Authors: Christopher Priest
I am trying to put as good a face as possible on the matter, but in the deepest recess of
my heart I am harbouring a secret fear. In short, it is that my ill health might mean I
shall never again be able to perform. After Borden's attack on me I have become a
semi-invalid.
Counting the man who came to see me in the hotel in Lowestoft, and my own here in London,
I have been examined by three doctors. All of them pronounce me well and showing no
obvious symptoms of illness. I complain about my breathing, so they listen to my chest and
prescribe fresh air. I tell them my heart races when I walk up a flight of stairs, and
they listen to my heart and they tell me to be careful about what I eat, and to take
things easier. I say that I tire easily, and they advise me to rest and to take plenty of
early nights.
My regular doctor in London took a sample of my blood, because I demanded that he should
make some objective test, if only to quieten my fears. He duly reported that my blood was
unusually “thin”, that such a condition was not unusual in a man of my age, and he
prescribed an iron tonic.
After the doctor had left I took the simple step of weighing myself, with an astonishing
result. I appear to have lost nearly thirty pounds in weight! I have weighed more or less
exactly twelve stone, one hundred and sixty-eight pounds, for most of my adult years. It
is just one of those things in life that has remained constant. This morning I found that
I weigh just over one hundred and thirty-nine pounds, or a fraction under ten stone!
In the mirror I look the same as ever: my face is no thinner, my eyes are not bloodshot,
my cheekbones do not jut, my jaw is not angular. I look tired, indeed, and there is a
sallow quality to my skin that is not customary, but I do not look like someone who cannot
climb a short flight of stairs without gasping for breath halfway up. Nor do I look like
someone who has just lost nearly a sixth of his normal weight.
There being no normal or logical reason for this, it must have been caused by the
incomplete Tesla transmission. The first shock of it had taken place. Following this, the
electrical information was only partially sent. Borden's interruption came before the
second shock occurred, preventing full reassembly at either end.
Once again his intervention has taken me to the edge of death!
Later
Julia has declared herself to be on a mission to restore my strength by fattening me up,
and lunch today was substantial. However, halfway through I felt tired and nauseated, and
was unable to finish. I have just been taking a short nap.
On walking, I was seized by an idea, whose consequences I am still thinking through.
In the confidentiality of these pages let me disclose that whenever I have used the Tesla
apparatus, whether it be in performance or rehearsal, I have always made sure to secrete
two or three gold coins in my pocket. Why I should do so must be self-evident; my recent
acquisition of a financial fortune is not solely attributable to performance fees!
Tesla, I should in all conscience report, warned me against such an act. He is a highly
moral man, and he lectured me long on the subject of forgery. He said he also had
scientific reasons, that the apparatus was calibrated for my known body-weight (with
certain margins of safety), and that the presence about my person of small but massy
objects, such as gold coins, could make the projection inaccurate over longer distances.
Because I trust Tesla's scientific knowledge, at first I decided to take only paper money
through with me, but in doing so I created the inevitable difficulty of duplicate serial
numbers. I still carry a few high denomination notes at every performance, but in most
cases I have preferred to carry gold. I have never encountered any of the problems of
inaccuracy of which Tesla warned, perhaps because the distances I travel are so short.
This afternoon, after my nap, I searched for the three coins I had been carrying in my
pocket on Tuesday evening. As soon as I held them I felt certain they weighed less than
they did before, and when I placed them on my office balance, comparing them with
otherwise identical coins that had not been through the transmitter, I discovered they
were indeed lighter.
I calculate that they too have lost about seventeen per cent of their mass. They look the
same, they have the same dimensions as ordinary coins, they even make the same ringing
sound when dropped on a stone floor, but somehow or other they have lost some of their
weight
.
29th May 1903
The week has shown no improvement. I remain debilitated. Although I am
well
, in that I have no fever, no apparent wounds, no pain, no sickness, in spite of all this
as soon as I make any physical effort I am overtaken with fatigue. Julia continues to try
to feed me back to health, but I have made only a marginal gain in weight. We both pretend
I am improving, but in doing so we are denying what is obvious to us both — I shall never
recover the part of me that has gone.
In this enforced physical languor my mind continues to work normally, which adds to the
frustration.
Reluctantly, but on the advice of everyone close to me, I have cancelled all future
bookings. To distract myself I have been running the Tesla apparatus, and passing through
it a quantity of gold. I am not greedy, and I do not wish to draw unwelcome attention to
myself by becoming excessively wealthy. I need only enough money to ensure the long term
wellbeing of myself and my family. At the end of each session I weigh each coin carefully,
but all is well.
Tomorrow, we return to Caldlow House.
18th July 1903
In Derbyshire
The Great Danton is dead. The demise of the illusionist Rupert Angier came as a result of
injuries sustained when a trick went wrong during a performance at the Pavilion Theatre in
Lowestoft. He died at his home in Highgate, London, and leaves a widow and three children.
The 14th Earl of Colderdale remains alive, if not in the rudest of health. He has had the
mixed pleasure of reading his own obituary in
The Times
, a privilege not granted to many. Of course the obituary was unsigned, but I was able to
deduce that it had not been written by Borden. The assessment of my career is naturally
shown in a fair and positive light, but in addition I detect no jealousy, no undercurrent
of subtle resentment, usually perceptible on these occasions when a rival is invited to
record the passing of one of his colleagues. I am relieved that Borden was not involved in
this at least.
Angier's affairs are now in the hands of a firm of lawyers. He is of course really dead,
and his body was really placed inside the coffin. This I saw as Angier's last illusion;
the provision of his own corpse for burial. Julia is officially his widow, and his
children are orphans. They were all present at Highgate Cemetery for his funeral, a
ceremony kept strictly to his immediate family. The press stayed away at the personal
request of the widow, and no fans or admirers were seen on the day.
On that same day I was myself travelling back anonymously to Derbyshire with Adam Wilson
and his family. He and Gertrude have agreed to remain with me as paid companions. I am
able to reward them well.
Julia and the children arrived back here three days later. For the time being she is the
widow Angier, but as we fade from people's recollections she will quietly become, as is
her right, Lady Colderdale.
I thought I had grown familiar with surviving my own death, but this time I have done it
in a way that I can never repeat. Because I can not go back to the stage, and because I am
now in the role that my elder brother had previously denied me, I find myself wondering
how I am to fill the days that lie ahead.
After the disagreeable shock of what happened to me in Lowestoft, I have settled down to
what has become my new existence. I am not in decline, and my condition remains stable. I
have little physical energy or strength, but I do not seem likely to drop dead suddenly.
The doctor here repeats what I was told in London: there is nothing apparently the matter
with me that good food, exercise and a positive outlook will not cure in time.
So I find myself taking up the life I had briefly planned after I returned from Colorado.
There is much to attend to in the house and around the estate, and because nothing has
been run properly for years much of it is in decay. Fortunately, for once my family has
the financial wherewithal to tackle some of the most serious problems.
I have had Wilson erect the Tesla apparatus in the basement, telling him that from time to
time I shall be rehearsing In a Flash in preparation for my return to the stage. Its real
use is, of course, otherwise.
19th September 1903
Merely to record that today is the day I had originally planned for the death of Rupert
Angier. It has passed like all the others, quietly and (given my continuing restlessness
about my health) peacefully.
3rd November 1903
I am recovering from an attack of pneumonia. It nearly got me! I have been in Sheffield
Royal Infirmary since the end of September, and I survived only by a miracle. Today is the
first day at home where I have been able to sit up long enough to write. The moors look
splendid through my window.
30th November 1903
Recovering. I am almost back to the condition I was in when I returned here from London.
That is to say, officially well, unofficially not too good.
15th December 1903
Adam Wilson came to my reading room at half past ten this morning, and informed me a
visitor was waiting downstairs to see me. It was Arthur Koenig! I stared at his calling
card in surprise, wondering what he wanted. “Tell him I'm not available for the moment,” I
said to Adam, and I went to my study to think.
Could his visit be something to do with my funeral? The faking of my own death had a
deceptive side to it that I suspect could be construed as illegal, even though I can't
imagine what harm might befall anyone else as a consequence. But the fact that Koenig was
here at all meant he knew the funeral had been a sham. Was he going to try to blackmail me
in some way? I still do not fully trust Mr Koenig, nor do I understand his motives.
I let him sweat downstairs for fifteen minutes, then asked Adam to bring him up.
Koenig appeared to be in a serious mood. After we had greeted each other, I sat him down
in one of the easy chairs facing my desk. The first thing he said was to assure me that
his visit was unconnected with his job on the newspaper.
“I'm here as an emissary, my Lord,” he said. “I'm acting in my private capacity for a
third party who knows of my interest in the world of magic, and who has asked me to
approach your wife.”
“Approach Julia?” I said, in genuine surprise. “Why should you have anything to say to
her?”
Koenig was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Your wife, my Lord, is the widow of Rupert Angier. It is in that guise that I have been
commissioned to approach her. But I thought, bearing in mind what has happened in the
past, it would be wisest to come to you first.”
“What's going on, Koenig?”
He had brought with him a small leather case, and he now picked this up and laid it on his
lap.
“The… third party for whom I'm acting has come across a notebook, a private memoir, in
which it is felt your wife would have an interest. In particular, it is hoped that Lady
Colderdale, that is, Mrs Angier, might wish to purchase it. This, er, third party is not
aware that you, my Lord, are still alive, and so I find myself not only betraying the
person who is sending me on this task, but also the person to whom I should be speaking.
But I really felt, under the circumstances—”
“Whose notebook is it?”
“Alfred Borden’s.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Of course I do.”
Koenig reached down into the case, and produced a cloth-bound notebook of the sort that
comes equipped with a lockable clasp. He handed it to me so that I might examine it, but
because it was locked I could not see what was inside. When I looked back at Koenig he was
holding the key.
“My… client requires five hundred pounds, sir.”
“Is it genuine?”
“Most assuredly. You would have to read only a few lines to be convinced of that.”
“But is it worth five hundred pounds?”
“I suspect you will think it worth rather more. It is written in Borden's own hand, and
deals directly with the secrets of his magic. He elaborates his theory of magic, and
explains how many of his tricks are done. The concealment of life as twins is alluded to.
I found it a most interesting read, and I can guarantee you will too.”
I turned the book in my hand, wondering about it.
“Who is your client, Koenig? Who wants the money?” He looked uneasy, clearly not practised
in this sort of thing. “You say you have already betrayed your client. Do you suddenly
have scruples?”
“There's a lot to this, my Lord. From your manner I suspect you have not already heard the
main news I am bringing. Are you aware that Borden has recently died?” No doubt my
startled expression gave him the answer he required. “To be precise, I believe one of the
two brothers is dead.”
“You sound unsure,” I said. “Why?”
“Because there's no conclusive proof. You and I both know how obsessively the Bordens
concealed their lives, so it's no surprise that the survivor would do the same when the
other dies. The trail has been hard to follow.”
“Then how do you know about it at all? Oh, I see this third party who has commissioned
you.”
“And there is circumstantial evidence.”
‘such as?" I prompted.
“The famous illusion is no longer included in Le Professeur's act. I have been to his
shows several times in the last six weeks, and not once has he performed it.”
“There could be many reasons for that,” I observed. “I've been to his show several times,
and he does not always include that trick.”