The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst (26 page)

BOOK: The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst
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Another knock against Hearst has been the apparent incongruity between his progressive views and his privileged circumstances. It is incredible to some that a publisher with millions at his disposal would advocate policies inimical to the interests of the monied classes—he must be hypocritical, or cynical, or both. But wealth is not a reliable indicator of ideology even in our time. Hearst was not a traitor to his class or his birthright; he was true to his father’s political legacy and to his own ideals. His attraction to Bryan was predictable given that Bryan, too, claimed the mantle of Jeffersonian Democrat, trusting the people as the depository of power and authority in American life, defending equal rights before the law, declaiming privilege “whether it stemmed from an accident of birth or the favoritism of public and private authorities.”
52
 
From his early days at the
Examiner
until long after he had removed himself from the day-to-day management of the
Journal,
Hearst held sincere and reasonably coherent political views. He could wobble on issues and individuals in response to particular election scenarios and personal feuds, as did Pulitzer, Dana, and everyone else. But the candidates and programs he endorsed in San Francisco and New York were steadily progressive (his preferences would later shift in light of experience and changes in the political environment). The writers, editorialists, and columnists with whom Hearst surrounded himself at this time were among the most radical political voices in America—Willis J. Abbot, Ambrose Bierce, Arthur McEwen, Henry George, Alfred Henry Lewis. The opinions expressed by Hearst’s newspapers matched the views he professed in interviews, and none of them were seriously contradicted in private correspondence. Hearst had reservations about silver, but he was a Bryan Democrat.
 
And a worried one. The youthful insouciance apparent in Winkler’s account of Hearst’s whistling through a critical meeting is deceptive. Hearst did cultivate a carefree image—the bright hatbands and impromptu jigs—and that image has always been taken at face value by his biographers, as it was by some of his colleagues. But Hearst was on edge through the convention season. His closest associates worried at the physical and intellectual loads he was carrying. In a previously unpublished letter, the
Journal
’s business manager, Charles Palmer, wrote to Phoebe with his concerns:
I did not feel at liberty to say anything regarding the matter of Mr. Hearst’s health that would alarm you, but have considered it as too serious to be disregarded for some little time and have urged him as strongly as possible to take the best possible care of himself. You may remember that I have spoken to you about it also each time I have seen you when you have been in the city. I do not think that there is anything serious to be apprehended, but he certainly should take care of himself, or should have some one with him to see that he does so; and more important than all, he should stop worrying about the paper, its condition and its future. Everything is most satisfactory as far as the present condition and future prospects of THE JOURNAL are concerned. Of course there are minor imperfections developing from time to time to cause temporary annoyance, but none of them have as yet been such as to interfere with the continuous and steady progress of the paper, which is gaining in circulation as rapidly as we are in condition to print the papers required, and in advertising at an even faster rate.
53
 
 
 
Notwithstanding Palmer’s reassurances, Hearst did have a lot to worry about. His early progress was encouraging, but his larger strategy called for him to continue his blazing pace until he had blown by Pulitzer and established himself as America’s bestselling daily, a status that would attract a lion’s share of advertising, leading to the reduction, and, in time, the elimination of his losses. Only then, from a position of strength, would he begin to trim his expenses and raise either his advertising rates or his circulation price to improve his margins and consolidate his standing in the market. It was an uncomplicated plan, but there were obstacles in his way.
 
It is clear from another paragraph in Palmer’s letter that Phoebe was already complaining about the paper’s losses and that Will was reluctant to cut spending for fear that it might hurt his circulation and undermine his grand plan. “As to reduction of general expense, this is possible at any time,” writes Palmer. “I have kept it before Mr. Hearst’s attention, but have not strongly urged it until he should be ready to undertake it in a systematic way, fearing that in his anxious condition the least sign of checking the growth of circulation, from whatever cause, might be attributed by him to the reduction of expenses, which would certainly cause a reaction even more costly than at present.”
54
 
In addition to these familial pressures, there was strong evidence that Pulitzer was rising to the
Journal
’s competitive challenge.
The Fourth Estate
noted a steady improvement in the
World
’s editorials, which it took as proof that the master’s hand was firmly on the tiller. The
World
had also begun printing its first edition at midnight, in order to expand its field of circulation as far as Boston and Baltimore. Its circulation was up to 312,000 by early June, a 50,000 increase over April.
55
Every 50,000 the
World
increased was another 50,000 the
Journal
had to climb in order to claim first place, and given Palmer’s comment about the limits of their printing presses, Hearst did not need higher targets, especially now that he was supporting the underdog in a national election and pitting himself against the leading New York Democrats and the city’s commercial elites.
 
CHAPTER SIX
 
A Large Brute of Some Utterly New Species
 
T
he late nineteenth century was an age of mechanization and industrialization, and a wondrous time for the many Americans fascinated with technology, Will Hearst among them. In addition to building the world’s fastest steam yacht, he imported one of the first motor cars to the United States, a French number, painted red. He took his new portable camera up in a hot air balloon to photograph San Francisco, and not long after arriving in New York he caught a bird ’seye view of Manhattan from an experimental flying machine. He challenged speed records with express trains carrying his newspapers to distant cities. His daily business made use of the transatlantic telegraph, the telephone, the typewriter, and a dazzlingly sophisticated printing plant. He was making plans during the election campaign to send a motion picture camera to Washington to capture the inauguration on film for the first time. Hearst was living at the dawn of the machine age and embracing all the marvels and conveniences it offered, an attitude that undoubtedly contributed to his avid coverage of the bicycle craze of 1896.
 
Bicycles had evolved dramatically over the previous decade. Gone were the ungainly huge-wheeled contraptions that had required skill and daring of the young men who rode them; the so-called safety bicycle arrived in contours recognizable to us today—a seat perched between two equal-sized spoke wheels with pneumatic rubber tires, a diamond-shaped frame, and pedals attached to a sprocket-and-chain system. Produced on assembly lines and sold at affordable prices, the new bicycle allowed urbanites unprecedented freedom and mobility, not to mention fun. As a mass-market newspaper committed not only to studying but to sharing the enthusiasms of its readers, the
Journal
monstered the wheeling mania.
 
Throughout the spring and summer of ’96, the paper bulked up on articles on bicycle engineering, manufacturing, and sales, including a large anatomy of a bicycle with each of its hundred parts labeled and explained, and a report on how the bicycle fad was killing the market for pianos while boosting the sales of soft drinks. It offered advice on how to ride a “wheel,” how to “scorch” (ride fast), and how to brake, which was still something of a problem. It visited bicycle academies and bicycle clubs, and discussed the problems of bicycle traffic, poor roads, bicycles cluttering trains and cable cars, and bicycle accidents, injuries, and deaths. It covered local, college, and international bicycle races, profiled champion cyclists, and produced close-up illustrations of their overdeveloped leg muscles. And then there were the bicycle novelties: bicycles built for two or four, bicycles with sails, amphibious bicycles, bicycles mounted for indoor use (the “boudoir scorcher”), a bicyclist with a monkey on his back, a bicyclist with no legs, and a woman who bicycled around town in red bloomers.
 
Fashion was a big part of bicycling. The diva Lillian Russell cruised Central Park in a tan bicycle suit “that fitted as if she had been melted and run into it.” (Her tumble from her gold-plated bicycle made the
Journal
’s front page.)
1
Other women favored high leather riding boots, and one was seen sporting a diamond-studded bicycle sweater. An essay by a
Journal
fashion writer suggested that the bicycle would liberate women from uncomfortable and insensible attire, leading to more independence for her sex generally. That was one reason that bicycles were also a moral issue. Early feminists called the bicycle the freedom machine and Charlotte Smith, the self-appointed guardian of public virtue and a virulent anti-bicycler, worried that young girls were escaping the parental gaze and scorching down “paths that lead directly to sin.” After playing up Smith’s concerns and asking her, uncharitably, if she weren’t too stout to pedal, the
Journal,
always supportive of what was called the “new woman,” gave right of rebuttal to Commander Frederick Booth-Tucker of the Salvation Army. A young girl might be led astray by the devil, he argued, but “not [by] an inanimate thing of steel and rubber.”
2
 
The bicycle craze hardly went unnoticed in other newspapers. All of them carried bicycle stories, and in 1895 the
Evening Telegraph
sponsored a bicycle parade that attracted thousands of riders on decorated wheels, but no one attacked the fad with more élan than Hearst. He dreamed up a transcontinental bicycle relay that would carry a letter from San Francisco to New York over the old Wells-Fargo pony express route and, where necessary, railroad grades and trestles. Some four hundred bicyclists passed through the Sierra Nevada and Rocky Mountains, hitting Ogden, Omaha, Chicago, and Buffalo before reaching Manhattan in just under two weeks. As the paper boasted,“They have crossed yawning gorges on spidery, unguarded trestles, bumping over the ties where a slip would have sent them on the rocks three hundred feet below; they have coasted down wild mountain roads, strewn thick with threatening boulders; they have flattened themselves against the sides of snowsheds to give the right of way to insistent freight trains; they have encountered every vicissitude, from inhaling alkali dust into parched throats on fiery deserts to wading knee-deep in mud under drenching rains, and with it all they have averaged over 280 miles a day for the whole distance from ocean to ocean.”
3
 
The
Journal
capped its relay with a nighttime bicycle parade up Broadway. The boulevard was packed with spectators and costumed cyclists carrying Chinese lanterns on sticks and “illuminated decorations of every description.” The Harlem Wheelmen, 150 strong, rode in formation with torches and fairy lamps to take the prize for best bicycle club. The following morning, the
Journal
gave the parade an illustrated double-page spread, including photo-illustrations of the prettiest girls on the gaudiest bikes. There were also cartoons: Uncle Sam on a bike, and another of plump Charlotte Smith pedaling along with a tear in her eye. And, low in the bottom right corner, yet another cartoon, this one of a beastly-looking rider in a plaid suit covered with dollar signs. Instead of a Chinese lantern, he carried a skull marked “LABOR” on the end of a stick.
Journal
readers would have recognized him instantly and laughed out loud. He was Mark Hanna, a leading Republican political figure and one of few subjects getting more attention than bicycles in the
Journal
that summer.
4
 
 
 
IT WAS NOT ENOUGH for a late-nineteenth-century newspaper proprietor to support one party or another in a national election; he was expected to attack the leadership and policies of its rivals as well. This was a challenge for Hearst and his Democratic paper in ’96. The Republican nominee, William McKinley, was an elusive target.
 
Solid, uncharismatic, and fifty-three years old, McKinley was a veteran of the Civil War and a lawyer by trade. He boasted executive experience as governor of Ohio on top of fourteen years as a legislator in Washington, and he had been one of the country’s best-known congressmen, thanks to the protective tariff bearing his name. Apart from the tariff, he had avoided hard stands on controversial issues and maintained good relations with business and financial elites as well as with the labor movement. He was decent, agreeable, intelligent, and reasonably eloquent. He possessed an innate sense of personal dignity appropriate to the highest office in the land. If that were not enough, he had been ennobled by personal tragedy. After losing both daughters to illness, McKinley’s wife, Ida, had suffered a series of debilitating emotional and physical breakdowns. He was known to be active in her care. Even his one brush with scandal—he had teetered at the edge of bankruptcy after guaranteeing the notes of a friend whose business collapsed—was conceded by the
Journal
to have been a fault of his heart rather than of his head.
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