Darling (17 page)

Final Edition

A scholar I know, a woman who is ninety-six years old, grew up in a tar-paper shack on the American prairie, near the Canadian border. She learned to read from the pages of the
Chicago Tribune
in a one-room schoolhouse. Her teacher, who had no more than an eighth-grade education, had once been to Chicago—had been to the opera! Women in Chicago went to the opera with bare shoulders and wore long gloves, the teacher imparted to her pupils. Because the teacher had once been to Chicago, she subscribed to the Sunday edition of the
Chicago Tribune
that came on the train by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest.

Several generations of children learned to read from that text. The schoolroom had a wind-up phonograph, its bell shaped like a morning glory, and one record, from which a distant female voice sang “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life.”

Is it better to have or to want? My friend says that her teacher knew one great thing: There was something out there. She told her class she did not expect to see even a fraction of what the world had to offer. But she hoped they might.

I became a reader of the
San Francisco Chronicle
when I was in high school and lived ninety miles inland, in Sacramento. On my way home from school, twenty-five cents bought me a connection with a gray maritime city at odds with the postwar California suburbs. Herb Caen, whose column I read immediately—second
section, corner left—invited me into the provincial cosmopolitanism that characterized the city's outward regard: “Isn't it nice that people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there?”

•   •   •

Newspapers have become deadweight commodities linked to other media commodities in chains that are coupled or uncoupled by accountants and lawyers and executive vice presidents and boards of directors in offices thousands of miles from where the man bit the dog and drew ink. The
San Francisco Chronicle
is owned by the Hearst Corporation, once the
Chronicle
's archrival. The Hearst Corporation has its headquarters in New York City. According to Hearst, the
Chronicle
has been losing a million dollars a week. In San Francisco there have been buyouts and firings of truck drivers, printers, reporters, artists, editors, critics. With a certain élan, the
San Francisco Chronicle
has taken to publishing letters from readers who remark the diminishing pleasure or usefulness of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.

When a newspaper dies in America, it is not simply that a commercial enterprise has failed; a sense of place has failed. If the
San Francisco Chronicle
is near death—and why else would the editors celebrate its 144th anniversary, and why else would the editors devote a week to feature articles on fog?—it is because San Francisco's sense of itself as a city is perishing.

Most newspapers that are dying today were born in the nineteenth century. The
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
died 2009, born 1863. The
Rocky Mountain News
died 2009, born 1859. The
Ann Arbor News
died 2009, born 1835. It was the pride and the function of the American newspaper in the nineteenth century to declare the forming congregation of buildings and services a city—a place busy enough or populated enough to have news. Frontier American journalism preserved a vestige of the low-church impulse
toward universal literacy whereby the new country imagined it could read and write itself into existence. We were the Gutenberg Nation.

Nineteenth-century newspapers draped bunting about their mastheads and brandished an inflated diction and a Gothic type to name themselves the
Herald,
the
Eagle,
the
Tribune,
the
Mercury,
the
Globe,
the
Sun
. With the passage of time, the name of the city was commonly attached to the name of the newspaper, not only to distinguish the
Alexandria Gazette
from the
New York Gazette,
but because the paper described the city and the city described the paper.

The
Daily Dramatic Chronicle,
precursor to the
San Francisco Chronicle,
was founded in 1865 by two teenaged brothers on a borrowed twenty-dollar gold piece. Charles and Michael de Young (a third brother, Gustavus, was initially a partner in the publishing venture) had come west from St. Louis with their widowed mother. In California, the brothers invented themselves as descendants of French aristocracy. They were adolescents of extraordinary gumption at a time when San Francisco was a city of gumption and of stranded young men.

Karl Marx wrote that Gold Rush California was “thickly populated by men of all races, from the Yankee to the Chinese, from the Negro to the Indian and Malay, from the Creole and Mestizo to the European.” Oscar Wilde seconded Karl Marx: “It's an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be in San Francisco.” What must Gold Rush San Francisco have been like? Melville's Nantucket? Burning Man? An arms bazaar in Yemen? There were Russians, Chileans, Frenchmen, Welshmen, and Mexicans. There were Australian toughs, the worst of the lot by most accounts—“Sydney Ducks”—prowling the waterfront. There were Chinese opium dens beneath the streets and Chinese Opera Houses above
them. Historians relish the old young city's foggy wharves and alleyways, its frigates, fleas, mud, and hazard. Two words attached to the lawless city the de Young brothers moved about in. One was “vigilante,” from the Spanish. The other was “hoodlum”—a word coined in San Francisco to name the young men loitering about corners, threatening especially to the Chinese—the most exotic foreigners in a city of foreigners.

The de Young brothers named their newspaper the
Daily Dramatic Chronicle
because stranded young men seek entertainment. The city very early developed a taste for limelight that was as urgent as its taste for red light. In 1865 there were competing opera houses in the city; there were six or seven or twelve theaters. The
Daily Dramatic Chronicle
was a theatrical sheet delivered free of charge to the city's saloons and cafés and reading rooms. San Francisco desperately appreciated minstrel shows and circuses and melodeons and Shakespeare. Stages were set up in gambling halls and saloons where Shakespearian actors, their velvets much the worse for wear, pointed to a ghost rising at the back of the house:
Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again
.

I know an Italian who came to San Francisco to study medicine in 2003. He swears he saw the ghost of a forty-niner, in early light, when he woke in an old house out by the ocean. The forty-niner was very young, my friend said, with a power of sadness about him. He did not speak. He had red hair and wore a dark shirt.

We can imagine marooned opera singers, not of the second, perhaps not even of the third, rank, enunciating elaborate prayers and curses from the Italian repertoire as they stumbled among the pebbles and stones of cold running creeks on their way to perform in Gold Rush towns along the American River. It was as though the grandiose nineteenth-century musical form sought its natural echo in the canyons of the Sierra Nevada. The miners
loved opera. (Puccini reversed the circuit and took David Belasco's melodrama of the Gold Rush back to Europe as
La Fanciulla del West
.)

In 1860 San Francisco had a population of 57,000. By 1870 the population had almost tripled to 149,000. Within three years of its founding, by 1868, the
Daily Dramatic Chronicle
would evolve with its hormonal city to become the
Daily Morning Chronicle
. The de Young brothers were in their early twenties. Along with theatrical and operatic listings, the
Chronicle
then published news of ships sailing into and out of the bay and the dollar equivalents of treasure in their holds, and bank robberies, and saloon shootings, and gold strikes, and drownings, an extraordinary number of suicides, likewise fires, for San Francisco was a wooden city, as it still is in many of its districts.

It is still possible, very occasionally, to visit the Gold Rush city when one attends a crowded theater. Audiences here, more than in any city I know, possess a wit in common and can react as one—in pleasure, but also in derision. I often think our impulse toward hoot and holler might be related to our founding sense of isolation, to our being “an oasis of civilization in the California desert,” in the phrase of Addison DeWitt (in
All About Eve
) who, though a Hollywood figment, is about as good a rendition as I can summon of the sensibility (“New York critics”) we have courted here for 150 years. And deplored.

The nineteenth-century city felt itself surrounded by vacancy—to the west, the gray court of the Pacific; to the east, the Livermore Valley, the San Joaquin Valley, the Sierra Nevada range. Shipping and mining were crucial to the wealth of the city, but they were never the consolations the city sought. The city looked, rather, to Addison DeWitt—to the eastern United States, to Europe—for approbation. If there was a pathetic sense of insecurity in living at
the edge of the continent—San Francisco proclaiming itself “The Paris of the Pacific”!—the city also raised men of visionary self-interest who squinted into the distance and conceived of opening trade to Asia or cutting down redwood forests or laying track across a sea of yellow grass.

•   •   •

Readers in other parts of the country were fascinated by any scrap of detail about the Gold Rush city. Here is a fragment (July 9, 1866) from Bret Harte's dispatch to readers of the
Springfield Republican
(from a collection of such dispatches edited by Gary Scharnhorst). The description remains accurate:

Midsummer! . . . To dwellers in Atlantic cities, what visions of heated pavements, of staring bricks, of grateful shade trees, of straw hats and white muslin, are conjured up in this word . . . In San Francisco it means equal proportions of fog and wind. On the evening of the Fourth of July it was a pleasant and instructive sight to observe the population, in great-coats and thick shawls, warming themselves by bonfires, watching the sky-rockets lose themselves in the thick fog, and returning soberly home to their firesides and warm blankets.

•   •   •

From its inception, the
San Francisco Chronicle
borrowed a tone of merriment and swagger from the city it daily invented—on one occasion with fatal consequences: In 1879 the
Chronicle
ran an exposé of the Reverend Isaac Smith Kalloch, a recent arrival to the city (“driven forth from Boston like an Unclean Leper”) who had put himself up as a candidate for mayor. The
Chronicle
recounted Kalloch's trial for adultery in Massachusetts (“his escapade with one of the Tremont Temple choristers”). Kalloch responded by denouncing the “bawdy house breeding” of the de Young boys,
implying that Charles and Michael's mother kept a whorehouse in St. Louis. Charles rose immediately to his mother's defense; he shot Kalloch, who recovered and won City Hall. De Young never served jail time. A year later, in 1880, Kalloch's son shot and killed Charles de Young in the offices of the
Chronicle
.

“Hatred of de Young is the first and best test of a gentleman,” Ambrose Bierce later remarked of Michael, the surviving brother. However just or unjust Bierce's estimation, the de Young brothers lived and died according to their notion of a newspaper's purpose—that it should entertain and incite the population.

In 1884 Michael was shot by Adolph Spreckels, the brother of a rival newspaper publisher and the son of the sugar magnate Claus Spreckels, after the
Chronicle
accused the Spreckels Sugar Company of labor practices in Hawaii amounting to slavery. De Young was not mortally wounded, and Spreckels was acquitted on a claim of reasonable cause.

When he died in 1925, Michael de Young bequeathed the ownership of the
Chronicle
to his four daughters with the stipulation that it could not be sold out of the family until the death of the last surviving daughter.

San Francisco gentility has roots as shallow and as belligerent as those of the Australian blue gum trees that were planted heedlessly throughout the city and now configure and scent our Sunday walks. In 1961
Holiday
magazine came to town to devote an entire issue to San Francisco. The three living daughters of Michael de Young were photographed seated on an antique high-backed causeuse in the gallery of the old M. H. de Young Memorial Museum their father had donated to the city to house his collection of paintings and curiosities (including a scabrous old mummy beloved of generations of schoolchildren—now considered too gauche to be displayed). For the same issue, Alma de
Bretteville Spreckels, widow of Adolph, was photographed taking tea in her Pacific Heights mansion in what looks to be a fur-trimmed, floor-length velvet gown. The Spreckels family donated to the city a replica of the Palais de la Légion d'Honneur in Paris to house a collection of European paintings and rooms and furniture. One Spreckels and three de Youngs make four Margaret Dumonts—a San Francisco royal flush.