Authors: Christopher Priest
In London
I have an unprecedented
thirty-five
confirmed bookings in my appointments diary, accepted for the period of the next four
months. Three of these are for shows in my own stage name, and one of these is to be
called
The Great Danton Entertains
; in seventeen theatres I shall top the bill; the remainder of the dates amply repay in
money what they do not offer in prestige.
With this richness of choice I have been able to demand details of technical
specifications of the backstage area before accepting, as well as forcing through
compliance with my need to box the stage. I have made it a standard term of contract that
I am supplied with an accurate plan of the auditorium, as well as being given firm
undertakings about the steadiness and reliability of the electrical supply. In two cases,
the theatre managements are so anxious to attract me to their houses that they have
guaranteed to convert over to electricity in advance of my show.
I shall be roaming the country. Brighton, Exeter, Kidderminster, Portsmouth, Ayr,
Folkestone, Manchester, Sheffield, Aberystwyth, York, all these and many more will greet
me on my first tour, as well as the capital itself, where I have several dates.
In spite of the travelling (which will be in first-class trains and carriages and paid for
by others), the schedule is leisurely within reason, and as my little entourage
crisscrosses the country we shall have abundant opportunity to make our necessary visits
to Caldlow House.
The agent is already speaking of foreign tours, with perhaps yet another trip to the USA
in the offing. (There would be certain extra problems here, but none is beyond the wit of
a magician in his prime!)
It is all extremely satisfactory, and I hope I may be forgiven for recording it in a state
of unqualified self-confidence.
10th July 1901
In Southampton
I am in the middle of a week's run at the Duchess Theatre here in Southampton. Julia came
down to visit me yesterday, bringing with her at my request my portmanteau of papers and
files, and as I therefore have access to this diary it seems like a good moment to make
one of my periodic entries.
I have been continually revising and rehearsing In a Flash for some months, and it is now
more or less a perfected skill. All my earlier hopes for it have come to fruition. I can
pass through the aether without registering any reaction to the physical traumas I endure.
The transition is smooth and seamless, and from the point of view of the audience
impossible to explain.
Nor are the mental aftereffects, which so scourged me at the outset, a problem any more. I
suffer no agonies of depression, or self-doubt. To the contrary (and I confide this to no
one, and record it in no other document than in this secret and lockable diary), the
wrenching apart of my body has become a pleasure to which I am almost addicted. At first I
was disheartened by the imaginings of death, of living in an afterlife, but now I nightly
experience my transmission as a rebirth, a renewal of self. In the early days I was
concerned by the many times I should have to perform the trick to keep in practice, but
now as soon as I have completed one performance I begin to crave the next.
Three weeks ago, during a temporary break in my round of engagements, I erected the Tesla
equipment in my workshop and put myself through the process. Not to try out new
performance techniques, not to perfect existing ones, but purely for the physical pleasure
of the experience.
Disposal of the prestige materials produced at each show is still a problem, but after all
these weeks we have developed a few routines so that the job is done with a minimum of
fuss.
Most of the improvements I have made have been in the area of performance technique. My
error at first was to assume that the sheer brilliance of the effect would be enough to
dazzle my audiences. What I was neglecting was one of the oldest axioms of magic, that the
miracle of the trick must be made clear by the presentation. Audiences are not easily
misled, so the magician must provoke their interest, hold it, then confound every
expectation by performing the apparently impossible.
By supplementing Tesla's apparatus with a range of magical effects and techniques (most of
them familiar to professional illusionists), I make my presentation of In a Flash
intriguing, more than a little terrifying to behold, and ultimately baffling. I do not use
every effect at every performance, and deliberately vary the show to keep myself fresh and
my rivals confounded, but here are some of the ways I engage and misdirect my audience:
I allow inspection of the apparatus before it is used, and, on some occasions and in some
theatres,
after
it has been used;
I occasionally invite a committee of witnesses onto the stage from the audience;
I am able to produce a personal object donated by a member of the audience, and
identifiable by them, after I have taken it through transmission;
I allow myself to be marked with flour or chalk or something similar, so that when I
appear in my chosen place it can be seen that I am, beyond any doubt, the same man who was
moments earlier fully visible on the stage;
I project myself to numerous different parts of the theatre, partly depending on the
physical plan of the building, partly on the degree of effect I wish to achieve. I can
travel instantly to the centre or rear of the stalls, to the dress circle, to one of the
loges; I can arrange for myself to be transmitted to other stage props or artefacts placed
in view for just this purpose. Sometimes, for example, I arrive in a large net that has
been dangling empty from the roof of the auditorium all through the show. Another popular
effect is when I project myself to a sealed box or crate, placed on a stand fully in view
of the audience and surrounded by a committee so that I might not enter through a hidden
door or trap.
However this freedom has made me reckless. One evening, almost on a whim, I projected
myself into a glass tank of water placed on the stage. This was a grave mistake, because I
committed the cardinal sin of the magician — I had not rehearsed the effect and I left
much of it to chance. Although my sensational and aquatically explosive arrival in the
water had the audience on its feet with excitement it also nearly killed me. My lungs
instantly filled with water, and within a couple of seconds I was fighting to stay alive.
Only quick action by Adam Wilson saved my life. It was a gruesome reminder of one of
Borden's earlier attacks on me.
After this unwelcome lesson in rematerialization, if I am ever tempted to try a new effect
I rehearse thoroughly first.
Of course, my act mostly consists of conventional illusions. I have a huge repertoire of
tricks, and whenever I open at a new theatre I change my programme. I always present a
varied show, starting with one of the familiar prestidigitations, such as Cups and Balls
or Mysterious Wine Bottles. Several card tricks of different kinds come next, and then for
visual flourish I perform one of a range of tricks involving silks, flags, paper flowers
or handkerchiefs. I work towards the climax through two or three illusions involving
tables, cabinets or mirrors, frequently using volunteers from the audience. In a Flash
invariably closes my show.
14th June 1902
In Derbyshire
I am busier than ever. I had my British tour, August-October 1901. There was another trip
to the USA, from November last year to February this. Until May I was in Europe, and I'm
presently engaged for an extended tour of British theatres, this time concentrating on
those located in seaside resorts.
Plans for the future:
I intend to take a long rest and spend much time with my family! Most of September is
being kept clear for this, as is the first part of October.
(While in the USA I tried to locate Nikola Tesla. I have certain questions about his
apparatus, and suggestions for improving its performance. I also felt sure he would be
interested to know how well it has served me so far. However, Tesla has gone to ground. He
is rumoured to be a bankrupt, in hiding from his creditors.)
3rd September 1902
In London
A momentous revelation!
Early yesterday evening, while I was resting between shows at Daly's Theatre in Islington,
a man called at the stage door to see me. When I saw his card I asked for him to be shown
immediately to my dressing room. It was Mr Arthur Koenig, the young journalist from the
Evening Star
who had given me so much food for thought about Borden. I was not surprised to learn that
Mr Koenig now has the position of Deputy News Editor of that paper. The years have added a
touch of grey to the whiskers on his face, and several inches to his girth. He entered
cordially, pumped my hand up and down, and slapped me around the shoulders.
“I just saw your matinée, Mr Danton!” he said. “My hearty congratulations to you. For once
the reviews do justice to a music hall act. I confess myself baffled and entertained in
equal measure.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” I said, and signed for my dresser to pour Mr Koenig a small glass
of whisky. When this was done I asked my dresser to leave us alone together, and to return
in fifteen minutes.
“Your good health, sir!” Koenig announced, raising his glass. “Or should I say, my Lord?”
I stared at him in surprise.
“How the devil do you know about that?”
“Why do you think I should not? The news of your brother's death reached the press in the
usual way, and was duly reported.”
“I've seen those reports,” I replied. 'None of them mentioned me."
“I think it might be because few in Fleet Street know you by more than your stage name. It
took a true admirer to connect you to Henry Angier.”
“Nothing escapes you, does it?” I said, with grudging admiration.
“Not that kind of information, sir. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I assume it
is
a secret?”
“I have always kept the two parts of my life separate. In that sense, it is a secret and
I'd be glad if you would treat it as such.”
“You have my word, my Lord. I'm grateful you are so honest with me. I accept that secrets
are your stock in trade, and I've no wish either to discover or expose them.”
“That was not always the case,” I pointed out. “When last we met—”
“Mr Borden, yes indeed. That, I confess, is a slightly different case. I felt he was
goading
me with his secrecy.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Yes, sir, I think you do.”
“Tell me, Koenig. You have seen my show today. What do you think of my final illusion?”
“You have perfected what Mr Borden has merely shaped.”
That was music to my ears, but I asked him, “You say you were baffled by it, but you don't
feel goaded by it too, do you?”
“I do not. The sense of mystery you provoke is one that I find familiar. When you watch a
master illusionist at work you are curious about how the miracle is achieved, but you also
realize that great disappointment would ensue if an explanation was offered.”
He smiled as he said this, then in silence sipped happily at his whisky.
“May I ask,” I said eventually, “to what I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I've come to apologize in the matter of Mr Borden, your rival. I confess that all my
elaborate theories about him were in error, while your theory, blunt and simple, was
correct.”
“I don't follow you,” I said.
“When I came to see you before, you will recall I held some hifalutin theory of Mr Borden
performing a greater magic than any that had existed before.”
“I remember,” I said. “You wisely convinced me of it. I was grateful to you—”
“You, however, had a plainer explanation. Borden is not one man but two, you said. Twins,
you said. Identical twin brothers, each taking the place of the other as required.”
“But you proved—”
“You were right, sir! Mr Borden's act is indeed based on twins. Alfred Borden is a name
conflated from two: Albert and Frederick, twin brothers, who perform together as one.”
“That's not true!” I said.
“But it was your own theory.”
“In lieu of any other,” I explained. “You swiftly disabused me. You had evidence—”
“Much of which turns out to have been circumstantial, the rest of which had been
falsified. I was a young reporter, not then fully practised in my profession. I have since
learnt to check facts, to double-check them, then to check them once more.”
“But I went into the matter myself,” I said. “I examined the hospital records of his
birth, the register of the school he attended—”
“Falsified long since, Mr Angier.” He looked at me questioningly, as if to be sure he was
addressing me correctly. I nodded, and he went on, “The Bordens have built their lives
around sustaining this illusion. Nothing about them can be trusted.”
“I investigated most carefully,” I insisted. “I knew there were two brothers with those
names, but one is two years younger than the other!”
“Both coincidentally born in May, as I recall. It does not take much forgery to change a
birth record from 8th May 1856 to 18th May 1858.”
“There was a photograph of the two brothers, taken together!”
“Yes, and one so easy to find! It must have been left as a red herring for such as you and
I to stumble across. As we duly did.”
“But the two brothers were clearly unalike. I saw the portrait myself!”
“And so did I. Indeed, I have a copy of it in my office. The distinction between their
facial characteristics is remarkable. But surely you of all people understand the
deceptive use of stage make-up.”
I was thunderstruck by the news, and stared at the floor, unable to think coherently.
“Galling
and
goading, isn't it?” Koenig said. “You must feel it too. We have both been taken in by
pranksters.”
“Are you sure of this?” I demanded. “Totally sure?” Koenig was nodding slowly. “For
instance, have you ever seen the two brothers together?”