was intended as part of the show and began laughing. But Houdini instantly recognized Leon’s wheezy East Side accent and slid his chair to the shadowed corner of the booth.
Thurston was trapped. He stopped the music and gazed across the footlights as Leon continued his rant. “You took that illusion from me. It’s my illusion, and you’re a pirate.” Thurston protested politely. “Mr. Leon, I believe you’ll find that the illusion is mine, and in fact, tonight we happen to have a great historian of magic, Mr. Harry Houdini.” Thurston gestured toward the box, but noticed Houdini crouching in the shadows, his hand shielding his face. Thurston immediately changed his tactics. “And sitting next to him is Theodore Bamberg, the famous European magician. He is an expert in such matters, and can assure you that the illusion is mine.”
Bamberg, of course, was hard of hearing. He had picked up just enough of the quarrel to lean over to his son, David, asking him what was happening. But David couldn’t translate fast enough. Leon shouted, Thurston implored, and the spotlight swung onto Theo, who smiled serenely and, not realizing what was being asked, nodded toward Thurston and responded, “Yes!”
There was an awkward pause, and the spotlight wobbled back to Thurston. Leon collapsed into his chair and the show resumed. After all, the audience just wanted to see Thurston’s magic. The band resumed the music, and the show proceeded. When David Bamberg finally managed to explain to his father what had happened, Theo was indignant that he’d been dragged into the argument. Even worse, for years after that, Leon wouldn’t forgive him for the humiliation.
Fire and Water was indicative of Thurston’s dilemma in finding new material. Thurston hadn’t calculated the importance of the routine to Leon. In Thurston’s show, it was just another trick, four or five minutes of quick magic. It could have been replaced by dozens of other quick tricks. In Leon’s twelve-minute act, Fire and Water had become his trademark, and he depended on it for his career. After one season, Thurston removed the trick from his show.
THE DANTE SHOW, which premiered in 1923, became a steady success in the market. Dante was able to play smaller cities that were too difficult to include in Thurston’s route. His program consisted of a mixture of favorites from Thurston’s show, Dante’s favorite illusions, and experimental new effects. In their letters, the two magicians developed a perfect collaboration; they regularly discussed the best staff, audiences, new ideas, and their competitors. They collaborated together on a number of illusions, which Thurston took steps to patent.
Writing to Thurston, Dante could be sharply honest; he was blunt in a way that few of Thurston’s men had ever been. “You must remember,” Thurston responded to one of Dante’s letters, “there are times when you have a nasty temper, especially when you drink and you have said several things to me that have hurt me very deeply, but you have so many fine qualities that I am always the first to overlook your fit of temper.” In 1925, while in Jacksonville, Florida, Dante attempted to place an ad in the local newspaper that compared him, favorably, with competitors like Houdini. An editor refused the ad and sent it on to his friend Houdini, who then sent a blistering note to Thurston.
When a newspaper like the Jacksonville Journal refuses to accept a Dante ad because of derogatory and slurring nature, it is time for me to call your attention to the fact that unless my name is kept out of all advertising, I shall be forced to take measures. I have devoted too many years of my life in making the name Houdini stand for what it does.
Overall, the Dante and Thurston partnership was so successful that, by 1925, the two magicians were already discussing the possibility of a “Thurston Number Three” show, a smaller unit that could feature Thurston’s illusions in vaudeville theaters. Thurston considered his friend Dornfield, McDonald Birch, Jack Gwynne, Herman Hanson, Hathaway, Eugene Laurant, and a handful of other talented vaudeville magicians for the task, and debated the possibilities with Dante. He finally settled on a Pittsburgh magician with the unimpressive name of Raymond Sugden, and Thurston suggested the billing “Tampa, England’s Court Magician.” Through Harry Thurston, Howard had recently invested in some Tampa, Florida, orange groves, and he considered the name a lucky charm.
Tampa was neither more talented nor more aggressive than Grover George, and it’s difficult to understand why Thurston sought to recruit him to the cause. More than likely, he was flattered by Tampa’s helpfulness with some of his illusions. For example, Thurston’s experiments for the Hindu Rope Trick required a steam generator to provide the requisite puff of smoke; Tampa quickly designed a steam manifold and suggested a company to provide the boiler. Thurston announced Tampa with the similar praise that he’d used for Dante. In 1923 Thurston advertised:A Word about Dante
It has been impossible for me to fill half of the dates offered for my show.... Let me point out that in addition to his great qualifications as an illusionist, all of the important features from my own performance have been added to his program.... Over 500 newspaper critics have reviewed Dante and not one adverse criticism. That spells satisfaction. Play Dante.
Then, a few years later:
A Word about Tampa
Owing to the fact that for years it was impossible for me to accept all of the engagements requested for my show, I decided to select a magician to present a number two Thurston show. After years of careful investigations of hundreds of magicians from all over the wo
rld, in 1925 I selected Tampa, England’s court magician, as the master.... Hundreds of newspaper critics all over the country have reviewed Tampa with not one adverse criticism. This certainly spells satisfaction and accomplishment.
The announcements must have ruffled Dante’s feathers. Even worse, the selection of Sugden galled him. After struggling to establish his own show on the road, he began to fret that Tampa’s cut-rate vaudeville show would undermine his own chances for success. Tampa could provide some of Thurston’s latest illusions, under the Thurston banner, for a fraction of the price. Dante wrote to Thurston:I cannot help but believe that we have both been hard hit through your recent efforts with Tampa. Your statement that he is not in the same class might be accepted by myself, some of the booking agents and a few magicians, but the blasé bookers who juggle a pencil all day long to cut prices have their own angle, and when they have an opportunity to get something that looks the same for less money, they are quick to set anything else aside.... If Tampa is to be seen pioneering tricks that I have worried my head about, what chance will I have? [Bookers] can buy him for considerably less, along with the name Thurston!
The Tampa show had seemed like an ideal business plan. But Thurston’s men—his fellow magicians and business partners who were so important to expanding his business—were now slowly pulling the business apart.
The Last Greatest Magician in the World Page 29