CHAPTER THREE

HOW I BECAME A STAR

IN 1894 the whole world was thrilled by one of the greatest spy-trials of all time. General Alfred Dreyfus was brought before a military tribunal in Paris and was found guilty of betraying secrets to a foreign power. For this crime he was sentenced to imprisonment on Devil's Island, the dread penal settlement in French Guiana.

Dreyfus's misfortune was my opportunity. I saw the chance of a great illusion, which would be all the greater for being topical. I would put on an act, "Dreyfus, Escapes from Devil's Island".

Dreyfus escapes from Devil's Island

The scene opened with Dreyfus being degraded. I myself, dressed as Dreyfus, stood before the soldiers. On one side stood Esterhazy, the accuser, dressed as the Devil. The officer in command of the soldiers tore off the buttons from my uniform, then the epaulets, and finally he broke my sword across his knee. The soldiers then forced me into a cage which stood in the centre of the stage.

Madame Dreyfus then entered weeping and clung to the bars of the cage. The soldiers, however, ignored her entreaties and dragged her away.

Immediately after the exit of Madame Dreyfus the cage was covered. Esterhazy ordered the soldiers to present arms. There was a tense moment while the guns were levelled at the cage. Then came the command to shoot. The cover fell and there stood Madame Dreyfus. Esterhazy ordered the soldiers to depart, took off his cloak, and there was Horace Goldin, who but one moment before was playing the part of Dreyfus.

This was the first of my great illusions. I played it when I was at the Palace Theatre in 1902 and it was witnessed there by King Edward VII and King George V. It was this illusion which put me on the road to fame.

I first put this act on at Tony Pastor's Theatre in New York, and it made a sensation. At that time Dreyfus was still in Devil's Island, but the agitation against his sentence was growing rapidly and feeling was high. My illusion gained greatly by this topicality and I was re-engaged for a later appearance. I was now well established, and instead of worrying whether I should ever begin at all I had to try to become a great conjurer and not merely average. I felt it in me to be a great magician, and I knew that, in just the same manner as that in which I had succeeded so far, I should eventually become a star. I had to work hard and watch carefully for every opportunity.

During my stay in New York I appeared at Coster and Beil's, the greatest music-hall in America, then on Twenty-third Street, though they moved later. There my performance was seen by the late Allan Dale, who was considered in America to be the greatest of all critics. He had the uncanny habit of being always right. If he said a show was good, it was very good, and ran for weeks. If he said that a show had such and such faults, he always hit upon the exact weaknesses. In fact, whatever Allan Dale said was sure to be sound criticism, and his opinions formed thousands of other people's.

Of me he wrote:

Horace Goldin is a promising young man who will one day make a name for himself. I enjoyed his performance; but if you want to enjoy it I suggest you put cotton-wool in your ears so that you do not hear his broken English.

I was much impressed by that criticism, and I thought and thought how I could remove that defect. Then I hit on a daring plan. I would dispense with speech altogether.

To perform illusions one has to fool the audience. One pretends to do one thing while doing another. It is easier to distract attention by talking than by any other method, so by cutting out speech I was depriving myself of the chief instrument in the magician's stock-in-trade. But if I succeeded I should have an act unlike any other on the stage. I should be unique, and therefore in demand.

By this means I hoped to turn a weakness into a box-office draw.

For weeks I worked patiently. I had to train my feet to help my hands. I had to vary my act so that it gripped the audience's attention throughout. I devised a show which comprised twenty-five tricks performed in the time which any other magician would have taken to perform four tricks.

I wrote and thanked Allan Dale for his helpful criticism, and told him of my improvements.

The new show was a sensation, and led to my being engaged fo Keith's theatre circuit and Hammerstein's Roof Garden for the entire summer season of sixteen weeks. This meant that my headquarters were in the Keith's Theatre, Boston, where I played every eighth week, being on tour the rest of the time. This engagement was the turning-point in my career, and I owe a great debt of gratitude to the late Mr. B. F. Keith and to that Boston theatre.

At that time theatre shows used to run from early in the morning until late at night. The show started at 10.30 and ran continuously until 10.30 p.m. As the junior act it fell to me to open the show at 10.30; my second appearance was at five o'clock, and the third about 7 p.m.

Rising early has never been one of my virtues. Even as a small boy I earned many a hiding because of my slug-a-bed habits. Even when my living depended upon it I could not get up early. So I came to rely upon the good offices of my friend Jerry, the stage-doorkeeper.

Jerry, was one of my best pals, and he did a great deal for me in those early days. He was a great strapping Irishman, or rather he had been. He was one of the most warm-hearted of men, and was never without a word of encouragement to the beginner and a smile of congratulation for the man who was making good. I used to spend hours chatting with him in his little room in the theatre between houses.

My little weakness for bed in the morning presented no difficulties to Jerry, Besides being doorkeeper he was stagemanager on Mondays, when he made out the programmes, and he used to do a good deal of office-work into the bargain. It was his practice to have the stage-hands unp ack my tricks for me, so that everything was ready. Then he used to come along and pull me out of bed and force me into my clothes. I was never late when I played in Boston.

One day, however, I ran things pretty close. Jerry, was not able to call me as usual, and of course I lay too long. I managed to get to the theatre dead on 10.30.

It was a rule in that theatre that the curtain went up at 10.30 whether the act was ready or not.

There were the people in the stalls waiting for me. There was no time for me to change; I should have to play in my outdoor clothes.

Then, horror of horrors! Jerry, whispered in my ear, "The manager's out front--Mr. S. K. Hodgedon."

I had never met the manager, and I did not know him by sight. I had heard tales of him, and I thought that this escapade would surely earn me the sack. But Jerry, did his best to encourage me as I waited for the orchestra to finish the overture. Then with a pat on the back from Jerry, I stepped on the stage and my act began.

It is a strange thing that, though before I am on the stage I feel nervous, when the act has begun and I see the faces and hear the applause I am quite all right and my nervousness vanishes. So it was on this occasion. When it came to the egg-in-the-bag trick I wanted a partner from the audience. About three rows from the front there was a prosperous gentleman who I thought would do excellently. I called him to the foot of the stairs that led to the stage.

"Would you mind helping me by placing your foot on the bottom step?" I asked.

He did so.

"Now give me your hand and put the other foot on the second step."

Again he did as I asked.

"Now repeat."

And that brought him on to the stage. I have practised that little deception thousands of time and I have never known it to fail.

He held my wrists when I did the egg-in-the-bag trick. Though I pushed his nose into the bag he could not see how the trick was done. He was very impressed.

The act went well, and though I still felt rather worried because the manager was somewhere in front of me, and I was still in ordinary clothes, I could not help but feel that I had been good that morning.

As I came off the stage I met Jerry,

"Well, I like your pluck, young Goldin," he said.

"Why?"

"There you stand, not properly dressed for the show, and then you have the cheek to ask S. K. Hodgedon, the manager who is employing you, to step on the stage and hold your wrists for you. If you don't get re-engaged, don't say it was my fault."

You can imagine my horror. I had had no idea that the prosperous gentleman was the manager. But I put a bold face on it.

"Look you, Jerry," I said. "I may be thrown out now but, you mark my words, I'll be in the star dressing-room soon."

As I walked back to my dressing-room at the top of the buildings, with Jerry's laughter still in my ears, I met Sandow. He was top of the bill, and of course he was in the star dressing-room, which was really a suite of rooms furnished in palatial style, with hot and cold water in the bath-room and all sorts of unusual conveniences. I certainly had a long way to go.

In three or four weeks' time I was re-engaged, so evidently the manager had not been very displeased by my familiarity. This time I was third on the bill, and I did not appear until eleven o'clock on the Monday morning. I enjoyed an extra half-hour in bed.

B. F. Keith, the proprietor of this and many other theatres in the States, never came into the theatre before eight o'clock in the evening because there were no important acts before that time. But it so happened that on the Wednesday, as he entered the theatre, he saw a bowl of gold-fish on a stand in the middle of the foyer with a large notice: "THESE FISH WERE CAUGHT BY PROFESSOR HORACE GOLDIN OVER THE HEADS OF THE AUDIENCE." Evidently he was interested.

The next night Jerry, came to me.

"He's in early, isn't he?" I said.

"Yes," answered Jerry, "Half an hour too soon. I can't think what's come over him."

I was nervous when the act began, but again I controlled my nerves. I never remember the show working so well. Everything ran smoothly. The audience was very responsive. All went well, and I scored an immense success.

Naturally, I was gratified, and I rather expected that I might get both a rise in wages and a more prominent place on the bill. I did not expect the good fortune which was to be mine.

After the show Jerry, came up to me with a smile on his face.

"Well, my boy, I'm delighted. You've done it again. I think the old man liked your act. Anyway, I saw him applauding."

That was very good news.

Next day I was at the theatre and ready for my act at eleven o'clock, when Jerry, burst excitedly into my dressingroom.

"Oh boy, oh boy!" he shouted. "I've got the grandest news for you. Better news than I've ever given anyone in this theatre or anywhere else. Old man Keith himself says that you're to do two shows instead of three for the rest of the week. You're going to be the star headliner and they're getting out the extra advertising for you. The special electric wagon is going round the town telling them all about Horace Goldin. I've got to change all the adverts and put you at the top of the bill."

At that Jerry, stopped for lack of breath, and his news left me stunned. It was more amazing than anything I had ever known before. Then I decided that it was just Jerry's fun. It was not true. It could not be true.

"Stop kidding me, you big mutt," I said. "Are you trying to get me sacked?"

"No, Horace, it's quite all right. You're to be the top of the bill."

I shrugged my shoulders, for I was a bit sore with him for trying to take me in, and I proceeded with my arrangements, getting all my paraphernalia ready for eleven o'clock. To my surprise someone else went on in my place.

I went up to Jerry, and, looking pretty black, I said to him, "Look here, what is all this?"

"Don't be an ass," said Jerry, "It's all on the level. Here's the day's programme."

I looked at the paper and, sure enough, there was my name in the star place; but, as I have said, Jerry sometimes drew up the programme, and I thought he had drawn up a special one in order to fool me. I carried on with my changing.

"It's no good taking your clothes off," said Jerry, "You'll only have to put them on again. All your things are upstairs."

I opened my wardrobe, only to find it empty. That made me wonder if it was a leg-pull after all.

"Just a moment," he said. "Let me get you a paper." When it arrived he showed me the rearranged advertisement with my name at the top of the bill. That was easily the greatest moment of my life, and it was some time before I recovered from the effect of my wonderful promotion from the bottom to the top of the bill on the Thursday.

I shall never forget going on at three o'clock for the first time, and having a sensational reception by a packed house.

All sorts of methods were used then to advertise the halls. Streamers hung across the main streets, horse wagons and smaller wagons driven by boys toured the streets, each covered with advertisements. On all of these my name appeared in large letters. It was a great thrill for me just to walk down the main street and to see what a stir I had made.

After that success I was given a return date and went on tour, topping all bills. The success I had achieved in Boston I repeated in each town at which I played. I felt I was on top of the world. I wrote delighted letters home to my parents, who were amazed that any son of theirs should achieve such a position at such an early age and in what seemed to them the strangest of all possible fashions.

When I returned to Keith's Theatre, Boston, eight weeks after my first triumph there, I met Jerry, at the stage door. Without saying a word he thrust out his hand.

"What's this for?" I inquired.

"Put it there, my son," he answered. "You've got the star dressing-room."

As I wandered through the suite and saw the bathroom and the sitting-room I was very much moved. I had achieved my boast. I had arrived.

Soon after this very successful run I made a profitable mistake. I may say that I make a mistake practically every night on the stage, only the audience never knows anything about it. It would be surprising indeed if a show such as mine, with many assistants, and effects which have to be timed to a split second, should always go through without a hitch. But the mistakes sometimes prove useful, and occasionally I find my improvements this way.

On the occasion of which I am now writing I was performing in the Opera House, Washington. The engagement had been a difficult one to get and I was nervous on my first night there. I began the trick with four ducks, but, unfortunately for me, one of the ducks, which I was supposed to wrap up in paper and make to disappear, escaped me and began to walk round the stage. I knew nothing of this, but the audience saw what had gone wrong and laughed very heartily.

I could not understand this unusual outburst of merriment, and looked round to see what had happened. As I did so the duck which had escaped gave a loud "Quack, quack!" of enjoyment and looked at me with a very wicked look in its eye.

I must confess that I was white and frightened, for I knew that if such a blunder came to the ears of the manager my engagement would be cancelled. I searched my brains for some way to cover my mistake.

Turning to the audience, I announced that I would take this duck and make five out of it. I seized it, put it into a tub of water, clapped the lid on, lifted it almost immediately, and out came the five ducks as I had promised.

And didn't the audience applaud?

After the show Mr. Chase, the manager of the theatre, sent for me, and I scented trouble at once. His office was two floors up and over the theatre, and as I went up to see him I became very depressed. Evidently someone had told him of my blunder and I was to be given the sack.

To my surprise, when I entered the manager's room I found him looking very genial. He said, "You are evidently making a very big success here; I could hear the laughter and applause up here in the office."

I agreed.

"Would you care to stay another week?" he asked.

I hesitated at that. Was he pulling my leg? I decided that if I was to be sacked there was nothing I could do about it, but if he meant this offer seriously I might as well try to do myself well.

"I shall want a twenty-five-dollar rise," I told him.

"That's all right," he said, and he set about getting me the new agreement on the spot.

Afterwards I discovered that he had heard the great burst of laughter which had gone up when the audience saw the mistake I had made, and, thinking I was going over big, he had decided that I was worth keeping.

That anecdote shows how very necessary it is for a magician to have all his wits about him and to keep cool in an emergency. Another incident which illustrates this occurred soon after the Washington affair.

I was playing in the town of Waterbury, in America, when suddenly the lights went out. There seemed a very good chance of a panic, but I shouted out: "Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to perform a most marvellous trick. I have here a lemon, which, of course, you can't see. I propose to cut it in two and bring an elephant out of it." Squash! I cut the lemon. "Now," I shouted, "the elephant is walking off the stage! You can't see him, but if you listen you will hear him all right."

Sure enough, a slow shuffling noise was heard, very like that made by an elephant. In reality, it was my fat stagemanager walking across the stage in carpet slippers.

The light returned, there was a great burst of applause and all was well. But the next day a man came to see me in my dressing-room and told me that he considered my new elephant-trick the best I had invented. Why hadn't I given it again that night?