garb and make-up during a routine called ‘The Mikado’s Foulard,’ which involved the production of a great many strange items from within the folds of an apparently innocent handkerchief. I made a second appearance—in evening dress, carrying a silver tray— during ‘The Spiritual Decanters,’ a clever puzzlement in which any spirit or liquid called for by a member of the audience was poured from a mysterious jeweled vessel.
My small roles suited me quite well, and I was honored to have the opportunity to watch Mr. Kellar perform at such close proximity. Bess, for her part, made no fewer than seven appearances each evening. It was discovered that she was of a similar size and build to a young lady named Mabel, the singer who had recently decamped with a tuba player, leaving behind a trunk filled with elaborate costumes. Bess happily assumed all of Mabel’s vacant roles, most of which involved smiling andgesticulating at the successful conclusion of each effect. Within two days, Bess’s fine, clear soprano voice had won her a leading spot with “Kellar’s Kanaries,” who stood before the curtain during scene changes to serenade the audience with popular songs of the day. “Isn’t it wonderful, Dash?” she whispered to me one night as she came off stage. “And I don’t even have to escape from handcuffs!”
Harry was somewhat less pleased with his role in the company. His appearance as Brakko the strongman in the ‘Circus of Wonders’ tableau required him to don a leopard-pattern loin cloth and make a series of grunting noises. Later, he would refine the role by swinging a knobbled club. “So it has come to this!” he would exclaim each night as he strapped on his leather sandals. “The Great Houdini is reduced to a mere carnival player!”
I did not share my brother’s restiveness. Perhaps I am lacking in ambition, but I cheerfully admit that if things had evolved differently I might have been content to remain with the Kellar show until the great man retired. There would have been enough money to keep me, the duties were interesting but not overly demanding, and there was the prospect of travel to faraway lands. Even then, however, I realized that my fortunes were bound up with those of my brother, whose aspirations had already set him on a more difficult path, carrying lesser souls along in his wake.
I had never been in Albany before, and I found myself anxious to see something of the city. Our mornings were generally free, so I passed the time in taking long, exploratory walks, a habit I developed during our travels with the Welsh Brothers Circus. I believed—and I continue to believe—that there was something to be gained at each stop along the route of a traveling show. One never knew if the opportunity to pass through such places as Newburyport, Massachusetts, or Findlay, Ohio, would ever come again, and no matter how small the town might be I made some effort to get to know it. I always made a special point oftrying to sample the local cuisine, a habit that had not yet taken its toll on my waistline. Some of the most pleasant memories I have of my touring days are of the beef and oyster sausages in Wisconsin, and the salty tang of Minnesota’s lutefisk.
It was not an interest my brother shared. Throughout his life, no matter where he was in the world, Harry’s movements seldom deviated. His tracks ran from the theater to the hotel and back again, with occasional side trips to visit the gravesites of famous magicians. I recall that on one occasion, when he returned from his first tour of France, our mother asked how he had enjoyed Paris. “Not so much,” my brother replied. “The dressing room smelled of rotting fish.”
Albany was a pleasant city to explore on foot, and a dusting of winter snow lent an especially picturesque aspect. At that time there were many handsome new buildings in various stages of construction—including, I believe, the state capitol— but on the whole the
My small roles suited me quite well, and I was honored to have the opportunity to watch Mr. Kellar perform at such close proximity. Bess, for her part, made no fewer than seven appearances each evening. It was discovered that she was of a similar size and build to a young lady named Mabel, the singer who had recently decamped with a tuba player, leaving behind a trunk filled with elaborate costumes. Bess happily assumed all of Mabel’s vacant roles, most of which involved smiling andgesticulating at the successful conclusion of each effect. Within two days, Bess’s fine, clear soprano voice had won her a leading spot with “Kellar’s Kanaries,” who stood before the curtain during scene changes to serenade the audience with popular songs of the day. “Isn’t it wonderful, Dash?” she whispered to me one night as she came off stage. “And I don’t even have to escape from handcuffs!”
Harry was somewhat less pleased with his role in the company. His appearance as Brakko the strongman in the ‘Circus of Wonders’ tableau required him to don a leopard-pattern loin cloth and make a series of grunting noises. Later, he would refine the role by swinging a knobbled club. “So it has come to this!” he would exclaim each night as he strapped on his leather sandals. “The Great Houdini is reduced to a mere carnival player!”
I did not share my brother’s restiveness. Perhaps I am lacking in ambition, but I cheerfully admit that if things had evolved differently I might have been content to remain with the Kellar show until the great man retired. There would have been enough money to keep me, the duties were interesting but not overly demanding, and there was the prospect of travel to faraway lands. Even then, however, I realized that my fortunes were bound up with those of my brother, whose aspirations had already set him on a more difficult path, carrying lesser souls along in his wake.
I had never been in Albany before, and I found myself anxious to see something of the city. Our mornings were generally free, so I passed the time in taking long, exploratory walks, a habit I developed during our travels with the Welsh Brothers Circus. I believed—and I continue to believe—that there was something to be gained at each stop along the route of a traveling show. One never knew if the opportunity to pass through such places as Newburyport, Massachusetts, or Findlay, Ohio, would ever come again, and no matter how small the town might be I made some effort to get to know it. I always made a special point oftrying to sample the local cuisine, a habit that had not yet taken its toll on my waistline. Some of the most pleasant memories I have of my touring days are of the beef and oyster sausages in Wisconsin, and the salty tang of Minnesota’s lutefisk.
It was not an interest my brother shared. Throughout his life, no matter where he was in the world, Harry’s movements seldom deviated. His tracks ran from the theater to the hotel and back again, with occasional side trips to visit the gravesites of famous magicians. I recall that on one occasion, when he returned from his first tour of France, our mother asked how he had enjoyed Paris. “Not so much,” my brother replied. “The dressing room smelled of rotting fish.”
Albany was a pleasant city to explore on foot, and a dusting of winter snow lent an especially picturesque aspect. At that time there were many handsome new buildings in various stages of construction—including, I believe, the state capitol— but on the whole the
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