The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst (13 page)

BOOK: The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst
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Within months of the 1884 election, Pulitzer’s average daily circulation broke the 100,000 mark. Now the leading Democratic publisher on the eastern seaboard, he threw a party in City Hall Park and fired a cannon once for every thousand in circulation. The mayor made a speech and
World
staffers all received tall silk hats.
 
With everything going his way, Pulitzer turned up the heat—upgrading his presses, throwing increasing amounts of content at readers, and poaching staff from his rivals, especially the
Sun.
One of Dana’s best, Solomon S. Carvalho, became the
World
’s business manager. Ballard Smith left the
Herald
to become Pulitzer’s assistant managing editor, second only to Cockerill. Compensation at the
World
began to soar. Cockerill’s $10,000 a year was twice the salary of a U.S. senator and on par with that of the governor of New York and of leading insurance and bank executives. Many
World
hacks were earning $50 to $80 a week. This was double the going rate at the
Herald,
where Bennett boasted that he could hire “all the brains I want . . . at twenty-five dollars per week” (wages for skilled labor hovered around $5 to $10 a week).
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Pulitzer paid the artist Walt McDougall $50 a week simply to draw cartoons, a salary that raised eyebrows even in the
World
’s offices. But Pulitzer’s reasoning was sound: McDougall also drew readers.
 
The mid-eighties were the best years of Pulitzer’s career. He now employed a staff of 1,200, about twice that of any other paper. He so routinely exposed graft and malfeasance in public office as to set a new standard for social responsibility and investigative journalism. A reporter named Elizabeth Cochrane, who joined the
World
in 1887 at the age of twenty-three, faked insanity to gain entry to the asylum on Blackwell’s Island. Her shocking account of the execrable conditions there, published under the nom de plume Nellie Bly, resulted in a grand jury investigation and an overhaul of the asylum.
 
At its grandest, the
World
produced awe-inspiring crusades. When Congress refused to vote the $100,000 necessary for a pedestal on which to stand Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty, commissioned by the people of France, the
World
leapt to action, organizing a public subscription. One and two dollars at a time, the statue was erected, and Pulitzer was able to dominate coverage of yet another impressive addition to the metropolitan skyline.
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Although paying the highest salaries on Park Row, Pulitzer continued to lead every aspect of the
World
’s operations. “He was forever unsatisfied,” wrote his friend and colleague Don Seitz, “not so much with the results as with the thought that if a further effort had been made, a sterner command, or greater encouragement given, as the case might be, more could have been accomplished.”
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The publisher’s wife, Kate, worried that the constant striving and the competitive pressures were too much for him: “He is pushing his body in a manner no human being can stand,” she wrote friends, and she was right to worry.
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Her husband’s bad nerves and insomnia returned within a few years of his arrival in New York. Rather than buy another paper, Pulitzer this time addressed his ill health by taking the cure at Aix-les-Bains. He also salved himself with money: the
World
was making him rich. His income rivaled that of J.P. Morgan, who lived a block from Pulitzer’s new brownstone mansion on East 36th Street.
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Pulitzer built a library of first editions and collected Gobelin tapestries, diamonds, gems, and old masters. He snapped up two shares in a private resort for millionaires at Jekyll Island, Georgia, where his neighbors were Morgans, Rockefeller and Astors. Pulitzer, scourge of the purse potentates, was now solidly of their number.
 
 
 
NO ONE WATCHED Pulitzer’s bounding good fortune and increasing prominence in national affairs with more distaste than Charles A. Dana. Whatever goodwill the two had shared in earlier days was gone. The
Sun
had begun to snipe at Pulitzer’s unimpressive military record and his absenteeism from Congress (he resigned his seat early in his term, pleading the demands of running newspapers). Dana spread a rumor that his rival had hired the socially prominent Ballard Smith to ease his way into New York’s better drawing rooms. The
Sun
even chided Pulitzer, nominally Episcopalian and slippery about his Jewishness, for failing to attend synagogue. It called him the “Jew who does not want to be a Jew,” or “Judas Pulitzer.”
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Bile and jealousy led Dana’s pen. Fear, too. His folly during the 1884 campaign had prompted speculation on Park Row that the
Sun
’s stock-holders might show him the door. Dana was the paper’s largest investor but owned only a third of its shares. He now borrowed to purchase majority control and in 1886 also mortgaged his building to raise capital for better presses and printing equipment. He abandoned his four-page format and began printing eight or more pages a day. More daringly, he launched a four-page evening edition in March 1887. It sold for a penny and quickly produced a respectable sale of 40,000. When Pulitzer established an identically sized and priced
Evening World,
the animosity between the two men exploded.
 
A fall election for New York district attorney became a proxy war for the newspaper titans. The incumbent, De Lancey Nicoll, a Democrat whose dedication to reform had cost him the allegiance of corrupt old Tammany Hall, was now running as the nominee of Republicans and Independents. Pulitzer and Dana both backed Nicoll until a week after the launch of the
Evening World.
Dana then bolted to John Fellows, the Democrat, regardless of the fact that Fellows enjoyed the support of Grover Cleveland. Dana next tried to smear both Pulitzer and Nicoll by dragging out the decade-old Cockerill shooting story. Pulitzer saluted Dana as “a mendacious blackguard”and Dana fired back that Pulitzer exuded “the venom of a snake” and wielded “the bludgeon of a bully.” The Jews of New York, he wrote, “have no reason to be ashamed of Judas Pulitzer if he has denied his race and religion. . . . [T]he shame rests exclusively upon himself. The insuperable obstacle in the way of his social progress is not the fact that he is a Jew, but in certain offensive personal qualities. . . . His face is repulsive, not because the physiognomy is Hebraic, but because it is Pulitzeresque. . . . Cunning, malice, falsehood, treachery, dishonesty, greed and venal self-abasement have stamped their unmistakable traits. . . . No art can eradicate them.”
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With the pride of each newspaper now riding on the quality of its editor’s vitriol, Pulitzer gamely pursued Dana into the rhetorical wasteland of ethnic slur: “To what race of human beings does Charles Anderson Dana belong? . . . The Danas, although a New England family of considerable Puritan and literary pretensions, have unquestionably a Greek derivation. The modern Greek is a treacherous, drunken creature. . . . Mr. Charles Ananias Dana may be descended from a Greek corsair. If so, his career of treachery, hypocrisy, deceit and lying could easily be accounted for.”
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The
World
also alleged, without corroboration, that Dana had once fought a young woman for a life preserver on a sinking ship.
 
When Fellows won the election, the
Sun
’s headline gloated that his man had beaten “Pulitzer’s Dude” by a 20,000 plurality. The people had rebuked “the liars” and Dana had yet another occasion to lambaste his rival as a “treacherous venomous greedy junk dealer,” with all the usual racist and hysterical flourishes. However disappointed at the election result, Pulitzer was able to boast a post-election press run of 317,940, which he claimed was the largest ever printed by any newspaper in the world. He then rallied himself for what he hoped would be the last word in his dogfight with Dana, driving home that the people of New York preferred his paper to his rival’s because, “The
World
has never advocated a bad cause nor proved recreant to a good one. It will continue to war against corruptionists with renewed vigor. It rests upon a solid foundation of Honesty and Public Service and against it the disappointed, malice-cankered envious sons of darkness cannot prevail.”
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In an odd turn of fate, darkness did prevail, for both men. Pulitzer matched, insult for insult, an acknowledged master of verbal abuse, yet he suffered a great deal in the exchange. Each blow from Dana bruised his fragile psyche. He had never learned to laugh away personal attacks, however many he endured. Two weeks after his last rejoinder, Pulitzer picked up the day’s editorial page and was astonished to discover he could “hardly see the writing, let alone read it.” He visited a doctor, who detected damage in both eyes. The physician also found Pulitzer to be suffering from asthma, a bad stomach, insomnia, exhaustion, and depression. He counseled six weeks in a dark room. Pulitzer obeyed, leaving the
World
in the hands of a committee of executives as he took his rest, followed by an extended holiday in California and trips to Paris and Wiesbaden, where he visited specialists and took cures. His general health would improve somewhat but his eyesight would continue to deteriorate. In October 1890, he announced his retirement from an active role in his paper.
 
Dana’s darkness was less tragic than Pulitzer’s but nonetheless profound. The introduction of more pages and an evening edition would bring the
Sun
back over 100,000 in circulation, but the
World
continued its own climb, soon exceeding 200,000. Dana would never lead again. His paper was permanently eclipsed, and its character would change markedly over the next decade—the last of his editorship and of his life. The
Sun
would lose much of its charm and sparkling wit. It would abandon working people to the
World
and shine instead for New York’s merchant classes, who appreciated its conservative economic policy and its hard line on labor issues. Dana opposed the eight-hour day as folly and had curt advice for the jury in the trial of the eight anarchists accused of the 1886 Haymarket Square bombing: “Let them hang.”
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To compound Dana’s hurt, Pulitzer’s reputation, in the eyes of many observers, now exceeded his own. A Buffalo weekly wrote that Pulitzer’s “tireless energy and love of justice have made the New York
World
the foremost paper of the world. There is not a working journalist in the United States who does not regret the cause of his retirement.”
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Even his adversaries in New York had touching things to say. Throughout the 1880s, the
Herald
had been turning up its nose at the
World
while furiously adopting its practices: more pictures, larger headlines, and more human-interest journalism. Now its proprietor, James Gordon Bennett Jr., acknowledged his debt:
A great vacuum is made in the present actuality of American journalism. What the Greeleys and the Raymonds and the Bennetts did for journalism thirty years ago, Pulitzer has done today. As for us of the
Herald,
we droop our colors to him. He . . . has roused the spirit of enterprise and personality which, up to this time, had not been known. We have not always agreed with the spirit which has made his ideas a journalistic success, and we cannot refrain from regretting that he did not encourage us in the new departure which he has made, instead of merely astonishing us, frightening us, and we may add . . . perhaps a little bit disgusting us. But le Roi est mort, vive le Roi!
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It would especially have galled Dana to see Pulitzer raking in accolades when his retirement was more or less a charade. Pulitzer had merely surrendered the title of editor. He remained proprietor and de facto publisher of the
World,
with a firm grip on all of its business operations. It also became clear to his staff within days of his “retirement” that he remained sovereign in editorial matters as well. He kept in constant contact with the paper through flurries of telegraph cables, letters, and emissaries as he traveled from New York to Bar Harbor to Jekyll Island to Europe. He made all significant decisions with regard to coverage, politics, staffing, and style. His personal commitment to the
World
would wane not one bit over the next two decades. Pulitzer had not retired: he had merely taken leave of Park Row. And though he was no longer physically present, he would mark his place in stunning fashion.
 
 
 
ON DECEMBER 10, 1890, the
World
celebrated yet another monumental addition to the New York skyline, this one its own. The Pulitzer Building was tall: 16 stories and 309 feet. On the day it opened, it was the tallest building in New York—6 stories taller than any other commercial building in the city. It was the tallest building in the United States, and the tallest commercial structure anywhere. Most importantly, it was so tall that it blocked the
Sun
’s exposure to its namesake. Darkness indeed.
 
The opening ceremonies of the Pulitzer Building were attended by thousands of eminent New Yorkers, including twelve governors, ex-governors, and governors elect, the mayor, and virtually every municipal politician of note. A special train brought a carload of cabinet members, senators, and congressmen from Washington for the day. Tour guides spirited these eminences from the
World
’s printing works in the basement up six elevators to its newsroom and commercial offices above. The visitors learned that the building’s 142,000 square feet of floor space were constructed from 5 million pounds of steel and wrought iron and over 6 million bricks, that its corridors were lined with marble and its walls with 3 million feet of hardwood. They were allowed a glimpse under the burnished-copper dome on the 16th floor where Pulitzer kept opulent semicircular offices with frescoes on the ceiling, embossed leather wainscoting, and windows overlooking Governor’s Island, Brooklyn, and Long Island. The decor was impressive, but it was the sheer height of the building that staggered visitors. One gentleman rode the elevator as high as it would go and emerged to ask, “Is God in?”
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