HOUDINI AT THE YAR

Houdini's Moscow

Last week, we looked at Houdini's 1903 sellout performances at the Yar, the most famous night club and dinner theater in Russia. Harry himself did not at first appreciate the splendor and charm of the place he'd been booked. He even got its name wrong, referring to it as "Establishment Yard." To the shame of his biographers, most of them perpetuated this error in their "factual" accounts of his life.

The Yar, early 1900s

The Yar was the best restaurant and dinner theater in Moscow - some say in all of Europe. Since its founding in 1826, it was patronized by the Russian elite: Pushkin ate there regularly, as did Tolstoy, Chekhov, Gorky and the entire Russian nobility. It's highly likely that Gorky and Chekhov, close friends, caught Harry's act at the Yar, as they were in the habit of keeping up with all the latest theatrical attractions. (There is no record of Tolstoy's presence in Moscow in 1903.)

Admirers of Houdini & the Yar: Tolstoy, Gorky, Chekhov

The wealth and power of the patrons allowed the Yar's management to tolerate the clientele's breaking bottles against the Venetian mirrors and smearing the waiters with mustard. Guests who had drunk too much alcohol had their addresses written on their backs, so cab drivers knew exactly where to take them once they had fallen unconscious. There is a famous story about Rasputin exposing himself at the Yar, but that's for a future post.

Yar interior c. 1903

The Yar today, restored

In our upcoming historical novel The Escape Artist, we take the known facts about the Yar and Harry's performance and weave them into our storyline. Here’s an extract:

       Harry had become the most famous man in Moscow. Every performance at the Yar was completely sold out: all Russia was dying to see the man who had defied the death wagon and made a monkey of the detested Minister of Police. The illustrated weeklies outdid one another running detailed “explanations” of his escape from the kareta.  Learned experts assured readers that Houdini could de-materialize his body at will; others, equally learned, revealed he was able to plasticize his limbs, ooze them through the air-slit and use them to turn a secret key in the lock. An "authentic" sketch in the Courant showed Harry doing so.

Harry escapes the infamous kareta as police officials and Russian magician Robt. Lenz look on, baffled.

The next evening, Harry peeped through the Yar's thick stage curtains. The domed dining room looked like a tropical forest: scaly-trunked palm trees in ceramic urns spread huge umbrella-like leaves among gold chandeliers. Fountains cascaded waterfalls down the sides of carefully built rock formations, splashing into marble basins. Round white tables were filling with hundreds of well-heeled patrons in batwing collars, silk top hats, layers of pearls and ostrich plumes. Harry scented French perfume and eau de cologne mixed with odors of caviar, fine sauces and Turkish tobacco.  

A gypsy orchestra began to play. It was only eleven o'clock: the main attraction was still dinner.

The Yar's famous kitchen.

Harry withdrew to his dressing room as the opening acts performed. They were top quality singers and dancers, but the patrons focused on the iced champagne, fresh caviar, liver au madere, sterlets, and partridge cooked in cream. 

At half past twelve, the orchestra played a fanfare and the master of ceremonies announced the headline act. The clink of glass and silver subsided and the house hushed with expectation. Harry Houdini was coming to them from smash seasons in London, Paris and Berlin, and this aristocratic Moscow multitude was ready to be entertained by The Man No Prison Could Hold. 

The instant Harry took the stage, he held the audience in his hands.  It was not so much his looks, it was his intensity, which radiated through his compact body. Moving with tiger-like precision on slightly bowed legs, he gave the impression of being a pugilist, lean-waisted, muscular and broad-shouldered. Though he spoke Russian like a German cow, the spectators found his accent exotic. Galvanized, they applauded mightily.  

After a graceful bow and a short introduction in Russian mixed with French, German and English, Harry called several army officers onstage. They were to act as "the eyes of the audience." 

One of these volunteers was a red-haired Russian giant wearing a dress saber belted over a scarlet tunic festooned with fringed epaulettes, gold braid and a fruit salad of military decorations. Tall as a tree and wide as a wagon, this enormous officer stood directly in the center of the stage, blocking the audience’s view.  

In polite Russian, Harry asked him to step aside. The giant refused, curtly ordering: "Carry on!"  

Harry, trying to keep his temper, repeated his request more forcibly, this time in French. The arrogant officer refused to budge: "How dare you address me directly!? Do you know who you are speaking to?" he sneered.  

Harry asked him again to step aside, this time omitting the “please.” The officer became enraged. Planting his huge frame solidly between the footlights and the performer, in a loud voice he commanded: "Proceed!"  

Seething with anger, Harry addressed the audience. ”If this gentleman does not move,” he announced, “I cannot continue with the show.”  

The crowd was full of high-ranking ministers, brigadiers and lords; they were aroused, yet all seemed to kowtow to the giant officer; no one dared confront him directly. Suddenly, Sudakov the manager stepped onto the stage and took Harry aside. 

“Houdini, you must understand something. In Russia people who work for a living, especially performers, are regarded unfavorably.  The officer is within his rights. He is an aristocrat, you're merely an entertainer. He outranks you here in Russia.” 

Harry's eyes narrowed in fury; the room fell ominously silent. At that moment Harry suddenly remembered a Russian proverb he had heard from the ever-cynical Kukol: “The rich man in his fur coat cannot understand why the poor man feels cold.” Taking a deep breath that started in his heels, Harry made a concerted effort to regain his inner balance. He doesn’t know me, Harry thought. Only I know him.  

He returned to center stage and calmly addressed the stubborn officer, who was standing like a mountain, with fists the size of hams on his hips. 

“My dear Sir,” he began in his stage voice, without thinking much about what he was going to say. “You must realize something. In my country I am no mere ‘entertainer.’ In America I am considered a millionaire!” 

“Millionaire!” The magic word exploded in the room like an anarchist’s bomb. The Russian officer staggered as if he'd been hit behind the ear with a sackful of wet sand. His enormous shoulders sagged, his knees buckled, his eyes blinked. He began apologizing profusely, both to Harry and the audience, as he collected his wits and moved to one side with military smartness.  

Harry and Bess did the same act they had done thousands of times at freak shows and dime museums from Wyoming to Nova Scotia: handcuff escapes, rope ties, card throwing, the Hindu Needle trick and their specialty finale, the Metamorphosis substitution-trunk escape. In tonight's version of this startling illusion, Harry was handcuffed and leg-ironed, then sewn into a canvas sack. This was lowered into a metal trunk that was then locked and chained. Bess stood on top of the trunk and unrolled an American flag in her hands. The flag covered her for three seconds until it fell – revealing Harry, free, standing in Bess's place! He unlocked the trunk, cut open the sack and revealed Bess, handcuffed and leg-ironed, sewn inside! 

It took sixteen curtain calls to standing ovations, led by the gigantic officer himself, before the applause died down and the Houdinis were allowed to leave the stage.  

A stiff-necked woman sat openmouthed at a table near the orchestra pit. She asked her escort in a shocked voice: "Is it a sin, Vassily, to see him perform? What if he's using evil powers to do all those tricks?"  

"No, he's a foreigner," her companion replied, peering through his monocle. "An American, I believe. You see, all foreigners, especially Americans, are trained in mechanics. This is civilization for you. Civilization is the word." 

At another table, a robust officer confided to his ostrich-plumed mistress, “Of course, in escaping locks and chains Houdini’s real lesson is how to break the heavy handcuffs of marriage….”  

After the show, Harry and Bess were taking off their makeup when a tattoo of huge thumps played on the dressing room door. Bess opened it. The red-faced giant officer took two steps in. He stopped, and in one sweeping movement bowed deeply, plucked off his hat, clicked his heels, removed his sword-belt and placed it on a table. 

“Sir and Madam, kindly accept my deepest apologies. The Tsar has only two testicles but every nobleman thinks he has been bred from one of them,” the Russian said in a voice simultaneously full of charm and chagrin.  

With another bow, he presented visiting cards to Harry and Bess, completely ignoring Kukol and everyone else in the room. The cards, emblazoned with a coat-of-arms bearing the royal double-eagle, identified him as Prince Mukhransky. “In order to atone for my unforgivable insult, may I request your permission to arrange a special performance for my dear cousin, our All Powerful Autocrat, His Majesty the Tsar?” 

Prince Mukhransky & Princess Tatiana

Harry looked at Bess. She wiggled her right ear -- long, short, long, long. Morse code for Y, meaning Yes. Mollified and flattered, Harry told the Prince he’d be honored to perform for the Tsar. With a great deal of handshaking, back-clapping and strongly conciliatory words in English, German, French and Russian, Harry and Prince Mukhransky parted a quarter of an hour later, the dearest of friends. 

When the Prince swept out, Harry had the definite impression that a strong sea wind followed him, leaving a vacuum in the dressing room. His mind was in a whirl. "Wow! First Prince I ever met. Did he say the Tsar's cousin?"

"I haven't seen you so befuddled since the day we met and you spilled all that ink on my dress," Bess laughed. Harry laughed too, and gave her a kiss.

“So that's the famous Prince Mukhransky," Kukol said thoughtfully. "He's a real bear. But he has a good reputation. He's from the Georgian branch of the family." Kukol had been doing his homework. Drawing a family tree on a sketchpad, he explained the complex hierarchy of the male relatives of Tsar Nicholas. "All of them, all the elite here are crazy for anything magical and mystical," he said. "You're going to be a smash.”

                                                  ***********************

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[Images via Google]