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.