XXISOME NOTABLE PEOPLECornelius Vanderbilt.—Mrs. Mackey.—The Rockefellers.—Jay Gould.—George Gould and Mrs. Edith Kingdom Gould.—Mary Anderson.—Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske.—Augustin Daly.—Nicola Tesla.—Cheiro.
Cornelius Vanderbilt.—Mrs. Mackey.—The Rockefellers.—Jay Gould.—George Gould and Mrs. Edith Kingdom Gould.—Mary Anderson.—Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske.—Augustin Daly.—Nicola Tesla.—Cheiro.
The mass of the people envy most the men and women who have most money; my own envy goes out hungrily to those who are happiest, though I have sometimes inclined strongly toward the majority. One day in London, while my mind was full of the good that a great lot of money would do me, I learned that Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was still suffering from the effects of a paralytic stroke, was at a hotel in Piccadilly. Besides being one of the best men in the world, he had been one of my best friends, so I called on him, hoping I might cheer his heart in some way and make him forget his trouble. It was hard to get at him, for his secretary had been ordered by the physician to admit no one, but I got my card to him, and he was kind enough to express a wish to see me and a belief that my visit would do him good.
From Mr. Vanderbilt’s hotel I went to thehome of Mrs. John A. Mackey, whose son Willie had recently lost his life by being thrown from his horse. I had no desire to intrude upon grief, but Willie and I had been merry friends together, and I believed remembrance of our acquaintance would make Mrs. Mackey willing to see me. Here again I had great difficulty; the butler had received positive order, and it took me twenty minutes to persuade him that Mrs. Mackey would not refuse to receive my card. I was right, for she was very glad to see me. Her house was a veritable palace, containing everything valuable and artistic that money would buy, yet amid all these evidences of wealth the bereaved mother sat in deep black, mourning the loss of her beloved son and, like Rachel, “would not be comforted.” So my visits to these two good friends convinced me that money could not do everything.
Probably the most envied man in America is John D. Rockefeller, for his income alone is believed to exceed half a million dollars a day. There are many men and women near Owego, N. Y., who attended school with John Rockefeller, in the little schoolhouse on the old river road. They did not regard him as a prospective millionaire: he was merely “one of the Rockefeller boys,” yet they knew him from the first as the leader of boys of his age. He was thefirst to suggest a game of sport, and those who remember him best assert that unless John had his own way he would not play. He did not fly into a rage when opposed and overruled, but he would watch the play without taking part in it. And such has been his business policy; it is a matter of record that he has embarked in no business ventures not of his own suggestion, nor in any of which he had not full control.
Like another great financier, Jay Gould, his personality dominated every undertaking in which he was interested; neither he nor Gould allowed any one to think for them. Both men were alike in another respect; they brought up their sons in the same self-reliant manner, instead of allowing them to drop into luxury and self-indulgence, after the manner of most millionaires’ sons.
Young Mr. Rockefeller is a man of simple and regular habits, but not at all afraid to enter the field of labor in competition with great brain-workers. He is a creditable exponent of his father’s business creed.
Jay Gould once wrote as follows, in a letter to a personal friend:
“Man seems to be so constituted that he cannot comprehend his own situation. To-day he lends his ear to the charming words of the deceiver and is led to believe himself a god; to-morrowhe is hissed and laughed at for some fancied fault, and, rejected and broken-hearted, he retires to his chamber to spend a night in tears. These are certainly unwarranted positions: the first to ingratiate himself or obtain your notice, and therefore his delusion of greatness is unwarranted, while the latter is the voice of the envious—those who look with a war-like spirit upon the tide of your prosperity, since they deem themselves equally meritorious. And this last assumption, over which you have shed your tears, is the true voice of your praise!”
“Luxury and self-indulgence after the manner of most millionaire sons.”
“Luxury and self-indulgence after the manner of most millionaire sons.”
Only the man who had thus accurately gauged the world’s estimate of wealthy men could have been the example and inspiration of GeorgeGould, upon whose shoulders was laid a burden of almost incalculable weight, which he has borne successfully and without making a public show of himself and his millions. He is a genuine man, and has a worthy companion in his wife, who as a bride went from the stage to the home of one of the wealthiest young men in the land, yet whose admirable womanhood has never been marred by consciousness of great riches. She has never forgotten her old professional associates whom she liked, nor, indeed, any mere acquaintance. Not long ago she happened to see me in the studio of Marceau, the photographer. Leaving some friends with whom she had been conversing she came over to me, greeted me cordially, and congratulated me heartily on my marriage, yet with the unstudied simplicity and directness for which she is noted.
Early in life I became an autograph hunter and an admirer of stage deities of both sexes, and one of the first autographs I ever got was that of Mary Anderson, who gave it very graciously. Since then she has favored me with others, but that first one is among my dearest treasures. The American people were in accord with me in admiration of Miss Anderson. She was lovingly referred to as “Our Mary” and her success in this country was regarded as a guarantee of an enthusiastic reception abroad.
But the English public is hard to approach; to please on this side of the water is not an assurance of success over there, and Miss Anderson’s appearance did not make an exception to the rule. For sometimes she had poor audiences at the Lyceum (London). Efforts were made to have the Prince of Wales attend a performance, but for a time they were unsuccessful. One night he entered the theatre and was so much pleased that after the first act he sent word to the stage that he wished to see Miss Anderson. The lady’s mother, Mrs. Griffen, who received his message, requested that he would defer the meeting until the end of the play, as she feared the honor might “upset” her daughter and mar the performance. The Prince replied: “Certainly,” like the considerate gentleman he always is.
Meanwhile Michael Gunn, the manager of the theatre, with characteristic managerial shrewdness, saw a great chance for advertising, so he rushed off by a cable to America a message which read:
“Mary Anderson refuses to see the Prince of Wales without the Princess.”
The difference in time—five hours, between the two countries gave him the advantage he wanted. The New York papers got it barely in time for their last editions. Next day they cabled London papers for particulars, but the day of a greatAmerican morning paper does not begin until noon or later, by which time, say 6P. M.on the other side of the Atlantic, all London is at dinner or getting ready for it and must not be disturbed. Besides, the English papers do not exhibit American taste and enterprise in nosing out news. So they published the story as a fact, and without comment. It was too small a matter for either of the parties to formally deny in print, but it was large enough to make no end of talk and of interest in the American actress. From that bit of advertising shrewdness—some Englishmen gave it a ruder name, dated Miss Anderson’s success in London.
Mention of Miss Anderson recalls a reception in her honor which I attended, at the home of Mrs. Croly (“Jennie June”). Among the guests was a young actress who was just coming into notice—Miss Minnie Maddern, now Mrs. Fiske. Her beautiful, expressive eyes followed the guest of honor so wistfully that I said:
“I see you are observing Miss Anderson intently.”
“Yes,” she replied. “What a beautiful woman she is! And what an actress! What wouldn’t I give to be able to act as she can!”
Such modesty has its reward. Mrs. Fiske has not only reached the plane of Mary Anderson’s ability, but has gone far above it, and standsto-day upon a pinnacle of art that no other American actress has ever climbed. One night, at a performance of “Hedda Gabler,” I asked my friend Charles Kent, whose high rank as an actor is admitted by every one, if Mrs. Fiske was not our greatest actress. He replied:
“Mrs. Fiske is more than our greatest actress She is the greatest personality in the profession. She is the Henry Irving of America.”
One of the greatest losses the American stage ever sustained was through the death of Augustin Daly. I have heard some of his most determined rivals call him the greatest stage manager in America, and since his death they have expressed doubt that his equal would ever appear. I was his neighbor for quite a while; I saw him often and chatted much with him, but I never knew a man less given to “talking shop.” Apparently he had no thought for anything but his two sons, both of whom were then living, and on Sunday mornings it was a great pleasure to me to see him walking with his boys to the Catholic Church, of which he was a devout member. But he lost both sons in a single week, one dying, broken-hearted, after the death of the other. The double loss was one from which Mr. Daly never recovered, though he sought relief in hard work. I often met him after midnight on the old green car that passed through Thirty-fourth Street, yet nextmorning saw him leave the house as early as eight o’clock. Busy though he was, he never forgot his friends; he was so kind as to keep them under continual obligations. I recall a complimentary dinner which Major Handy wished to give Mr. Daly, but when he approached the prospective guest, Daly said:
“Oh, you invite your friends, and I’ll give the dinner.”
New York managers are seldom visible in the front of the house during a performance, but Mr. Daly’s eyes seemed to be there as well as on the stage. At the hundredth performance of “The Taming of the Shrew” the house was packed; after endeavoring in vain to buy a seat I stood at the railing, where Mr. Daly saw me and said:
“Come with me, Marsh.”
We went up-stairs to the balcony where he got a camp-stool from somewhere and placed it for me in the middle aisle, whispering me at the same time to fold it at the end of the performance and bring it down to him, as he was breaking one of the ordinances regarding fires in theatres by allowing me to sit in the aisle.
Dr. Nicola Tesla, the great electrician, is an oft-seen figure, yet his retiring disposition and his distaste for society make him personally unknown. Any one who has visited the Waldorf in the evening must have seen this interestingman sitting alone at a table in a corner of the winter garden, for there he is, night after night, after his solitary dinner, wrapped in his thoughts. He has told me that here, in an atmosphere of bustle and chatter, he can think better than anywhere else: he is oblivious to the people who stare curiously at him, for his mind is absorbed in the details of some wonderful invention. He lives at the Waldorf; once he thought of leaving, so he packed his trunks. His departure was postponed from day to day, so his trunks remained unopened: rather than unpack them he purchased new things from time to time according to his necessities. Finally he decided to remain at the Waldorf, but for all I know to the contrary the trunks still remain unpacked.
I have the honor of being numbered among Dr. Tesla’s friends, so I have often stopped at his table for a chat, but never without his invitation. Most sensitive natures are so self-absorbed as to be utterly selfish, but Dr. Tesla, although sensitive in the extreme, is always considerate of the feelings of others. I know of many occasions on which he displayed this rare quality, and I may be pardoned for mentioning one which concerned myself. I sent Dr. Tesla a copy of my book “People I’ve Smiled With” and received a polite acknowledgment, which was followed almost immediately by a long letter, as if he fearedI had been hurt by the shortness of the earlier communication.
“He was reading a lady’s palm.”
“He was reading a lady’s palm.”
Several of my friends were at the Victoria Hotel in London while I was also stopping there, and among them was Miss Loie Fuller, who usually held an informal reception after theatre hours—the Thespian’s only “recess.” One evening, on returning from an entertainment I had given, I went into Miss Fuller’s parlor and found the hostess and her friends clustered about a gentleman whom I did not know. He had dark hair and eyes and was extremely good looking—a perfect type of Irish manhood. He was reading a lady’s palm, and the others were listening with great interest. Soon Miss Fuller said:
“I want you to read Marshall’s palm.”
“Oh, yes,” said the others; “let’s hear what Marshall’s luck will be.”
We were introduced; his name was Louis Warner, and on looking at my hand he began to tell my characteristics with an accuracy which was startling. I had no opportunity for conversation with him that evening, so I invited him to lunch with me the next day. He came and we had a very interesting chat about palmistry. I asked him if he made a business of it and he said he did not—he was an actor, and playing at the Princess Theatre.
“Do you ever think of taking up palmistry as a business?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, “but I may some day.”
I told him I thought there was a great deal of money in it, to which he assented. During the conversation he kept calling me Mr. Marshall; when I corrected his mistake and told him what my name was, he was much surprised, and asked my pardon for making the mistake. I told him I was glad he had, for it showed me more clearly the truth of his palmistry.
“Of course I know you by reputation,” he said. “You did a great deal for Heron-Allen in America, helping him to get acquainted there.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and if you ever come over there I’ll do what I can to introduce you.”
A year later I was walking through the corridor of the Imperial Hotel (New York) when I was stopped by a gentleman, who said:
“You don’t remember me, do you, Mr. Wilder?”
“Yes,” I answered, “you are Louis Warner of London.” He laughed and said:
“You have a very good memory, Mr. Wilder, but I have taken another name. I wish to be known as Cheiro. I have chosen that name as it is the Greek word for ‘hand,’ and while appropriate it is also an attractive one for professional work. You see, I have followed your advice, and taken up palmistry as a business.”
I introduced him to a great many of my friends, and he was most successful in reading their palms correctly. A little later, a lady called upon me, asking me to give her topics for newspaper work. I gave her some letters to friends of mine,—well known men, asking them to let her take an impression of their hands. She visited, among others, Mr. Russell Sage, Mr. Chauncey Depew and Sir Henry Irving, who was in town, taking impressions of their hands on paper with printer’s ink. She also entered the Tombs and obtained the impression of the hand of a notorious forger. These she took to Cheiro, and without knowing whose hands they were he read each and every one correctly. Among themwas an impression of my own hand. He picked it up, and said immediately:
“This is the hand of my friend, Marshall Wilder.” To my mind, this was the greatest test of his powers.
The story was written up, readily sold to a newspaper, and was copied many times, widely read and commented upon. Since then Cheiro’s work has become known all over the world.