IT TOOK ALL
of Thurston’s smooth salesmanship to negotiate with Goldin. The previous season, Thurston had started performing the Cannon Illusion: an assistant was loaded into an oversized cannon and the cannon was aimed at his trunk hanging over the audience’s head. The cannon exploded and was then turned toward the audience so that they could see down the barrel. The lady was gone. When the nested trunks were lowered and unlocked, she was found inside.
Gus Fasola had first suggested the cannon to Thurston, but Goldin had managed to obtain a patent for it, and this started another feud, aimed at Thurston. Fortunately, the magicians had all settled their argument by the time of the SAM banquet. Thurston told Goldin, “I have to congratulate you on an excellent idea. A wonderful idea,” and Goldin had to listen, because few magicians that night had anything to say. Goldin was fat and jowly, an unlikely looking magician, but he made up for his appearance by rattling through his tricks at breakneck speed. His precise movements energized the performance. For example, Goldin would toss a prop over his shoulder without looking to see if the assistant had stepped in to catch it. Thurston had known him for years and knew that, like most performers, Goldin had a roaring ego that could easily be stoked. “But, Horace,” Thurston continued, pulling him to one side, “listen to me, as a friend. The apparatus is awful. It isn’t sophisticated. It’s not up to your standards. I know how to fix it. I’ve invested thousands of dollars into my shop, with the finest builders in magic. If we could just make an arrangement to rebuild the prop for you ...” Again Goldin had to listen because he knew that the trick needed help.
Goldin was also listening to a ticking clock. Months before, he’d heard about P. T. Selbit’s latest sensation in the London music halls, a new illusion called Sawing Through a Woman. Without knowing the details of Selbit’s trick, Goldin rushed his own version into production. The Keith vaudeville circuit was anxious to book Goldin with the trick, as their new competition, the Shubert circuit, had just signed Selbit to come over to America with his new illusion. Goldin had to get it right, and he had to do it quickly.
THURSTON DIDN’T ACTUALLY KNOW
how to fix it—that was just part of his sales pitch. But he did know someone who could fix it: Harry Jansen.
Harry August Jansen was born in Copenhagen in 1883, and his family came to St. Paul, Minnesota, when he was six. As a boy, he became interested in magic, and Thurston’s book of card tricks was an early inspiration. In 1902, when Jansen was living in Chicago, he had a chance to meet Thurston when he came through town with his vaudeville act. They became friends—even more so when Thurston returned to Chicago seven years later. At that time, Jansen was a partner in Halton and Jansen, a company that built illusions for professional magicians.
The quality of Halton and Jansen’s work was renowned, and they later partnered with Servais Le Roy, which allowed them to build his famous effects. But the company dissolved by 1911, and Jansen took his show on the road.
He might have been successful in vaudeville if it weren’t for an oversized, costly show (featuring the large illusions that had been built by Halton and Jansen) and the fact that he was now supporting a wife and five children. He sent his family home with whatever money he could spare and found himself living on pennies, scrounging for work.
In 1921 he was on the East Coast when he ran into Horace Goldin, who relayed an urgent message from Thurston. Thurston was now back in Whitestone and wanted desperately to meet with him. Jansen contacted Thurston and arranged to meet him at his home for dinner the following night. When Jansen arrived, he had exactly two cents in his pocket.
Thurston assumed that Jansen was a successful vaudeville act, but calculated that the young magician would have a long, slow summer season ahead. He suggested that Jansen supervise his shop at Whitestone and offered him an advance on the salary, $200 in cash. Jansen was flabbergasted at how his luck had suddenly changed, and he couldn’t resist telling Thurston that he was two pennies away from being broke. “That’s nothing, Harry,” Thurston told him. “I’ve been that way many times.” Thurston’s nonchalance convinced Jansen that he was telling him the truth.
Actually, Thurston’s workshop was a disaster. The workers had become exhausted second-guessing their moody boss, who communicated very little of what he wanted, and then wasted a great deal of time by having the carpenters rebuild props. When Jansen arrived, he fired the deadwood, bought tools and hardware wholesale, and systematized each job, saving Thurston thousands of dollars each month.
His first real test was the new Sawing illusion. One day, as Jansen was just finishing a small project at the shop, Thurston asked him to change out of his work clothes and join him in New York City, where Goldin was performing a preview act for vaudeville bookers—the same clumsy trick that he had shown at the SAM banquet.
During the show, Jansen watched the stage and Thurston watched Jansen, anxious for his reaction. Harry Jansen wasn’t impressed. He couldn’t decide if the illusion was supposed to be a burlesque of a magic act—a sort of comedy—or if it was really being played for thrills and chills. Thurston asked him, “How’s it done?” Jansen couldn’t believe the question. “There isn’t a person in that audience who doesn’t know how it’s done.”
And then Jansen told him. The platform beneath the boxes was suspiciously thick. It was obvious that a second person could be concealed inside the platform. That person had to be supplying the feet during the routine. That meant that the other boy, with his head sticking out one end of the box, simply curled up, bringing his knees up to his chin. And the saw passed between the two boxes.
Thurston’s naïve optimism was the motivating force behind the Sawing. His faith in the idea inspired Jansen, who was determined to impress his new boss. The next day in the shop, he began building an improved version. Instead of the thick platform, Jansen reduced it to a three-inch-thick table. His method was nothing short of incredible, mixing both mechanical and optical illusions. Jansen shifted the position of the second assistant during the course of the routine and changed the proportions and prop apparatus to make it more deceptive. Thurston and Goldin were delighted with the results. In exchange for his work, Thurston was rewarded with the rights to present it in his own show. Jansen earned the right to be one of the seven franchised performers, working with Goldin, who fanned out across America, presenting the illusion in vaudeville theaters.
GOLDIN HAD MADE
a huge mistake, of course. He never would have drawn an audience if he continued to saw a boy in half. He needed a pretty ingenue beneath the rasping, roaring lumber saw: “Sawing a Woman in Half.” The new illusion summoned images of melodramatic thrillers, cinematic serials, and mythological punishments. Selbit and Goldin had also unwittingly tapped into society’s most controversial issues. Just as modern women—the suffragettes—were demanding equal rights, staging violent strikes in England, and protesting in the United States, vaudeville theaters were offering tongue-in-cheek vengeance. Selbit had created the modern fashion for torture illusions, the damsel in distress during the magic show.
Selbit arrived in the United States in late 1921, which is when America saw his original version. Selbit’s trick was more cerebral and suggestive than Goldin’s copy. The lady was completely roped inside of a long, narrow wooden coffin. As spectators on the stage held the ends of the ropes that restrained her, Selbit divided the box with a large saw, and then metal and glass dividers. But by now it didn’t matter. He was too late. Thurston, Goldin, and the Goldin army of magicians had already saturated the Keith circuit with the famous Sawing. They promoted it with wild publicity stunts. Ambulances were adorned with signs, explaining that they were going to Keith’s “in case the saw slips.” Nurses stood by in the lobby, watching for spectators who were faint of heart. Stagehands emerged from the theater, pouring buckets of murky, bloody-red liquid into the gutters, as the lines of spectators at the box office watched in horror. Goldin advertised for local women who volunteered to be sawn in half.
Selbit and Goldin battled it out in the theaters for months, before Selbit returned to England. Goldin had patented the illusion, but many magicians built their own versions of the trick. Goldin spent thousands of dollars with attorneys, chasing the imitators through the courts. It was a rich irony for Goldin, since he had pinched the original idea from Selbit.
After the Sawing wars had finished, the clear winner was Howard Thurston, who found a topical new feature for his show and turned it into a popular standard for his audiences. His program advertised: “Sawing a Woman in Half, by Public Request.” In vaudeville, the illusion was just a popular tune, and it played itself out in two or three years. In Thurston’s show, it became a timeless ballad, and he performed it for the rest of his career.
The new illusion also solved the problem he’d been having with his Levitation. He started performing the Sawing illusion with just a few spectators on stage and gradually added a crowd from the audience to watch the illusion from up close. Now the scrum of people, even “crummy looking people,” seemed to fit right in with the manic operation. Here Thurston didn’t miss an opportunity, using each of the volunteers as his comic foils.
A man was selected to step in and hold the lady’s hands. “You have hold of her hands, don’t you?” The man shrugged. “You know, there are some who have had more experience than others.” Another man was told to hold her feet. As Thurston was handed the large saw and a mallet, the assistants on stage started their work.
George White whispered to a small boy from the audience, “When the Governor hits that saw, you run like hell back to your seat. Understand? When he hits it.” Thurston gave the saw a wallop, making it ring loudly, and the boy bounded from the stage and up the aisle. The audience guffawed. Thurston looked out at the boy, as if puzzled.
Meanwhile, the assistants had been giving similar, sotto voce instructions to the spectators on stage. Thurston lifted the saw above the box. “Gentlemen,” he cautioned his assistants, “the object of this is to prevent the body from straining the saw. I asked you to hold firmly. Should there be an accident, all of you are equally guilty.” Thurston began to saw through the box, and the girl let out a loud scream. On cue, a handful of the spectators dashed from their spots on stage and returned to their seats. “No, no,” Thurston implored, following after his cowardly assistants and standing at the edge of the stage. “Don’t go!”
It was vintage Thurston, the elegant host confused by his guests, the ringmaster scratching his head over the clowns. If the situation was funny, Thurston’s perfectly proper demeanor made it only funnier.
IN THE EARLY MONTHS OF 1922,
Harry Kellar suffered a long illness at his home in Los Angeles. On the night of March 10, Thurston was visiting a club of St. Louis magicians. For some reason, he felt the need to ask for a moment of silent meditation, remembering Kellar. The next morning, Thurston received the news from the West Coast. Kellar had died the previous evening.
“As we sat there in complete stillness,” Thurston later told a reporter, “each thinking of the splendid man and his achievements, it seemed almost as if the spirit of Kellar had projected itself among us. We had no idea at the time that he was dying. Harry Kellar was a man of charming personality and I can say without fear of contradiction that he was one of the most generally beloved men on the American stage. He was the greatest magician of all time.”
Of all the men who had saved Howard Thurston from his fate—including Round, Moody, and Pastor—it was Harry Kellar who had done what the others could not have done, eliminating his past by instantly bestowing legitimacy. Their agreement started as a simple business transaction, but somehow Kellar transformed it—his greatest feat in magic—into a royal legacy.
That final season together seemed to grant Kellar—an argumentative, poorly educated, and onetime Pennsylvania street waif—the exalted status as the approving monarch. It seemed to christen Thurston, a confidence man and sideshow talker, with the title of crown prince. Behind the scenes, it was a ragtag partnership, but in the bright lights of the stage, it had transformed both men.
With Kellar’s death, Thurston assumed a new role. It was no longer just about retirement or succession. Thurston had learned a valuable lesson from the Sawing in Half illusion. Goldin had cleverly franchised other performers like Jansen to capitalize on his success. Now Howard could increase his profits by producing a show for another magician, supervising the tour, selling the act to vaudeville, or booking the new show in cities and countries he had been too busy to visit. It wouldn’t be a competition, and the Thurston endorsement would mean that a good, talented performer would be quickly established. He didn’t need to retire. He needed to expand his business.
Within months of Kellar’s death, Thurston had worked out a deal with Harry Jansen. Jansen was working as foreman of the workshop and had joined Thurston on the road to help rehearse the new tour. But both men knew that these efforts were a waste of Jansen’s skills. Thurston urged him to put together his own show, which would be marketed as the “Thurston #2 Unit.” Jansen proposed a simple arrangement: Thurston would invest $50,000 toward building the show, payable in weekly fees, and would then be a half-owner in the property, entitled to his share of the profits.
Thurston rechristened the new performer Dante. He’d liked the stage name since he first heard of the American, Oscar Eliason, who had found such success as Dante in Australia. Later, when Thurston was married to Beatrice, a friend reminded him how the pairing of names was appropriate—Beatrice and Dante. As he considered Harry Jansen’s new show, Thurston realized the name had the perfect devilish sound, while also seeming literary and European. Since Jansen had been born in Copenhagen, Thurston stretched the truth slightly and billed Dante as “Europe’s Famous Magician.”