Jim Steinmeyer (44 page)

Thurston’s refusal to be dogmatic about the supernatural was explained in interviews:

In other words, he saw the supernatural as a human condition. If Houdini and the mediums had argued that the occult might or might not exist, Thurston insisted that it always existed—as a purely human need. It was an enlightened point of view, but it didn’t make him many friends.

 

 

THURSTON TOOK UP
Houdini’s battle with false spiritualists late in 1927. His intention may well have been sheer publicity, or perhaps his motivation was a function of his position in the Society of American Magicians. Houdini had promoted the cause within the SAM, and his death left the subject unchallenged in the press. Thurston had always doubted any phenomena in a formal séance room, and sensibly warned the public of fraud. But in October, he gave an interview for United Press that consisted of the usual denunciations, with facts and anecdotes. The interview seemed unexpectedly strident, like a man on a mission. “Thurston Will Wage Fight on Psychic Fakes,” the headline announced, proclaiming that he would “take up where late Houdini left off.” The article quoted him as saying:

These insights were hardly remarkable, and Doyle’s gullibility was discussed after it dissolved his friendship with Houdini. But Thurston continued with additional exposures, designed to fascinate the public:

Reverend Arthur Ford was the president of the First Spiritualist Church of New York, a canny, funny, and quick-witted southerner who didn’t indulge in ghosts. He sat in séances, contacted his spirit guide, a French-Canadian named Fletcher, and offered quiet revelations and advice. He had just returned from London, where he had earned Conan Doyle’s endorsement. Perhaps this is why he first noticed Thurston’s interview, but more than likely, it was the promise to take up Houdini’s battle that had raised Ford’s hackles—the threat that after Houdini’s death, a long string of magicians were ready to continue the attacks. Ford responded to the newspapers, disagreeing with Thurston’s remarks by claiming that the magician was “a publicity-seeking showman.”

Again, this insight was hardly remarkable. But Ford was smart enough to know that Thurston was an ineffective skeptic, and clever enough to use Houdini’s standard technique, a challenge, before any challenge was issued to Ford. He offered Thurston $10,000 if he could produce one of his watchcase ghosts, and then use it to duplicate the phenomena of Margery, the controversial medium who had sparred with Houdini. “I hope Thurston will not follow the example of Houdini and evade the issue by a counter-challenge. He has made charges. I demand that he prove them,” Ford explained.

Thurston was trapped. He agreed to join Ford for a lecture at the Chapter Room in Carnegie Hall on October 9. Thurston counted on his oratory, his ability to charm an audience, and his rational, open-minded views on the subject—a believer but a skeptic. He hadn’t anticipated Ford’s clever jujitsu-like abilities to exploit the believer. That evening, the room was packed with three hundred spectators, including members of the Society of American Magicians, to cheer on their new hero.

Ford was smooth, funny, and excitable. Thurston was cautious and sedate. To many he appeared as stodgy and unprepared. They traded barbs. “You’ve insulted me,” Ford claimed, trying to pick a fight. He described Thurston’s inflatable spirit, pointing out the ridiculous nature of this sort of invention. In fact, Ford was right. The watchcase ghost was something Thurston had invented to sound more interesting than the usual crude deceptions of a séance room. Ford challenged Thurston to reproduce séance phenomena. Thurston demurred and challenged Ford to have the spirits tell him his mother’s maiden name.

Thurston scored a surprising point when the discussion turned to Conan Doyle and Lady Doyle. He insisted that Lady Doyle attempted to contact Houdini’s mother but gave the wrong message to him. He dramatically turned to a small, dark-haired lady sitting in the front row. “Is this so, Mrs. Houdini?” Bess Houdini stood up and agreed, explaining that Lady Doyle was a failure as a medium. The SAM magicians cheered.

But the discussion devolved from black and white to a muddy mess of gray. Thurston, as Ford anticipated, ended the evening by tempering his views:

Newspapers reported that as he spoke these words, he was both hissed and applauded.

When the meeting proceeded with a hymn and the passing of a collection plate, a spectator stood to loudly object. “You invite us here and then take up a collection!” There was a brief scuffle and the police were called, but by then the evening was finished.

The meeting played itself out in the press, but Thurston’s appearance at Carnegie Hall ended his battle with spiritualists. Overall, he made many sensible, inarguable points about fraud, but his most important observation was the closing remark, “I have no wish to begin making enemies.” This is what would always prevent him from adopting Houdini’s crusade.

The most significant event of the evening was Ford’s first meeting with Mrs. Harry Houdini, who had surprised him with her presence. Ford took the opportunity to introduce himself, and then formed a friendship with the magician’s widow. The following year, they would both be tangled in a series of séances, in which the ghost of Houdini apparently returned to give Bess a coded message. The Ford and Houdini séances were reduced to a number of silly claims and denials, proving nothing. Both Mrs. Houdini and Arthur Ford were branded as opportunists, or, perhaps, “publicity seeking showmen.”

In May 1928, Thurston was invited to present a special address at St. Mark’s Methodist Church in Detroit. It was an unusual opportunity to realize his dream of speaking from the pulpit. Thurston explained to the congregation that he found spiritualism “a serious thing, a psychic force that manifests itself unto certain people under certain conditions. I have seen some things I cannot explain, but that is a long story.” He cautioned the listeners. “I want to say that everything done for public, for money, is accomplished by trickery.”

At St. Mark’s, Thurston also presented a rambling recollection of his travels, his experience with different religions, and his view of prayer. “I do not ask God for a new suit of clothes, to pay the mortgage, or do a lot of other things for me. I am ashamed to pray and ask God for some of the things I hear preachers pray for,” he explained. “I never leave the door of my room without stopping for a moment, just a prayer of thankfulness. I never go on stage without that prayer of thankfulness, and also to ask for help.”

 

 

JANE THURSTON
had spent her childhood in boarding schools, and then in singing and dancing classes, including the dance schools of Ned Wayburn, Theodora Irvine, and Alveine. When the 1928 season began, she was given her own spots in her father’s show. Jane was now was seventeen years old, with curly dark blond hair. Jane remembered being overwhelmed by her early performances, terrified by the thought of disappointing her mother or father.

Jane was never a magician’s assistant, or “box jumper,” to use the backstage slang. Instead, Jane was a costar: a singing, dancing magician. Thurston hired the British illusionist Cyril Yettmah, who had his own successful career a decade before, to create new illusions for the show and supervise Jane’s special numbers.

Jane rehearsed the tricks over and over again, and Thurston listened to her singing and speaking parts by pacing in the back of the balcony, cupping a hand to his ear, and shouting, “Louder! I can’t hear you!” Hilliard supervised the press stories about her training, and Jane was posed in various publicity pictures.

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:

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.