concert is given, when presents are distributed by her to the poor of
Swansea and Neath districts, being handed out by her personally.
Her good offices to the poor are done in numberless ways, the greater
part unknown. I heard during my visit this story: there was a poor
child born just inside the big gate one evening. The quivering peasant
mother, homeless and alone, turned instinctively in her agony to the good
mistress of the valley, and had crawled within the friendly shelter of
the lady’s wall. Patti, returning from a drive found them and took them
to her home and had them cared for. She named the little tot Craig-y-Nos.
When all was well, the woman offered to work out the debt, but “No,” said
her hostess, “you are my guests.”
There is a standing rule that no poor shall be turned away from the
castle. Each one, no matter how deserving, is given bread and beer, and
they come in continually from miles around.
“Lady of the Castle,” she is affectionately called by the plain folk of
that country. Can one wonder then that when she drives out all greet
her with grateful deference, and the little children curtsey as if to a
queen. Whenever I drove out with her I saw the same demonstration.
Patti has a retinue of sixty domestics while she is at home, and leaves
twenty-five to look after things when she is away. There is a complete
electric plant with a power-house so far away as to avoid the noise of
the machinery; also a gas plant, if this light is preferred; a telephone
and telegraph service connect the castle with the outside world. Let me
not forget the dairy, the steam laundry, and the refrigerating facilities
for the meats. The stables are elegantly constructed and equipped, there
being seven pairs of carriage horses beside the riding horses, ponies and
donkeys.
One of the ponies had been pensioned after long and faithful service,
and spent most of his time browsing in the paddock with Jenny, the little
pet donkey of the place. The two were uncommonly knowing and the fastest
of friends, one running in front of a person trying to catch the other.
This manœuvre they could successfully carry out, until the one trying to
catch either of them would retire in disgust, to the great satisfaction
of Tom and Jenny, who would peacefully resume their tête-à-tête meal.
With all the paraphernalia of comfort and convenience, it remains only
for the personality of Patti to convert the castle into home. What
a hostess! During my stay everything seemed to be done with special
reference to me. Even the American flag was hoisted on the castle in
honor of my nationality. Thus special guests are always flatteringly
recognized by the sight of their own country’s flag. The individual
tastes of the guests are studied to the minutest degree by all. For
instance, I have always been very fond of ice. Imagine this trifling
taste of mine being detected without my knowledge. I found out that
it had been in this way. When I left I found my lunch providently and
daintily put up, and among the delicacies I discovered a piece of ice!
It had been frozen into a small block specially for me, and I enjoyed it
very much, all the trip.
Then again, I had expressed an interest in her jewels, so during my stay
she decked herself every night with different ones, all in my honor, as
she assured me.
Do what she will, this woman, worshiped of all nations, is the willing
slave of a loving heart. Her old parents, whom she loved and revered when
they were living, she loves and honors now that they are dead, and not a
day passes, without some fond reference to them.
A friend of Patti’s, a French lady, met with distressing financial
losses. In her need Patti said to her, “Come and live with me!” and she
did, for many happy years after that.
When Joe was driving me to Penwyllt I thought of it all as the road
lengthened between me and my friends. I remembered that Patti had told me
that of all American cities, Richmond and Syracuse were her favorites,
but I feel sure she is the favorite of all our cities.
The world has been made glad by her song, but not more glad than the
mountain district by her presence. There she lives a queen, crowned by
the love of all about her.
XXI
SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE
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 the home 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 the first 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-morrow he 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!”
[Illustration: “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 George Gould,
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 great American morning paper does not begin until
noon or later, by which time, say 6 P. 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 stands to-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 next morning 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 interesting man 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 feared I had been hurt by the
shortness of the earlier communication.
[Illustration: “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 them was 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.
XXII
HUMAN NATURE
Magnetism and Its Elements.—Every one Carries the Marks of His
Trade.—How Men are “Sized Up” at Hotels.—Facial Resemblance of
Some People to Animals.—What the Eye First Catches.—When Faces
are Masked.—Bathing in Japan.—The Conventions in Every-Day Life
that Hide Us from Our Fellows.—Genuineness is the One Thing
Needful.
The oftener a man—any man, from the beginner at vaudeville to the great
actor or orator—appears before audiences, the more he is impressed
by the many varieties of human nature and the many ways there are of
comprehending it.
A few people who have to meet large numbers of their fellow-beings have
no trouble on this score, for they possess something that for lack of
a better name is called magnetism. Some actors who are full of faults
succeed by means of this quality; twenty times as many who are more
intelligent and thorough fail through lack of it. The same may be said of
Congressmen, lawyers, preachers and presidents. Magnetism seems to be a
combination of sensitiveness, affection, impulse and passion, so it is
not strange that only a few people of any profession possess it.
For instance, go into Weber & Fields when both Lillian Russell and Fay
Templeton are on the bill. The former delights the eye and ear, for
she is beautiful with a charming voice. Yet Miss Templeton gets beyond
the eye and ear to the heart; she takes possession of the company as
well as of the audience; even the “chorus”—and the chorus is noted for
paying no attention to anything or anybody but itself and its personal
friends—loves Fay Templeton and manifests close interest in her work.
But one need not be on the stage to study human nature. Wherever there is
a successful business organization, there you will find close observers
of human nature. Go into a great hotel—the Astoria for instance—and even
the bell-boys are adepts to it. Walk down the lobby, supposing yourself
unobserved, and you are “sized up” at once. If you are a reporter, the
whole house from the bell-boys to the head clerk know that you are not
of a class that can be “pigeon-holed.” The Southern man, with his family
on a pleasure jaunt, is accurately “tabbed” at once. So is the public
man—not always by his clothes, but by his manner. The “drummer” signifies
his business by a side-to-side movement, something like a wheat-hopper in
an elevator. The prominent man betrays himself by using his legs as if
they were intended solely to hold up his body, which, no matter how well
off he may be, is almost sure to have an empty buttonhole somewhere. The
needy man is likely to be carefully clad, but his trousers are out of
season, a trifle short and pieced out with gaiters. The hotel clerk takes
in all these signs at a glance, and gives answers and rooms accordingly.
[Illustration: “The needy man is likely to be carefully clad.”]
I believe many men size up people by resemblances to animals; I know
I do, and with uniform success—when I select the right animal; so my
mind contains a menagerie of acquaintances and a few strangers not yet
identified. It is almost impossible to see a man with a fox-face without
finding him foxy. Then there are monkey faces, with eyes close together
and shifty—eyes that seem to look into each other. Beware of them! I have
heard good housekeepers say that they prefer servants with eyes wide
apart, for the other kind have invariably been connected with missing
silver and other portable property. Nearly every criminal whose portrait
appears in the “Rogues’ Gallery” has monkey eyes; the criminal class is
recruited from this type.
The bulldog face may be seen every day among the never-give-up men in
every business. The late William M. Evarts’ face suggested the eagle,
and he made some great fights side by side with our national bird. What
is the matter with Joseph H. Choate as the owl, the late Recorder Smyth
as the hawk, Dr. Parkhurst as the wary tabby on watch for the mouse?
We have some orators who look like pug-dogs; preachers who resemble
fashionably sheared poodles, and I know one unmistakable Dachshund of
the pulpit. Strong combinations are occasionally seen; Roger A. Pryor
suggests a clean-cut greyhound with the face of a mastiff. Other men
resemble great-hearted St. Bernards, with intelligent eyes and a reserve
force that is never squandered on trifles or bickerings. Daily, one may
see a man in a carriage with his dog, and the two look so alike that you
hesitate to say which dog is driving.