Authors: Christopher Priest
When I was sixteen, in 1872, John Henry Anderson brought his Touring Magical Show to
Hastings, and took up a week's residence at the Gaiety Theatre in Queens Road. I attended
his show every night, taking seats as close to the front of the auditorium as I could
afford. It would have been inconceivable to have missed a single performance of his. At
that time not only was he the leading stage illusionist with a touring show, not only was
he credited with the invention of numerous baffling new effects, but he had a reputation
for helping and encouraging young magicians.
Every night Mr Anderson performed one particular trick known in the world of magic as the
Modern Cabinet Illusion. During this he would invite on stage a small committee of
volunteers from the audience. These men (they were always men) would assist in pulling on
to the stage a tall wooden cabinet mounted on wheels, sufficiently raised from the floor
to show that no one could enter it via a trap in the base. The committee would then be
invited to inspect the cabinet inside and out to satisfy themselves it was empty, turn it
around for the audience to see it from all sides, even choose one of their number to step
inside for a moment to prove that no other person could be concealed within it. They would
then collaborate in locking the door and securing it with heavy padlocks. While the
committee remained on the stage Mr Anderson once again rotated the cabinet for the
audience to satisfy themselves that it was securely sealed, then with quick motions he
dashed away the restraining padlocks, threw open the door . and out would step a beautiful
young assistant, wearing a voluminous dress and large hat.
Every night when Mr Anderson made his call for volunteers I would stand up eagerly to be
selected, and every night he would pass me by. I badly wanted to be chosen! I wanted to
find out what it was like to be on the stage under the lights, in front of an audience. I
wanted to be near to Mr Anderson when he was performing the illusion. And I positively
craved a good close look at the way the cabinet had been built. Of course I knew the
secret of the Modern Cabinet, because by this time I had learnt or worked out for myself
the mechanism of every illusion then current, but to see a top magician's cabinet at close
quarters would have been a golden opportunity to examine it. The secret of that particular
illusion is all in the making of the cabinet. Alas, such a chance was not to be.
After the last show of his short season I plucked up my courage and went to the stage
door, intending to waylay Mr Anderson when he left the theatre. Instead, I had been
standing outside for no more than a minute when the doorman let himself out of his
cubbyhole, and walked out to speak to me, his head slightly to one side, and looking at me
curiously.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said. “But Mr Anderson has left instructions that if you appear at
this entrance I am to invite you to join him in his dressing room.”
Needless to say, I was astounded!
“Are you sure he meant me?” I said.
“Yes, sir. I'm positive.”
Still mystified, but extremely pleased and excited, I followed the doorman's directions
along the narrow passages and stairways, and soon found the star's dressing room. Inside—
Inside, there followed a short, thrilling interview with Mr Anderson. I am loath to report
it in detail here, partly because it was so long ago and I have inevitably forgotten
details, but also partly because it was not so long ago that I have ceased to be
embarrassed by my youthful effusions. My week in the front stalls of his performances had
convinced me he was a brilliant performer, skilled in patter and presentation, and
flawless in the execution of his illusions. I was rendered almost speechless by meeting
him, but when I did unstop my mouth I found a torrent of praise and enthusiasm gushing out
of me.
However, in spite of all this, two topics came up that are of some interest.
The first was his explanation of why he had never chosen me from the audience. He said he
had almost picked me out at the opening performance because I had been the first to leap
to my feet, but something had made him change his mind. Then he said that when he saw me
at subsequent performances he realized that I must be a fellow magician (how my heart
leapt with joy at such recognition!), and was therefore wary of inviting me to take part.
He did not know, could have had no means of knowing, if I might have ulterior motives.
Many magicians, particularly rising young ones, are not above trying to steal ideas from
their more established colleagues, and therefore I understood Mr Anderson's caution. Even
so, he apologized for distrusting me.
The second matter followed on from this; he had realized I must be starting out in my
career. With this in mind he penned me a short letter of introduction, to be presented at
St George's Hall in London, where I would be able to meet Mr Nevil Maskelyne himself.
It was around this time that excitement took over and my youthful effusions become too
painful to recall.
Some six months after the exciting meeting with Mr Anderson I did indeed approach Mr
Maskelyne in London, and it was after this that my professional career as a magician
properly began. That, in its barest outline, is the story of how I met Mr Anderson and,
through him, Mr Maskelyne. I do not intend to dwell on all these or other steps I followed
as I perfected my craft and developed a successful stage show, except where they have a
bearing on the main point of this narrative. There was a long period when I was learning
my trade by performing it, and to a large extent not performing it as well as I had
planned. This time of my life is not of much interest to me.
There is though a relevant point in the particular matter of my meeting Mr Anderson. He
and Mr Maskelyne were the only two major magicians I met before my Pact took its present
shape, and therefore they are the only two fellow illusionists who know the secret of my
act. Mr Anderson, I am sorry to say, is now dead, but the Maskelyne family, including Mr
Nevil Maskelyne, is still active in the world of magic. I know I can trust them to remain
silent; indeed, I have to trust them. That my secrets have sometimes been in jeopardy is
not a charge I am prepared to lay at Mr Maskelyne's door. No, indeed, for the culprit is
well known to me.
I shall now return to address the main thrust of this narrative, which is what I intended
to do before I interrupted.
Some years ago, a magician (I believe it was Mr David Devant) was reported as saying:
“Magicians protect their secrets not because the secrets are large and important, but
because they are so small and trivial. The wonderful effects created on stage are often
the result of a secret so absurd that the magician would be embarrassed to admit that that
was how it was done.”
There, in a nutshell, is the paradox of the stage magician.
The fact that a trick is ‘spoiled" if its secret is revealed is widely understood, not
only by magicians but by the audiences they entertain. Most people enjoy the sense of
mystery created by the performance, and do not want to ruin it, no matter how curious they
feel about what they seem to have witnessed.
The magician naturally wishes to preserve his secrets, so that he may go on earning his
living from them, and this is widely recognized. He becomes, though, a victim of his own
secrecy. The longer a trick is part of his repertoire, and the more often it is
successfully performed, and by definition the larger the number of people he has deceived
with it, then the more it seems to him essential to preserve its secret.
The effect grows larger. It is seen by many audiences, other magicians copy or adapt it,
the magician himself will let it evolve, so that his presentation changes over the years,
making the trick seem more elaborate or more impossible to explain. Through all this the
secret remains. It also remains small and trivial, and as the effect grows so the
triviality seems more threatening to his reputation. Secrecy becomes obsessive.
So to the real subject of this.
I have spent my lifetime guarding my secret by appearing to hobble (I am alluding to Ching
Ling Foo, not, of course, writing literally). I am now of an age, and, frankly, of an
earned wealth, where performing on stage has lost its golden allure. Am I therefore to
limp figuratively for the rest of my natural life so as to preserve a secret few know
exists, and even fewer care about? I think not, and so I have set out at last to change
the habit of a lifetime and write about The New Transported Man. This is the name of the
illusion that has made me famous, said by many to be the greatest piece of magic ever
performed on the international stage.
I intend to write, firstly: a short description of what the audience sees.
And then, secondly: A Revelation of the Secret behind It!
Such is the purpose of this account. Now I set aside my pen, as agreed.
I have refrained from writing in this book for three weeks. I do not need to say why; I do
not need to be told why. The secret of The New Transported Man is not mine alone to
reveal, & there's an end to it. What madness infects me?
The secret has served me well for many years, & has resisted numerous prying assaults. I
have spent most of my lifetime protecting it. Is this not reason enough for the Pact?
Yet now I write that all such secrets are trivial. Trivial! Have I devoted my life to a
trivial
secret?
The first two of my three silent weeks slipped by while I reflected on this galling
insight into my life's work.
This book, journal, narrative — what should I call it? — is itself a product of my Pact,
as I have already recorded. Have I thought through all the ramifications of that?
Under the Pact, if I once make a statement, even something ill-advised or uttered in an
unguarded moment, I always assume responsibility for it as if I had spoken the words
myself. As do I when roles are reversed, or so I have always assumed. This oneness of
purpose, of action, of words, is essential to the Pact.
For this reason I do not insist that I go back & delete those lines above, where I promise
a revelation of my secret. (For the same reason I may not later delete the very lines I am
writing now.)
However, no revelation of my secret may be made, & is not even to be considered again. I
must hobble a while longer.
I am ignoring the fact that Rupert Angier yet lives! I do indeed sometimes put him from my
mind, wilfully drawing veils of forgetfulness across him & his deeds, but the wretch
continues to draw breath. So long as he remains alive my secret is at peril.
I hear he still performs his version of The New Transported Man, & during his execution of
it continues to make that offensive remark across the footlights that what the audience is
about to see “has often been copied, but has never been improved upon”. I rankle at these
reports, & more at other reports from insiders. Angier has hit on a new method of
transportation, & it is said to look good when performed. His fatal flaw, though, is that
his effect is slow. Whatever he might claim, he still cannot do the trick as quickly as
me! How he must burn to know my truth!
The Pact must remain in place. No revelations!
Since Angier has been brought into the story I shall describe the problem he first
presented to me, and give a detailed account of how our dispute began. It will soon become
apparent that I started the feud, and I make no bones about this responsibility.
However, I was led astray by adhering to what I thought were the highest principles, and
when I realized what I had done I did try to make amends. Here is how it started.
On the fringes of professional magic there are a few individuals who see prestidigitation
as an easy way of gulling the credulous and the rich. They use the same magical devices
and apparatus as legitimate magicians, but they pretend their effects are “real”.
It can be seen that this is only a shade away from the artifice of the stage magician, who
acts the role of sorcerer. That shade of difference is crucial.
For example, I sometimes open my act with an illusion called Chinese Linking Rings. I
begin by taking up a position in the centre of a lighted stage, holding the rings
casually. I make no claim for what I am about to do with them. The audience sees (or
thinks it sees, or allows itself to think it sees) ten large separate rings made of
shining metal. The rings are shown to a few members of the audience who are permitted to
handle and inspect them, and discover on behalf of everyone present that the rings are
solid, without joints, without openings. I then take the rings back and to everyone's
amazement I immediately join them into one continuous chain, holding it up for all to see.
I link and unlink rings at the touch of a spectator's hand on the exact spot where the
joining or unjoining takes place. I link some of the rings into figures and shapes, then
unlink them just as quickly, looping them casually over one of my arms or around my neck.
At the end of the trick I am seen (or thought to be seen, et cetera) to be holding, once
again, ten separate solid rings.
How is it done? The actual answer is that such a trick can only be performed after years
of practice. There is a secret, of course, and because Chinese Linking Rings is still a
popular trick that is widely performed, I cannot lightly reveal what it is. It is a trick,
an illusion, one that is judged not for the apparently miraculous secret, but for the
skill, the flair, the showmanship with which it is performed.
Now, take another magician. He performs the same illusion, using the identical secret, but
he claims aloud that he is linking and unlinking the rings by sorcerous means. Would not
his performance be judged differently? He would appear not skilled but mystical and
powerful. He would be not a mere entertainer but a miracle worker who defied natural laws.
If I, or any other professional magician, were there, I should have to say to the
audience: “That is just a trick! The rings are not what they seem. You have not seen what
you think you have seen.”
To which the miracle-worker would reply (falsely): “What I have just shown the audience is
a product of the supernatural. If you claim it is merely a conjuring trick, then pray
explain to everyone how it is done.”
And here I would have no reply. I would not be able to reveal the workings of a trick,
bound as I am by professional honour.
So the miracle would seem to remain a miracle.
When I first began performing there was a vogue for spirit effects, or “spiritism”. Some
of these manifestations were performed openly on the theatrical stage; others took place
more covertly in studios or private homes. All had features in common. They allegedly gave
hope to the recently bereaved or the elderly by making it seem that there was a life after
death. Much money changed hands in pursuit of this reassurance.
From the viewpoint of the professional magician, spiritism had two significant features.
First, standard magical techniques were being used. Second, the perpetrators invariably
claimed that the effects were supernaturally produced. In other words, false claims were
being made about miraculous "powers’.
This was what aggravated me. Because the tricks were all easily reproducible by any stage
illusionist worthy of the name, it was irritating, to say the least, to hear them claimed
as paranormal phenomena, whose manifestation therefore 'proved" that there was an
afterlife, that spirits could walk, that the dead could speak, and so on. It was a lie,
but it was one that was difficult to prove.
I arrived in London in 1874. Under John Henry Anderson's tutelage, and Nevil Maskelyne's
patronage, I began trying to obtain work in the theatres and music halls found all over
the great capital. There was in those days a demand for stage magic, but London was full
of clever magicians and an entry into the circuit was not easy. I managed to take a modest
place in that world, finding what work I could, and although my magic was always well
received my rise to prominence was a slow one. The New Transported Man was then a long way
from fruition, although to be entirely frank I had started to plan this great illusion
even while I still hammered and fretted in my father's yard in Hastings.
At this time the spirit magicians were often seen advertising their services in newspapers
and periodicals, and some of their doings were much discussed. Spiritism was presented to
the populace as a more exciting, powerful and
effective
kind of magic than what they could see on the stage. If one is skilled enough to put a
young woman into a trance and make her hover in mid-air, the argument seemed to go, why
not direct that skill more usefully and communicate with the recently departed? Why not
indeed?