On the night of her debut, as she walked to the stage door with her father, they both noticed her name on the marquee and the line of customers at the box office. “They are paying good money to enjoy themselves,” Thurston whispered to her, “and it is our job to see that they do.” She felt her stomach twist itself into knots.
Jane’s three short acts were filled with pretty tricks—parasols, flowers, and scarves—to suit the young lady, as well as some of Thurston’s illusions from previous seasons. She also included special songs and dances. A jazzy melody was written for her by their Beechhurst neighbor A. Seymour Brown, the author of “Oh, You Beautiful Doll.” Brown’s song was titled “My Daddy’s a Hocus Pocus Man,” and Jane sang it in the pouting style of Ann Pennington:
Ever since I was the tiniest kid
I’ve marveled at the things that Daddy did
Candy and lollypops, things like that,
He can shake ’em right out of a hat
It wasn’t long until I found, he was handy to have around
My Daddy is a Hocus Pocus Man, what a man
He can do things like nobody else can … ’deed he can
He looks kind of solemn and serious
And does things that seem mysterious
But I must make this admission
There never was a sweeter disposition. …
Even the most complimentary accounts of Jane’s acts seem slightly trivial. Magic fans thought she was cute, but felt she couldn’t muster the gravitas or presence of her famous father. Of course, that wasn’t her job. Pretty Jane added a burst of youthful energy and color to the show. Her magic was never intended to be grand. Rather, it provided the change of pace, allowing her father to be a little grander.
A posed photo from opening night shows Jane and her parents next to the stage, surrounded by congratulatory floral arrangements. Jane seems to smile cautiously—a shy little girl suddenly trapped in the spotlight. Thurston seems exhausted. But Leotha offers a rare broad smile, obviously delighted at her daughter’s accomplishment.
FOR THE 1929 SEASON, Thurston hired Herman Hanson and his wife, Lillian, to join him on the road. Hanson was a Swedish-born vaudevillian who had developed a song-and-dance magic act and was briefly considered for Thurston’s third unit. Dante advised against him, as he felt that Hanson had a “weak” personality. “You need someone who can play that piano of yours,” Dante advised. But Hanson was actually an ideal man to head the Thurston show as technical director. He supervised and assisted in Jane’s new acts and was quickly put to work completing illusions for Thurston. He was fiercely loyal to Mr. Thurston, and fit perfectly into the company.
That same year, Thurston’s autobiography, My Life of Magic, was finally published by Dorrance and Company. Hilliard was the author, of course. He had been fidgeting with it for many years, but Hilliard had finally given up, and it was only completed with the addition of writer Walter B. Gibson, with assistance from Detroit newspaperman Al Monroe, working closely with Thurston.
“The original Thurston manuscript only carried the story up to the first stop on his world tour, namely, Australia,” Gibson later explained. “After Hilliard had finished that part, Thurston abridged it, mostly for personal reason, and I think that is why Hilliard lost interest in continuing it.”
The “unexpurgated version,” as Hilliard ruefully called it, was locked in a safe in Thurston’s home. Of course, Thurston’s criminal past was never included in the book.
Writers Gibson and Monroe agreed to take out some of the adventures of Thurston’s childhood and his carnival days, which seemed trivial and demeaning after his long career. They were also instructed to omit all the references to his previous wives. Jane had never been told that she was adopted, and Thurston sought to avoid embarrassment to her or Leotha. For example, My Life of Magic credited William Round for the magician’s early education at Mount Hermon, without explaining how he’d formed such an important relationship with the superintendent of prisons. By omitting Grace, the book suggested that Thurston had toured the west on his own. Writing Beatrice out of the story, George White was now elevated to the role of Thurston’s show business partner.
Another omission was Harry Thurston, who now had a cursory reference in the book, without explaining his important contributions to his brother’s career. Harry noticed.
To complete the story, Gibson used Thurston’s many press releases and interviews, explaining his tour with Kellar and recent achievements. This brought the biography up to date.
Thurston had originally titled his autobiography Castaways, focusing on his early days as a runaway. Then he used the working title A History of a Passion, but finally settled on the more commercial My Life of Magic. The end result was an odd pastiche that satisfied the publisher but never quite satisfied the public. Significantly, it’s a book that kept many more secrets than it explained. Hilliard’s early chapters—evocative accounts of riding the rails or following magic shows—shine with clear prose and suggest what had been lost as the manuscript was revised. When the Hilliard, Gibson, and Monroe book was finished, Thurston opened his safe one more time and destroyed the original Hilliard manuscript.
John Mulholland, the magic writer and historian, later wrote, “Those very few who had the privilege of reading John Northern Hilliard’s manuscript on the life of Howard Thurston and then read the Thurston autobiography hardly could accept that the two accounts were about the same man.”
TWENTY-ONE
“SHADOW PEOPLE”
One of Thurston’s most ambitious children’s matinees was presented at Bellvue Hospital in Albany, New York, in May 1927. Thurston wasn’t known for small tricks; in order to satisfy his audience, his entire company joined the show, setting up a truckload of colorful illusions on an outdoor setting up a truckload of colorful illusions on an outdoor platform. Thurston, in a tweed business suit, welcomed the children and then presented his escape trunk, bird tricks, and duck tricks. He finished with the Sawing in Half, with a ring of doctors in hospital whites supervising the magical operation.
Thurston was now regularly called upon for shows at veteran’s hospitals or special performances for crippled children. For these happy occasions, a chance for the patients to take their minds off their pains, Thurston referred to himself as a “sunshine maker,” as opposed to a “rainmaker.” In 1929, a man named Fred Dawson visited Thurston in his dressing room and asked if he’d perform a free show at a YMCA. The magician looked tired. He reluctantly explained that he supported the YMCA, but his doctor had advised him to avoid more performances; he was already performing as many shows for children and veterans as possible. Dawson casually mentioned that he was a graduate of Mount Hermon, and Thurston bounded to his feet, shaking his hand. “The words, Mount Hermon, are always a password to my dressing any time, any where!” he announced. He credited the school with his success, and bragged that he read his Bible and said his prayers every day. “Not asking for things,” he told Dawson, “but just saying thanks.” He talked to his new friend up to the time of the performance.
In fact, Thurston had written checks to his alma mater and even returned there, several years earlier, to give an impromptu show for the students in West Hall. He spoke to them about his adventures and advised that there were two types of people in life, “wise guys” and “easy marks.” Thurston’s use of con man lingo was an odd touch, although he advised that the devil was proudest of the wise guys, and the Lord loved the marks, who were always thankful and enthusiastic.
DANTE PROVED to be Thurston’s best investment. The Dante show played in smaller towns through the Midwest and East Coast, until both men realized that the best opportunities were overseas. In 1927 the show moved to Puerto Rico, and Howard, Jane, and Leotha attended the opening there. “You have reached the highest pinnacle of magic,” Thurston proudly told his associate. “You may take the show to any part of the world. I am sure you will never have to look back.” The Thurstons returned to New York and Dante pro
ceeded to South America.
It was the last time they ever saw each other, though they compared business in regular correspondence. Thurston relished Dante’s newsy letters and lived his foreign adventures vicariously. They reminded him of his own travels, and he often mused that he would like to join Dante on the road. In fact, since joining Kellar, Thurston had only left the country on that one occasion, for Dante’s Puerto Rico premiere. “I have given up my whole life to magic,” he told an interviewer.
I’m pretty well along, but I’ve been so busy with my job that I have never had time to see a single football game. I never saw but one baseball game and although I love music, I have never heard but one opera, and I have seen almost no dramatic shows. It isn’t that I was endowed by nature with an unusual ability. It is just a matter of work.
GUS FASOLA, one of Thurston’s oldest friends and supporters, had toured America for several years with happy and prosperous results. In 1928, Thurston kept him busy with ideas for his own show. Inspired by Houdini’s illusion, Fasola developed an Appearing Elephant Illusion. Thurston tried, in vain, to purchase a baby elephant, realizing that Fasola’s invention would provide wonderful publicity for his show. Fasola also researched an English illusion called the Million Dollar Mystery, which had been featured by Selbit. In consultation with Thurston’s patent attorney, James Wobensmith, they drew up an American patent of the effect so that it could be produced for Thurston’s show.
Fasola had longed to return to England and produce his own illusion show using Thurston’s popular effects. By the time he reached London in 1928, he was horrified to see that variety entertainments had virtually disappeared. Motion pictures had replaced many music-hall shows, and magicians—especially the magicians with costly, heavy illusions—were out of work. His plans dashed, Fasola experienced a breakdown, too nervous to work and too unsure of the business to make any long-term plans. Thurston supported him with occasional checks. In exchange, he pleaded with Fasola to send him information on the latest European tricks, negotiate deals, or supply Thurston with small props for the show. In November, Fasola wrote to Thurston:
I would have been dead now if it had not been for you. Only played a couple of weeks all the time I have been here, so I have practically been starving. Am playing a couple of weeks down in Wales. I am run down in health with the worry of not being able to book engagements. I have 3 weeks if I can keep going, but am so bad don’t know if I can keep up. Dear pal, I am so bad and so ill. I am writing this letter in agony.
Thurston underestimated his condition, responding with cheery notes wishing him well and asking for his tricks. His continual requests only aggravated Fasola, whose responses suggested his helplessness.
Oh, if I had only stayed in my small towns in Texas, I could get a living there. But now I am absolutely finished, sick and weak with the worry. You have been a wonderful friend to me, but coming here with no show and no money and not a friend in the world, what could I do? I thought I would be able to get someone to finance me.
Dante had always been disparaging about Fasola—they had worked in opposition in Australia in 1911, when Fasola’s manager copied one of Dante’s posters. Thurston wrote to Dante that he was “letting Fasola have three or four of my big tricks; he hasn’t decided which ones he wants to take.” Dante warned Thurston not to trust him—that he would steal Thurston’s illusions, use underhanded business practices, and suggest ideas that were impractical. In fact, Dante was mistaken. Fasola’s letters demonstrated his loyalty and glowed with enthusiastic ideas and support. It’s likely that Dante selfishly used his relationship with Thurston to undermine Fasola’s influence. He encouraged Thurston to push Fasola aside, just as Thurston had done with Tampa.
In 1928, Dante was touring through South America, anticipating his next move. After exchanging letters with Thurston, he decided to move his show to Europe, first the Continent and then England. Thurston had advised him to try the Orient; he knew, from Fasola’s letters, that business was poor in England. But Dante was insistent, and his decision sealed Fasola’s fate. Thurston promptly wrote to Fasola, ordering his old friend not to make use of any of the Thurston illusions until Dante was finished and left the country. Fasola responded dutifully, with a short note:
Received your letter saying that Dante would be coming to England. So under the circumstances I will not perform or use any of your tricks and illusions. Of course, this is the only reason I came back to England, but as Dante is coming here will wait till he finishes his tour. Your sincere friend, Gus Fasola
It was probably a technicality. Fasola had already explained that he was financially strapped, unable to build the Thurston illusions or sell a show in England. But at that time, he was depending on the support of friends, and Thurston’s betrayal left him feeling helpless. Even worse, it was apparent that he had lost Thurston’s favor, as Thurston had now turned his attention to Cyril Yettmah, the British illusionist, in search of the latest novelties. “Suppose Yettmah is with you now,” Fasola wrote, barely hiding his dejection. “Lucky fellow.”
Thurston responded:
Dear Gus, I am sorry things are so tough with you, but you must not get discouraged, but hop to, working and hustling anywhere at any price until you get on your feet, which you are bound to do if you don’t get discouraged. Yettmah is here. I like him and we will probably get some good tricks.
On January 12, 1929, Fasola went into his cheap London rooms, took out his tool kit, and cut off a long length of strong music wire—the same strong high-carbon wire Thurston depended on for the Levitation of Princess Karnac. “The Great and Only Gustave Fasola, The Famous Indian Fakir” hanged himself, leaving a wife and son.
P. T. Selbit notified Thurston of the tragedy.
He had been worried with the idea that he could never work again, having lost his nerve. The poor chap was undoubtedly crazy, and it was almost inevitable that he was to go that way. It will comfort you to know that even to the last Fasola acclaimed you as his benefactor, and I think without your help the end might have been sooner reached.
Thurston’s occasional checks and cheery letters may have been those of a “benefactor,” but his carelessly shifting loyalties had only intensified Fasola’s misery.
THURSTON SPENT many precious months in 1929 working on a new play, The Demon. He wrote the script, a mystery thriller, intending it for Broadway. This mixture of magic and mystery had become a fashion in recent Broadway shows; the most successful was Fulton Oursler and Lowell Brentano’s The Spider , about a murder that occurs in the middle of a magic act. Thurston calculated that he could fill a mystery with visual marvels. Unfortunately, his script was also packed with clichés—starting with the dark, haunted house, the guests summoned to solve a crime, the frustrated detectives, and the mysterious Eastern mystic who seems to know all the secrets.
The Demon did offer some genuine thrills. Thurston used a new system of invisible ultraviolet paint, developed by Alexander Strobl, in conjunction with ultraviolet lamps. In sudden darkness, monstrous glowing green eyes appeared hovering over the stage and a luminous ghost glided down the aisle, floating over the stage. The Demon occupied Thurston’s time and resources. He invested $10,000 in the project (the entire budget was just over $20,000) and many of his technical assistants worked backstage, including George White. When the production ran over budget, Howard inevitably wired Harry for emergency funds. Harry responded with $2,000, but grudging best wishes for the show. “I guess that you will have to go through with the venture.”
It ran for one week at Poli’s Theater in Washington, D.C., in October 1929, then moved to New Rochelle, New York. But it was abandoned before its announced Broadway opening on November 4. The plot was confusing, mixing psychology and mysticism in a strange stew, which simply confused the thin mystery story. Thurston’s glowing ghosts weren’t enough to save it. “As a play, it is no great shakes (excepting what shaking the audience may do),” according to the Washington Press. “The various mechanical
props operate efficiently.” But the fate of The Demon also coincided with the fate of Wall Street—the stock market crashed during its run in Washington, D.C.
Harry offered the inevitable comeuppance, writing to his older brother that The Demon did him no good. “You’ve done enough. Concentrate on being a magician. Be a magician, and that only.”
HOWARD CAME to rely on Harry’s money as well as his connections. In the spring of 1930, when he came through Chicago, Howard sent a telegram to his brother.
Theatrical papers filled with accounts shaking down actors. Please arrange be in Chicago my arrival. I am sure you can get proper protection from your friends in the form of letters.
Harry placated him. “That’s all bunk. You’ll be as safe as if you were at home.” But Howard needed his own tough tactics with Tampa the magician. After Dante protested about Tampa’s competition and Thurston shut him down in vaudeville, Tampa arranged a partnership with a tent show in West Virginia, so that he could make use of the Thurston illusions. The show ran for just a few weeks in 1930 before there were threats of it closing, and the musicians attached a judgment on the props. Thurston was frustrated by Tampa’s contractual difficulties and wanted him to return the illusions. When Tampa was unable to accommodate him, Howard summoned Harry to finish the job.
When Harry arrived in Moundsville, West Virginia, where the props were stored, Tampa assumed that he had been sent an ally. Instead Harry became the enemy and accomplished his job the only way he knew how, with Chicago-style threats. He sided with the musicians, ignored Tampa’s suggestions, and held to two simple demands: he wanted the Thurston contract torn up, and the props loaded into the truck.
Jim Steinmeyer Page 33
