by Sesh Heri
The ancients understood this well. The twenty four elders of the Christian Apocalypse stood as a symbol for Time just as did the priests of Ceres in the Greater Elusianian Rite. In the Zohar, AIN-SOPH represented the unknowable beginning of Time. In the Mithraic Mysteries, Time was embodied as Kronos— a winged man with a lion’s head, for, as the lion devours all it surveys, Time devours the animal nature of man and sublimes it. About the lion-man was coiled a serpent, and in the crook of the serpent’s neck above the lion-head the serpent held fast to a Golden Key, which was the Key to Time. In every age since man has existed, some glimmering of the meaning of this symbolism has survived— the Lion, the Serpent, and the Key.
The Atlanteans held the Key at the height of their civilization, but then their kingdom sank into the depths of the waters, and the knowledge of the Key was cast abroad in many lands, and in those secret places it was buried, forgotten, and lost to the following generations. And ever afterward throughout the ages the Key has been sought by both the high and the low of this earth.
So, in Time, after the sinking of Atlantis, man spread abroad across the face of the earth, shepherded as the cattle of the field into one land after another. And throughout these ancient migrations the Key was sought by the rulers of men. It was only through the migrations that the Key could be found, for the Key to Time could only be found in Time, and the movements of men was Time.
Thus, the ancient migrations, in their darkness, arrived at the light of history. Time, which had been unconscious, became conscious as the written word. Now man reflected consciously, and sought the Key consciously. This conscious seeking required the drawing of lines to mark cities and states. These lines now allowed further conscious seeking of the Key to Time through the ritual of organized warfare. The Key to Time was sought in organized bloodletting, and when this seeking reached its limits, the Gregorian calendar and the kingdoms of Europe had been established. The Key to Time sought consciously could only be searched for with an artificial calendar, and this was the function which the Gregorian calendar served. The older, lunar calendar, tuned to the flow of the unconscious mind, had been set aside, and this was the great mistake; for the Key to Time could only be found through the movements of men, and it was the movements of the Moon which regulated man’s movements through forces reaching into his unconscious mind. This the Mayans and the Atlanteans once knew.
So when the European search for the Key had reached its limits, man went backwards, and sought the ancient paths of the Atlanteans which lay across the western sea, and Columbus was invented by the seekers of the Key to Time to “discover” the “New World.”
And now the pace of the seeking increased. More wars, more blood, more migrations…more Time followed. The Key seemed almost in sight. But then all this increasing pace of the seeking produced Industry. This had far greater effect than land boundaries or war. Industry brought man very close to the Key, but it also barred his way; for it was the machines of industry that now moved and not man; it was the machines that were now making the most Time. There could only be one terrible solution, more terrible than war. To stay in the full power of Time and find its Key, man would have to become— a machine himself.
So from the “discovery” of the New World by Columbus in 1492 to 1892 was a four hundred year period of seeking, of war, of blood, and of industry. Four is the archetype of the work of Time— the four wings of the lion-headed Kronos— and ten times ten is the archetype of material change— the life of man in Time. To the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914 was another twenty-two years, the archetype of manifestation— the fruit of that material change. Columbus had thrust westward in seeking the Key beyond Europe. Now this westward seeking had reached its fruition and culmination with the Panama Canal— a passage that would cleave the natural order and allow a seeking of the Key to Time unobstructed around the circumference of the globe. And such seeking could only bring greater war, greater blood, and so, inevitably, the Great War erupted, first in Europe, but then, in Time, to spread westward to the Americas, following the path of seeking made by Columbus.
These two temporal nodes of 1892 and 1914 were marked by two great World Fairs, and I was present at them both, the Chicago World’s Fair and the Panama-Pacific Fair held in San Francisco. It was not an accident that I was present at both of these fairs; it was the working out of a destiny in Time, a destiny I did not understand then and can only grasp as a vague glimmering now. The Chicago fair belonged to my youth, and the San Francisco fair belonged to my middle-age, and so in corresponding symbol did those two fairs mark the youth and middle-age of our westward-thrusting civilization, the seeking of the Key to Time, which promised such success in Chicago, but threatened such disaster in San Francisco. In Chicago the world was at peace, but in San Francisco we were at war; the brilliant lights of the Chicago Midway gave way to the Panama- Pacific Exposition with its Tower of Jewels which glowed with the colors of the rainbow; but the end of that rainbow held— not a pot of gold— but a ticking clock, giving us all the feeling that, in the fall of 1915, our Time was running out.
That fall of 1915 I had no conscious knowledge of these things, only a feeling lurking about the edges of all my mundane existence. I had a feeling of time speeding up— a feeling of urgency, necessity, and imminent, relentless change. The nineteenth century had finally come to an end, had passed away— had died with a suffocating finality.
For me, I marked this end of the century with the event of my mother’s death in 1913. Before my mother’s passing I was too busy to notice that the century had ended, or to reckon what this ending meant. I was part of the relentless change of the twentieth century. I was living in Time and of my own particular time. But when my mother died, Time, for me, stopped. I was suddenly thrust outside of Time. I existed apart from both the living and the dead. Slowly, I returned to Time, first, mechanically, and then, by agonizing increments, with a conscious intention. I willed myself to live again, to breathe free air, to feel the Sun in the day, and keep pace with the Moon at night as I walked alone down empty streets through all the cities of the world.
No one could understand my feelings. My wife, Beatrice, said she understood, but she could not have possibly understood. I did not fully understand my feelings (although I have never admitted this to anyone, not even to her.) I thought I knew what my mother meant to me while she lived, but when she died, a center of meaning was removed from my soul— a center of which even I had not been aware— and all my existence seemed pointless. As I willed myself to live again, I realized that the center of my existence had been my mother throughout my life. I would succeed in life to provide for my mother, to please my mother. But then my mother was gone. There was no one left to please except my wife and myself, and that, my wife and I, our marriage, seemed hollow.
For one thing, my wife and I had come to realize years earlier that we would never have children. The doctors could not tell us why my wife could not conceive. This childless marriage of ours took its toll, for children are the future of a marriage. Our happy union eventually cooled, and, as the years passed, I often asked myself of just what did our marriage consist? Beatrice’s moods would swing from high to low as I would continue to fight to stay on top of the show business heap. I had to focus on my work, but Beatrice wanted to play. Early in our marriage, when Beatrice was part of my show, work was play. But now my wife wanted a different kind of play, undisciplined and without focus or goal. Beatrice began drinking too much, and I drank hardly at all. And then she discovered the joys of “the weed,” and began drinking and smoking to a double intoxication which I would have to explain to our friends as sickness or a “tantrum.” So the center of living in Time which I had lost with my mother, I could not find in my wife. In realizing this, I looked about the world and found that if I were to find a meaning to existence, I would have to find it within myself alone.
This was how it was that Sunday morning of November 21st, 1915 as I looked up at a gray, still sky. My chief assist
ant James Collins and I stood at the point of a triangular plaza, one of several such street corners which formed, at the intersection of Broadway and 14th Street, the major city square of Oakland, California. Collins and I leaned against the pedestal of a bronze sculpture dedicated, I think, to the pioneers of California. The sculpture itself depicted a number of muscular babies or Cupids lifting up a large basin. I glanced up at their efforts, wondering if they knew something more about the weather forecast than did we.
“They say we shouldn’t have to worry about rain,” Collins said, knowing exactly what I was thinking. “It’s usually fair and dry here around Thanksgiving.”
“What about the rigging?” I asked.
“I’ve got some sailors who’ll do your tying and hoisting. I go over the routine with them today at four o’clock.”
“Good,” I replied, and then turning on my heel and looking all about the square, I asked, “Can you see any new problems from here?”
Collins turned on his heel in like manner, his gaze tracing across the walls of buildings which surrounded the square. This was our usual routine. Whenever we would stage my upside down straitjacket escape in a city, the first thing Collins and I would do upon arrival would be to inspect the top of the building where the block and tackle would be installed, and then take a look from the ground, to get an idea of how things would appear to the people below as I would hang upside down high in the air above the crowd. We would note weather conditions, usual wind currents, sun positions— anything that could possibly have an effect on my efforts. Anything that could be controlled would be controlled. Anything that could not be controlled would be anticipated.
“Nothing, Mr. ‘oudini,” Collins said. “It looks like a good place for the show.”
“I think so, too,“ I said. “Let’s get over to the theatre.”
Collins and I crossed the thoroughfare and marched briskly toward 12th Street where the Orpheum Theatre was located. Few people were out and about that Sunday morning, and of the few who passed us on the street, none took note of me. Of course, I wore a heavy overcoat and hat, and I suppose that Collins and I could have passed for citizens of Oakland. It is a funny thing. Two days later a crowd of 20,000 would be assembled in this same square and every eye of that 20,000 would be focused upon me— “Houdini.” But now, as I strolled along the sidewalk with Collins, I might just as well have been invisible. I had noted this phenomenon many times over the course of my career. As a magician I knew all the tricks to make people look here and there when I wanted them to, but exactly why such tricks work with people I have never been able to fathom; it is an impenetrable mystery. People see— and then they do not. People see— and then they forget. People must be shown— and once shown, they must be shown again, and again— and yet again! People must be reminded— for people forget ever, ever so quickly! This was the very reason for my upside down straitjacket stunt. I had learned the hard way that people must be shown. If I had merely said in the newspaper, “Come to my show. I have a good show,” no one would come. I must show the people. I must get their attention— their undivided attention. I must put their hearts in their throats. Then they are reminded.
We reached the theatre and went in at the front door to the box-office foyer. I took off my hat and the box office manager recognized me. He rose and went around to the lobby doors and let Collins and me inside.
“Morning, sir,” the box-office manager said.
“Morning,” I replied.
“Mr. Ebey told me that if you should come round this way I was to let you know that he wanted to speak with you.”
“Is he in his office?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s right,” the box-office manager said.
“Meet you back there in a few minutes,” I said to Collins, and he gave a nod and went off across the lobby, heading toward the backstage where my other assistants were already at work.
I went to the other side of the lobby and down a short hall to see the theatre manager, George Ebey. I opened the door to the manager’s office and came upon his secretary who was seated at a desk typing a letter. He looked up at me.
“Oh. Yes,” the secretary said. “Mr. Houdini. Mr. Ebey is in his office. You may go right in.”
“Thank you,” I said, opening the door to Ebey’s office.
Ebey was at his desk this Sunday morning, the beginning of the work week for west coast show people whose labor is unrestricted by Sunday Blue Laws.
“Very good to meet you, Mr. Houdini,“ Ebey said, standing up. We shook hands and he gestured for me to sit in front of his desk.
“Just Houdini,” I said. “That is sufficient.”
I sat in the chair he indicated and he sat back down behind his desk.
“Houdini,” Ebey repeated, with a business-like nod, and then continued: “I have this letter from the Chicago office which I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Very well,” I said.
“It says here that you require the stage to be screened off at the wings from the other performers during the entire show. Now, I don’t quite understand this.”
“What is it you don’t understand? I think it is clear.”
“Well, I mean— the entire show? I can understand you want secrecy, but…. Can’t we do something with the curtains during your act? Wouldn’t that be enough?”
“No, it wouldn’t. My secrets are my career. There have been incidents over the years where other performers on the bill have been paid by my rivals to act as spies against me. In such cases, money changed hands, information was passed, and my work and career have been injured. I’ve been forced, in some cases, to drop some effects from my show because they have been exposed by spies— performers on the bill or stagehands. One time they even broke into my locked dressing room. I can’t stop the spying, but through long practice I’ve found that it can be minimized to a tolerable level by establishing a system of security maintained with constant and extreme vigilance. Part of this system is the screening of the sides of the stage with flats— flats erected by my own assistants. They know how to seal the view of a peeper. Now usually we fly the flats during the other acts. But my assistant Mr. Collins was informed several weeks ago that this theatre has a quite limited flying capacity, and that most of that capacity would be taken up with the Leightons’ box set. The other windlass will be needed to lift me into the water cell. This means that the flats at the wings will have to be buttressed and sandbagged. As you well know, such flats can’t be moved about easily. Therefore, they must stand for the entire show.”
“You’re sure there’s no way to fly them?” Ebey asked.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve found there’s always a way, if you have the time to figure out. The question is: do we have the time? I’ll have Collins reconsider the mechanics of it all. We might be able to hang the flats on a sliding track. But for now, for today at least, the flats will have to stand through all the acts.”
“Very well,” Ebey said. “Your request is a bit unusual, but yours is an unusual act, and one, which I’ll admit, is worth the trouble. I’m happy to tell you that the box-office receipts are already S.R.O. for tonight and tomorrow and ticket sales continue briskly.”
“Wait till you see what we’ve got cooked up for Tuesday,” I said.
“Ah, yes,” Ebey said. “The outdoor exhibition over in the square. That, I have to see. I hear the Oakland Police department is bringing in extra men from San Francisco to handle the crowds.”
“Good,” I said. “They’ll need them.”
Ebey nodded.
“Is there anything else?”
“I just hope,” Ebey said, “that—“ he let out a sigh, “the other performers on the bill aren’t offended by the screens your assistants put up.”
“Is that what’s bothering you about the screens?”
Ebey nodded.
“Don’t worry a bit about that,” I said. “Everywhere we go we put up the screens. And everywhere we go, the performers never get mad
. Well, almost never. We know our fellow performers and their needs as artists, and we take particular care to see to those needs. To us, they’re family. And after the last show Saturday night we will have food and drink backstage for all performers and stagehands.”
“Really?” Ebey asked, his face brightening. “Why, that’s, that’s just fine! That’s all I was concerned about— esprit dé corps.”
“Well, we’re going to have plenty esprit dé corps this week,” I said.
“I like your style, Houdini,” Ebey said. “You’re not at all like what I thought you would be.”
“And how was that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ebey said, looking down at his desk and smiling distantly. “People in the show business say things. I’m sure some of those things have gotten back to you.”
“I have a lot of rivals and a lot of people don’t like me,” I said. “I know that. And I don’t like them. And they don’t like me not liking them. Is that what you mean?”
“Something like that,” Ebey said.
“And you thought I’d be a disagreeable person,” I said.
Ebey shrugged, and then said, “I think I should warn you, though, about Reine Davies. If anyone would be offended by the screens—“
“Don’t you worry about Miss Davies,” I said. “My wife and I will shower particular attention upon her.”
“Well, then,” Ebey said, standing up, smiling, and extending his hand for me to shake it. “I look forward to a remarkable week.”
I stood up, shook his hand, and said, “Mr. Ebey, every week, I look forward to a remarkable week.”