The Last Days of Night(61)

Dinner was for only eleven this time. The salad dressing had a familiar taste. The other guests were not scientists, but rather Pittsburgh gentry. Paul found himself seated next to a young woman who’d clearly mastered all there was to learn at western Pennsylvania’s finest finishing schools. She was well versed in discussing her favorite breeds of dog, charity work, and the fashions of the day.

Paul did not give himself much credit for not making a fool of himself this time on an impolitic subject. It wasn’t hard—no impolitic subjects were brought up. It was a well-socialized crowd.

Paul recalled his last aborted dinner at the Westinghouse estate, and Tesla’s sudden exit before it began. He still hadn’t told Westinghouse that Tesla was alive. The deceit gave a bitter taste to his strawberry galette. He was glad there was Bordeaux to absolve his well-intentioned sins.

“You didn’t like Stephanie much,” observed Marguerite as Paul joined her in the kitchen after dinner. All the other guests had retired to the billiard room.

“Pardon?”

“Paul,” said Marguerite, “you’re not stupid. That’s why George likes you. And that’s why we wanted you to make Stephanie’s acquaintance.”

Paul was so flattered to have been described as being liked by George Westinghouse that it took him far too long to realize that Stephanie was the name of the politely effervescent iron heiress sitting beside him at dinner.

“Oh,” said Paul. “I didn’t realize…”

Marguerite gave a disappointed sigh as she poured sweet dessert wines for the guests. “It’s only that you’re a very eligible young man. You know that. And you’re not that young, are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

Marguerite smiled as if to say this was not quite as young as he might like to believe it was.

“And I have my eye on someone,” he explained. He’d never said it out loud before. Having formed the words from mere air, he felt instantly embarrassed.

“Oh!” said Marguerite, clearly encouraged. “Might I have made her acquaintance?”

“I don’t think so.” Paul was clearly not going to provide her with a name, and she was far too clever to ask.

She lifted a tray on which were balanced eleven glasses of Vouvray.

“Well,” she said as she led Paul out of the kitchen. “If you don’t want to tell me who it is, I hope at least that you’re not so mum to the young lady in question.”





If you really look closely, most overnight successes took a long time.

—STEVE JOBS



THE “WAR OF the currents,” as the press had begun to call it, had opened along so many simultaneous fronts that Paul was having trouble keeping them straight. It was difficult to remember which battles were even winnable and which were simply on their way to being lost as slowly as possible.

First there was Edison v. Westinghouse itself—the main event—and the 312 assorted lawsuits that came with it. If Paul’s associates were successful in their quest to prove that Edison had lied on his patent application, every single one of these suits would be moot. But until then, they were unenviable drudgery. Edison’s plan to bury Paul underneath a mausoleum of paperwork had been a savvy one. Even though Westinghouse’s adoption of alternating current gave him a clear advantage in the majority of these suits, Carter, Hughes & Cravath had to compose 312 sets of briefs, attend 312 sets of court appearances, prepare 312 “motions to continue”—that is, requests to delay the trial. Thankfully for Paul, Carter and Hughes had taken the lead here after Paul’s hospitalization. He’d been bitter about their insistence on doing so at the time, but now it allowed Paul to focus on other fronts.

The second of which was Paul’s argument before the New York State Legislature that electricity should not be used in executions. These arguments were to be made in person to members of the state legislature in Albany. Paul journeyed there to dine with different state senators. They all appreciated the steaks to which he treated them, the cigars he shared, the offers of similar hospitality on their next visits to Manhattan. Whether he’d won their votes or not, that was a different matter. Edison’s pocketbook had done more to ensure a friendly governmental environment than might a hundred of Paul’s filets mignons.

While the two sides fought both in court and in the realm of public opinion, the electrification of America continued. Edison sold D/C units to the mansions of Boston, Chicago, and Detroit while Westinghouse sold A/C systems to Telluride, Colorado, and Redlands, California.

In New York, Tesla was remembering more and more. Paul would sit up late at the inventor’s bedside, watching him scribble his way through notebook after notebook. It seemed that the inner workings of what he’d designed for Westinghouse, for Edison, and on his own were returning to his command. Paul was encouraged to hear him curse both Westinghouse and Edison at the mention of their names. He had no idea if the inventor’s scribbles would ever comprise a new and non-infringing light bulb, but if they did, that would constitute by far the best path to victory.

It was on such a visit that Paul had an opportunity to speak to Fannie. There was a proposal he’d been building up the nerve to make ever since his conversation with Marguerite Westinghouse. The chance presented itself on a Saturday night in early February. Agnes had gone out with her castmates after the show, which meant that Paul found a moment alone with her mother.