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.
“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.”