Edison was disinclined to drink with his fellows because it would pull him off track, interfering with the greater pleasures: tinkering, learning, problem solving. His outlook was secular and matter-of-fact. He once got in trouble when sacrilegiously transcribing “J.C.” whenever “Jesus Christ” came across the wire; he could not understand the fuss over his “J.C.” when “B.C.” for designating historical time was regarded as perfectly acceptable. His early career was fueled by something other than resentments, which he lacked. Whatever advantages in education or financial resources that other inventors enjoyed were of no interest to him. Nor did he regard his partial deafness as an impediment. He claimed that the deafness was actually an advantage, freeing him from time-wasting small talk and giving him undisturbed time to “think out my problems.” Late in life he would say that he was fortunate to have been spared “all the foolish conversation and other meaningless sounds that normal people hear.”
Immune to the clanging sounds of the city, Edison’s ears provided him with a soothing insulation, better suited to “the conditions of modern city life” than those of the average person’s. The insulation would also prove helpful when he became famous, partially protecting him from the unceasing demands from strangers for conversation and speeches.
Edison’s fame came suddenly, while he was still young. Between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, he became the first hybrid celebrity-inventor. This book examines how he became one of the most famous people in the world, and once fame arrived, how he sought to use it for his own ends, with uneven success. He could act as master of his own image only sometimes. He did not understand the power of the press to shape the life story of the celebrity, to create (and destroy, should it wish to do so).
When he stood on the threshold of fame, he could not have predicted what would follow—and he did not shy away. He directed assistants to maintain newspaper clippings about him, a practice that he would maintain his entire life. The existence of those scrapbooks suggests that Edison gave up an appealing attribute of his young adulthood: his utter indifference to the expectations of others. After “Edison” became a household name, he would pretend that nothing had changed, that he was as indifferent as ever. But this stance is unconvincing. He did care, at least most of the time. When he tried to burnish his public image with exaggerated claims of progress in his laboratory, for example, he demonstrated a hunger for credit unknown in his earliest tinkering. The mature Edison, post-fame, is most appealing whenever he returned to acting spontaneously, without weighing what action would serve to enhance his public image.
One occasion when Edison cast off the expectations of others in his middle age was when he met Henry Stanley, of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume” fame, and Stanley’s wife, who had come to visit him at his laboratory. Edison provided a demonstration of the phonograph, which Stanley had never heard before. Stanley asked, in a low voice and slow cadence, “Mr. Edison, if it were possible for you to hear the voice of any man whose name is known in the history of the world, whose voice would you prefer to hear?”
“Napoléon’s,” replied Edison without hesitation.
“No, no,” Stanley said piously, “I should like to hear the voice of our Savior.”
“Well,” explained Edison, “you know, I like a hustler.”
CHAPTER ONE
ALMOST FAMOUS
1869–1877
HAVING ONE’S OWN shop, working on projects of one’s own choosing, making enough money today so one could do the same tomorrow: These were the modest goals of Thomas Edison when he struck out on his own as full-time inventor and manufacturer. The grand goal was nothing other than enjoying the autonomy of entrepreneur and forestalling a return to the servitude of employee.
Edison’s need for autonomy was primal and unvarying; it would determine the course of his career from beginning to end. Having no financial assets of his own, he was dependent upon partners who were willing to contribute capital. He had the good fortune to live within the American business ecosystem that valued technical talent and permitted him to attain equal-partner status with wealthy financiers solely on the basis of his wits. For a few restless years, until he would have the where-withal to shake free of partners, at least active ones who impinged upon his day-to-day activities, Edison hopped from one business venture and short-lived partnership to another, moving from Boston to New York City, then to a succession of cities in New Jersey, ending up in Newark.
Sometimes, the partners remained anonymous (Newark Telegraph Works; American Telegraph Works; News Reporting Telegraph Company; Domestic Telegraph Company). Other times, Edison shared the marquee. The order of names suggests that Edison’s importance was progressively recognized, as he moved from the back (Pope, Edison & Company) to the front (Edison and Unger; Edison and Murray). But it would be wrong to infer a hunger on his part for wide public recognition. Edison’s reputation grew within the insular circle of telegraph equipment customers, but neither they nor he thought anyone who dwelled within this tiny world would be a subject of interest to a wider one.
All of Edison’s first ventures were dependent upon securing contracts that funded product development and procured small lots of completed telegraph instruments. Financial prospects for Edison’s partnerships brightened and darkened and brightened again month to month, wholly typical of small firms with a highly specialized product and restricted customer base. On the eve of founding the American Telegraph Works in 1870, Edison wrote his parents in Port Huron in ebullient spirits. He reported that his shop had 18 employees and a new shop that he was starting (no mention of his partner) would employ 150. He joked he had become a “Bloated Eastern Manufacturer.” The next year, however, meeting the weekly payroll of $578 was so difficult that Edison wrote one of his backers in a foul state of mind, hinting that he was on the verge of being “completely broken down in health & mind.” He underlined the following for emphasis: “You Cannot expect a man to invent & work night and day, and then be worried to a point of exasperation about how to obtain money to pay bills.”
Notwithstanding such occasional moments of terror—and the fact that his hair turned white, which he attributed to stress—Edison was succeeding, building several businesses whose balance sheets reflected modest, but real, gains. When he and partner William Unger took stock of their shop at the beginning of 1872, three years after Edison decided to try his luck as an entrepreneur, his half share in the business was valued at about $11,438. When R. G. Dun & Company prepared a credit report about the firm, whose business was categorized as “Telegraph Fixtures,” Unger was the principal who handled the finances and Edison was “an ingenious Mechanic & inventor.” Not enough was known about the firm to warrant a positive credit recommendation, but the available evidence suggested to the outside investigators that the firm’s “transactions indicate a large business.”
The News Reporting Telegraph Company, another Edison coventure with Unger, was brilliant in its conception, but 1871 may have been about a hundred years ahead of the most propitious time for launch. The company was conceived with the same insight that would give birth to Bloomberg News: businesspeople, unlike general readers, are able to convert news into immediate financial gain for themselves, and for that reason can be persuaded to pay for access to a news pipeline dedicated to their interests. The News Reporting Telegraph Company offered subscribers a private telegraph line and alphabetic printer that delivered news “hours before such news is published in the papers.”
When twenty-four-year-old Edison and his partner opened for business in the fall of 1871, they hired sixteen-year-old Mary Stilwell, the daughter of a lawyer and sometime inventor, as one of several female employees. The surviving records do not make clear whether the company ever secured even a single client, but before it closed, Miss Stillwell and her employer had an encounter that was described in a biographical sketch, Edison and His Inventions, published a few years later.
Among the young women whom he employed to manipulate these machi
nes, with a view to testing their capacity for speed, was a rather demure young person who attended to her work and never raised her eyes to the incipient genius. One day Edison stood observing her as she drove down one key after another with her plump fingers, until, growing nervous under his prolonged stare, she dropped her hands idly in her lap, and looked up helplessly into his face. A genial smile overspread Edison’s face, and he presently inquired rather abruptly:
“What do you think of me, little girl? Do you like me?”
“Why, Mr. Edison, you frighten me. I—that is—I———”
“Don’t be in any hurry about telling me. It doesn’t matter much, unless you would like to marry me.”
The young woman was disposed to laugh, but Edison went on: “Oh, I mean it. Don’t be in a rush, though. Think it over; talk to your mother about it, and let me know soon as convenient—Tuesday say. How will Tuesday suit you, next week Tuesday, I mean?”
The language may strike modern ears as sinister—What do you think of me, little girl?—but its veracity is bolstered by a strikingly similar account in the Christian Herald & Signs of Our Times. Even the author of the chronicle in the Christian Herald felt compelled to comment on Edison’s “off-hand business-like” manner of courtship.
Another story was told of how a telegrapher friend happened by Edison’s laboratory late one night and upon seeing a light on, climbed the stairs and found his friend half-dozing at his desk.
“Halloo Tom?” cried the visitor cheerily, “what are you doing here this late? Aren’t you going home?”
“What time is it?” inquired Edison, sleepily rubbing his eyes and stretching like a lion suddenly aroused.
“Midnight easy enough. Come along.”
“Is that so?” returned Edison in a dreamy sort of a way. “By George. I must go home, then. I was married to day.”
After the wedding and a weeklong honeymoon in Boston in December 1871, the newlyweds moved into a new home in Newark, which Edison outfitted with servants and $2,000 worth of furnishings, including a piano. The domestic sphere became the new Mrs. Edison’s bailiwick. According to one source, she “did not appreciate a genius for a husband” and attempted to make Edison into a well-dressed, sociable companion. The couple’s first child, Marion, born in 1873 (Edison gave her the telegraphic nickname of “Dot”) recalled a less critical, but not incompatible, impression. She remembered her mother giving parties that her father never attended, but supposedly was never pressed to do so.
When Edison was married, he was financially comfortable, able not only to purchase his first house but also sufficiently flush to make investments in his father’s and older brother’s businesses in Port Huron at the same time he had stakes in five separate shops scattered around Newark. Edison’s own businesses were dependent, however, on client firms in the telegraph business, whose fortunes were in turn dependent upon Wall Street firms. When the Panic of 1873 hit, the financial sector was hit hard, and so, too, were the businesses that served it. By 1874, Edison was in serious financial straits and had to sell his house at a loss and move his family into an apartment.
Edison did not close his laboratory, however. He could still grapple with the big problem of his professional field: how to push more messages simultaneously down a single telegraph line. The modern history of communications can be divided into two separate epochs: In the first, the race was to find a means to beat the speed of a horse, and this telegraphy achieved (technically speaking, this came even before telegraphy was electrified: “visual” telegraphy using manned signal towers were built in the 1790s in France). As Marshall McLuhan observed, the telegram was the first message to outrun the messenger. In the second epoch, from the time of early telegraphy to the present-day Internet, the race has involved sending as many messages as possible from point A to point B down a single conduit.
In the first decades of telegraphy, the very idea that more than one message could be sent at a time was incomprehensible to most. Edison had already devised a way to send two messages simultaneously in opposite directions—what would be called duplex telegraphy—but he was both too late (someone else had nabbed the first patent and placed the first working system in the field) and too early (a supervisor had lost patience with Edison and fired him because “any damned fool ought to know that a wire can’t be worked both ways at the same time”). Edison set to work on a quadruplex system—two messages sent simultaneously from one direction, and two more from the other. Succeeding, a feat involving complex electromechanical devices, he solidified his reputation in the field of telegraph equipment and pushed the limits of that particular line of multiplexing technology about as far as possible. (He later tried, but failed, to design a similar sextuplex system.)
Edison only had experience selling telegraph equipment, batteries, supplies, and related equipment in the business-to-business trade. A mass market for consumer goods, with the potential of far greater sales, also existed, if he could only come up with a suitable product. In May 1874, he and his partner, Joseph Murray, introduced the Inductorium, battery-powered induction coils for inducing electric shocks. Advertisements claimed that the device “should be in every family as a specific cure for rheumatism, and as an inexhaustible fount of amusement.” It sold well enough that the price was raised 33 percent after its introduction and it would eventually be advertised in more than three hundred newspapers. It was sufficiently successful to provide its inventor with the feeling that marketing to the masses was not particularly difficult. Invent it, and they will come.
Edison had not started out with grand ambition, but his appetite for business success was whetted. The quadruplex seemed destined for great success, though who would reap the profits would be complicated by protracted legal disputes that bogged down in the courts and would spill into Congress. The quadruplex greatly increased the carrying capacity of the existing telegraph network, but it did not change the labor-intensive process of translating a message into Morse code, then tapping, receiving, and retranslating back into ordinary language. A system to automate telegraphy would provide a fundamental advance, and this, too, Edison worked on.
The equipment that he invented to create an end-to-end system of telegraphic automation used a keyboard similar to that of a typewriter that composed messages on a long strip of paper, making small and large perforations that corresponded to Morse code. Once complete, the tape would be run across a drum that could send as many as a thousand words a minute. At the receiving end, a roll of chemically treated paper was drawn beneath a row of four styluses, each of which could be turned on and off rapidly dozens of times a second, forming roman letters that anticipated the dot-matrix computer printer of the twentieth century. The system did involve an extra step of preparing the perforated tape and was best suited for long messages such as news stories that had to be sent to many different locations. But Edison’s automatic telegraphy not only dramatically increased the carrying capacity of the telegraph network, it also eliminated the need for skilled operators. Daniel Craig, a financial backer of Edison’s, wrote him, “You captivate my whole heart when you speak of making machines which will require ‘No Intelligence.’ That’s the thing for Telegraphers.”
The next month, Craig wrote him, “If you should tell me you could make babies by machinery, I shouldn’t doubt it.” Automated baby production, however, was not on Edison’s list of prospective projects in 1875 when he broke off from Murray. Edison wanted to leave manufacturing and pursue invention full-time—and without the encumbrance of a partner. He did not move far, establishing a laboratory for invention on a different floor in the same building in Newark.
Using his experience developing the machinery to perforate the paper tapes used for transmitting messages automatically, he came up with a handheld, battery-powered electric pen. This was Edison’s first significant venture outside of the telegraphic field and would be the direct antecedent to the mimeograph machine: The pen had a sharp needle that moved up and down rapidly, creating a
stencil master that could be used to run off hundreds of copies. Edison was sanguine about its commercial prospects. “There is more money in this than telegraphy,” he wrote a colleague in September 1875.
Edison was content, however, to set up a separate company to handle the manufacturing and sales and other prosaic annoyances. It is likely that he, like his chief assistant, Charles Batchelor, envisaged no ongoing role other than receiving royalty checks. Batchelor, a British-born immigrant one year older than Edison, had come to the United States originally as a textile mechanic but had quickly acquired expertise in electrical engineering, too. He was smart, tireless, and modest to a fault in his personal ambitions. “We have now got the ‘Electric Pen’ fairly out on Royalty,” Batchelor wrote his father in England, “and in a very short time I shall have nothing whatever to do for it except receive my share of Royalty.” He also reminded his father that the last letter he had received had been misaddressed to Newark; Batchelor, Edison, and their families, along with Edison’s laboratory and its staff, had recently moved to a new location, Menlo Park, New Jersey.
The casual mention did not highlight the significance of this move, quite different from the many moves that had preceded it. This time, Edison moved out on his own, without a partner in tow, and settled in a place so empty of dwellings that it resembled open frontier (Batchelor reported that the “good shooting” available had to be balanced with the snake infestations). The move was made possible by the patronage of Jay Gould and his Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company, which was keenly interested in Edison’s ongoing work on automatic telegraphy. Consulting contracts and purchase orders had brought prosperous times again to the Edison household. In January 1875, Gould paid Edison $13,500, and Western Union delivered $5,000, and it seemed as if the family would never have money problems again. Bills were paid off, relatives received cash gifts and loans for business ventures, and Mary Edison felt free to shop and entertain without worries. Edison had gone shopping himself, for a new site for a laboratory, and had settled on land in Menlo Park, about thirty miles from New York. He spent about $2,700 to build a new laboratory structure, and in the spring of 1876 moved into a nearby house with his family, which was newly expanded with the arrival of a second child, Thomas Alva Edison Jr. (nicknamed “Dash” to match three-year-old “Dot”).
The Wizard of Menlo Park Page 2