CHAPTER FOUR

MY ENGLISH PREMIERE

WHEN I first crossed the Atlantic I was a lonely little boy of sixteen, travelling without my parents and going to a strange country where no one would know my language and where no one would bother about me. When I crossed back again ten years later I left behind me a great reputation as an illusionist. I was going to England to appear in one of the greatest theatres of the time, the Palace Theatre. I felt that I was well up the ladder of success.

"The King of Coins", as Nelson T. Downes was called, was the man who secured this engagement in England for me. He suggested that my agents, Nathan and Somers, book me at the Palace for one week's engagement. I accepted the offer, although it was for less money than I could have had in the States, because I thought that it would be good for my reputation and because I wanted to visit England.

I arrived in London from New York on a Wednesday, and was to open at the Palace Theatre the following Monday. I must confess that I was more nervous than I have ever been since. I had heard some of the remarks which the late Mr. Charles Morton, who was manager of the Palace at the time, had made to my agents, and they were hardly the sort of remarks to inspire confidence.

I stayed at the Hotel Cecil, which has long since been replaced by a gigantic block of offices. I wandered through the streets and thought London wonderful. There seemed to be a blend of the old and the new worlds. Here was busy Fleet Street, one of the world's arteries, and yet one had only to step through a gateway to be in the Temple, the peaceful abode of lawyers, with its quiet cloisters and its green trees and lawns.

While I had these few days' holiday I visited a few music-halls to see what sort of people the English audiences were composed of, and what sort of entertainment they liked best. This, I find, would be called a "busman's holiday" in England. The settings and the atmosphere of the theatres I visited gave me an encouraging inspiration. The audience was always ready to applaud a good act and was never cruel to the beginner. The people liked a good hearty laugh, and they liked to be thoroughly mystified. I felt that I had a show that they would enjoy.

For all that my knees knocked together, and I felt like one awaiting sentence of death. It was the first time that I had opened in a foreign country, and I knew that it would be a long time before I recovered from a setback here.

At last Monday, June 8, 1902, arrived. I was up early, contrary to my usual habit, and at twelve noon I was at the theatre ready for rehearsal, with the orchestra under Mr. Herman Finck. That went off all right. Then began the long wait till the evening.

I was due to appear at 10.42, after Mr. Lewis Waller and before an American Biograph booked by Mr. Ted Marks, whom I named "The Mayor of the Ocean" and who was at that time in London.

At six o'clock I tried to eat something, but I was much too anxious for that. I decided that I had better lie down and have a rest.

At eight o'clock I arrived at the theatre. The show was due to start in a quarter of an hour, and the house was already full. The ten-and-sixpenny stalls were all sold out, and as I peered through at the audience I could see nothing but a sea of evening dresses.

"If I make a success now," I thought, "there will be no holding me. I shall be playing before the King of England soon."

That thought made me even more nervous.

I watched the first act or two from the wings, but this seemed to be the wrong thing to do in my nervous condition, and I decided that I had better take a walk.

With that I slipped out of the stage door and walked down the Charing Cross Road. Turning to the right, I came into Leicester Square, and there I saw the three great theatres, the Empire, the Alhambra, and the Pavilion. They were then enjoying their hey-day as music-halls, and there were "House Full" signs outside all of them. I continued my stroll until I came to the Tivoli, in the Strand. That magnificent music-hall has gone the way of the others in Leicester Square and has become a cinema, but at that time it was the haunt of the men about town and the gay ladies who ogled and flirted with them. Though it was then 1902 there was a good deal of the "Naughty 'Nineties" spirit abroad in London.

As I gazed at the outside of the Tivoli I noticed a clock in the foyer whose hands pointed to 10.10. Surely that could not be the time! I looked at my own watch only to find that it was too true. I had half an hour to get back to the theatre, dress, and be ready for my act.

I called a hansom cab, told the driver not to spare the horse, and then we made the sparks fly up the Charing Cross Road. Arrived there, I found my assistants nearly crazy with anxiety. I tore off my clothes and dived into my stage clothes. I have never undressed and dressed so quickly in my life as I did then. I was pulling on my coat in the wings as my music struck up. I had just escaped a terrible disgrace.

Every cloud has a silver lining and this was no exception. My hurry cured my nervousness. I forgot where I was. I forgot all about the première. I felt at the top of my form, and the audience seemed in the best of humours.

I started doing one trick after another at top speed. The egg in the bag scored a great success, and Dreyfus's Escape from Devil's Island roused immense enthusiasm. Never have I felt such a congenial atmosphere as that I felt then.

The people were shouting "Encore" and "Bravo" as I finished my act and left the stage. I met Mr. Daymar, the stage-manager, in the wings.

"You've certainly scored a big success," he told me. "You'd better slip through the tabs and make a speech."

It was then that I realized where I was. My tongue seemed to be paralysed and my knees really did knock together. But I plucked up enough courage to step through the curtains before that great applauding audience. All I managed to say was: "Thank you! Good night!"

As I made my way to my dressing-room a boy came up to me with an invitation to join the directors in their room. There I found the four of them waiting for me: Mr. Crematti, Mr. Poldon, Mr. Graydon, and Count Hollander. The manager, Mr. Morton, was also present. They all welcomed me most warmly and drank my health in champagne. After I had been with them a little while I felt that success and wine might go to my head. But then, I reflected, that does not matter much. I have made a hit.

We were soon joined by jack Somers, my agent. He was beaming all over his face.

"Congratulations, my boy," he said, holding out his hand. "You've done wonderfully well. Mr. Morton wants to see you in his office tomorrow at twelve o'clock. If that isn't good news I don't know what is."

When that little party was over I went to my dressing-room and there I found Fred Niblo, later the producer of the film Ben Hur, waiting for me. He was also on the bill, and had been out in the front sitting behind some of the directors, and had heard them talking about me. He told me something of what they had said, and then he added:

"Take a friend's advice, Horace. You're on a good thing here. See that you make the most of it."

Next day I called to see Mr. Morton, and he informed me that they were exercising the option of sixteen weeks which was included in my agreement, and that I was engaged indefinitely.

That I did not understand at all. There were no options in America, and I did not know exactly what "indefinitely" meant. I pointed out that I had engagements in America, but the manager said that I must break them because he had the prior call on my service. At last, remembering what Niblo had said, I suggested a rise in salary, which the manager immediately agreed to.

This matter of salaries has some importance in the history of the theatre. At a dinner of the Magician's Club the late Oswald Williams once said: "Every magician should pay ten per cent of his salary to Horace Goldin, for it was he who first established us as artists worthy of high payment." When he said that he was thinking of my appearance at the Palace in 1902.

At that time magicians and escapologists were very popular in London, but they were not well paid. Such men as Carl Hertz and Houdini were appearing at the best theatres--the Oxford, the Tivoli, and the Pavilion--and they were receiving normal salaries. For this they performed one illusion only, and they took up the rest of their time with an elaborate introduction. I changed all this. I gave the audience a succession of illusions, and I won such applause that I was able to demand more money for my act. Other magicians benefited likewise.

My friend Will Goldston has said: "Had it not been for Goldin, Houdini would never have drawn his £900 a week at the Palladium in later years." That is why my performance at the Palace in 1902 is looked upon as a milestone in the history of stage illusionists.

During my run at the Palace Theatre I had an experience which gave me the greatest pleasure. I was taken to a meeting of the Water Rats.

This society is formed by the greatest stage performers of the time, and includes comedians, instrumentalists, and film stars, and many others whose whole aim in life is to cater for the entertainment of the public. To be a member of this society is a great honour. Anyone who wishes to become a member has to apply, and his application has to be supported by two Water Rats. The committee then decides whether or not the applicant is fit to be a member of so exclusive a society.

I had been invited by Sir Edward Moss and Mr. Frank Allen to attend a function at the Vaudeville Club, an affair that had been organized by the Water Rats. I was very much impressed by the people I met there, for they were the biggest stars of the British and American stages. I asked if I also might become a member. My application was sent in after a few days, and it was supported by two men who were then very well known: Herbert Campbell, who was famous for his pantomime association with Dan Leno, and Joe O'Gorman, then King Rat. I was unanimously elected, along with Harry Blake, famous for his rendering of the "Hiawatha" song.

Now Fred Russell, Harry Blake, and I are the oldest Water Rats, and we meet regularly and have very good times together, with such fun-makers as Past King Rats Will Hay, Will Fyffe, and Wee Georgie Wood, and Present King Rat Stanley Damerell. The Water Rats are people I am always glad to be with.