The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst (64 page)
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Authors: Kenneth Whyte
BOOK: The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst
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The zaniest story of Brisbane’s defection comes from the journalist Boyden Sparkes. In the course of researching an unpublished biography of Brisbane, Sparkes interviewed three sources, each of whom claimed to be the only person who knew the real reason Brisbane left the
World.
All of them maintained that he departed after fathering one of Mrs. Pulitzer’s sons, presumably Herbert, born shortly before these events. Sparkes tried this theory on Russell, who was dubious and told him, “You’d better erase all of that.”
23
World.
All of them maintained that he departed after fathering one of Mrs. Pulitzer’s sons, presumably Herbert, born shortly before these events. Sparkes tried this theory on Russell, who was dubious and told him, “You’d better erase all of that.”
23
In the end, there were likely several motives for Brisbane’s decision: he wanted a greater role in the direction of whatever paper he was working on; he was frustrated by his low profile at the
World;
he was losing competitive ground to the
Evening Journal;
his relationship with his proprietor was shaky; and, the last straw, an ungrateful Pulitzer was stingy about remuneration. But Brisbane was not “bought” by Hearst. In fact, he took a pay cut to leave and he had to talk his way into the
Journal,
presenting himself as a bargain. As one colleague noted, there was “some extraordinary hurt in Brisbane’s mind” when he finally jumped ship.
24
Like Carvalho and Goddard before him, Brisbane was driven into the arms of Hearst. It was a colossal blunder by Pulitzer. He cared less for his raffish evening product than he did for his more prestigious morning edition, but the evening market was increasingly popular with advertisers, and the
World
was the strongest entry in the field. It was a bad time to be shaking up a moneymaker and making Hearst stronger. The
Evening Journal
had been competently staffed with Farrelly and Carvalho but now, thanks to Pulitzer’s mishandling of a key employee, it was in the hands of the brilliant Brisbane.
World;
he was losing competitive ground to the
Evening Journal;
his relationship with his proprietor was shaky; and, the last straw, an ungrateful Pulitzer was stingy about remuneration. But Brisbane was not “bought” by Hearst. In fact, he took a pay cut to leave and he had to talk his way into the
Journal,
presenting himself as a bargain. As one colleague noted, there was “some extraordinary hurt in Brisbane’s mind” when he finally jumped ship.
24
Like Carvalho and Goddard before him, Brisbane was driven into the arms of Hearst. It was a colossal blunder by Pulitzer. He cared less for his raffish evening product than he did for his more prestigious morning edition, but the evening market was increasingly popular with advertisers, and the
World
was the strongest entry in the field. It was a bad time to be shaking up a moneymaker and making Hearst stronger. The
Evening Journal
had been competently staffed with Farrelly and Carvalho but now, thanks to Pulitzer’s mishandling of a key employee, it was in the hands of the brilliant Brisbane.
Perhaps thinking the loss of Brisbane, Russell and others would rattle Pulitzer, Hearst chose that moment to propose a settlement: the
Journal
would raise its cover price to two cents if the
World
would follow suit and also endorse the
Evening Journal
’s application for an Associated Press franchise. Preliminary discussions were held not involving either principal, but Pulitzer, taking Hearst’s move as a sign of weakness, insisted that the
Journal
rise to two cents on its own. The talks went nowhere.
Journal
would raise its cover price to two cents if the
World
would follow suit and also endorse the
Evening Journal
’s application for an Associated Press franchise. Preliminary discussions were held not involving either principal, but Pulitzer, taking Hearst’s move as a sign of weakness, insisted that the
Journal
rise to two cents on its own. The talks went nowhere.
THE
Evening Journal
WAS A BUSTLING SHOESTRING OPERATION published from ramshackle quarters on the second floor of the Tribune Building. The room had bare floors, unpainted board walls, and mountains of paper on every flat surface. Brisbane worked at a desk on an elevated platform protected by wire netting. “It made an incongruous background,” said the journalist Dorothy Dix, “for the man who sat in the midst of the confusion—handsome and young and with still something of his gardenia and silk-hat days when he was the pet of London society and the boy wonder of the newspaper world about him.”
25
Evening Journal
WAS A BUSTLING SHOESTRING OPERATION published from ramshackle quarters on the second floor of the Tribune Building. The room had bare floors, unpainted board walls, and mountains of paper on every flat surface. Brisbane worked at a desk on an elevated platform protected by wire netting. “It made an incongruous background,” said the journalist Dorothy Dix, “for the man who sat in the midst of the confusion—handsome and young and with still something of his gardenia and silk-hat days when he was the pet of London society and the boy wonder of the newspaper world about him.”
25
One of the first things his new colleagues learned about Brisbane was that he spoke at the same pace he worked. “He’d talk so fast,” said the artist T.E. Powers, “get about four, five ideas mixed up in one, and he’d confuse you if you didn’t get to know him.”
26
Already renowned as a tireless worker, Brisbane found another gear at the
Evening Journal.
He started work at 4:30 a.m., roughly four hours earlier than was customary for afternoon editions, in order to get his paper on the street well before lunchtime, and far ahead of the competition. When the news was hot, he would publish in the immediate wake of the last editions of the morning dailies—as early as 8 a.m.
26
Already renowned as a tireless worker, Brisbane found another gear at the
Evening Journal.
He started work at 4:30 a.m., roughly four hours earlier than was customary for afternoon editions, in order to get his paper on the street well before lunchtime, and far ahead of the competition. When the news was hot, he would publish in the immediate wake of the last editions of the morning dailies—as early as 8 a.m.
Brisbane favored large illustrations and streamers—oversized headlines across several columns, if not the whole of the front page. He’d watched how newsboys flashed papers in the street, and he wanted pedestrians to be able to take in his top news at a glance. Hearst recalled him once writing a headline that pretty near filled the front page: “I said, ‘Now I think that is going a little strong. We had better modify these headlines, we will precipitate some criticism.’ And then the
World
came out with headlines just about as big, and Artie and I arranged to put those big headlines back into the paper again.”
27
World
came out with headlines just about as big, and Artie and I arranged to put those big headlines back into the paper again.”
27
Brisbane’s paper kept its stories short and its vocabulary simple. “There’s no need ever to use a word of more than three syllables in a newspaper,” he would lecture reporters. “Remember that a newspaper is mostly read by very busy people, or by very tired people, or by very uneducated people none of whom are going to hunt up a dictionary to find out what you mean. And never forget that if you don’t hit a newspaper reader between the eyes with your first sentence, there is no need of writing a second one.”
28
Brisbane believed it was important for young men to cultivate their minds by reading widely and deeply, yet at the same time he encouraged them to protect their superficiality. He had seen too many journalists reach their thirties and become “too seriously interested in something” and thereby grow “heavy and monotonous.”
29
28
Brisbane believed it was important for young men to cultivate their minds by reading widely and deeply, yet at the same time he encouraged them to protect their superficiality. He had seen too many journalists reach their thirties and become “too seriously interested in something” and thereby grow “heavy and monotonous.”
29
Surprisingly, the
Evening Journal
became known for its editorials during Brisbane’s tenure. Brisbane avoided public policy and insider politics, the staples of most editorial pages, his notion being to chase readership and let the nation take care of its own business. This approach suited Hearst, who always suspected that readers avoided editorials because of editorial writers’ stilted prose. Even a good journalist, he complained,
Evening Journal
became known for its editorials during Brisbane’s tenure. Brisbane avoided public policy and insider politics, the staples of most editorial pages, his notion being to chase readership and let the nation take care of its own business. This approach suited Hearst, who always suspected that readers avoided editorials because of editorial writers’ stilted prose. Even a good journalist, he complained,
if you tell him to write an editorial, will immediately stiffen up and become self-conscious and write something that nobody will read. Well, Brisbane had the faculty of writing editorials that people would read. In the first place, he wrote on subjects that people were interested in, not eternally on politics. The average editorial writer almost confines himself to politics and economics; very seldom does he discuss any of the human problems that people have to meet continually in their journey through life. But Brisbane wrote about those human problems, and some of them seem almost trivial, like what kind of hats a girl should wear . . . but he made it interesting to them, and after all, the girls are thinking about what kind of hats they shall wear. And I speedily found that his editorial columns weren’t like other people’s editorial columns. His were read.
30
Like Morrill Goddard, Brisbane wrote a treatise on the interests of newspaper readers, and attempted to codify the primary elements of human-interest journalism, but it is not as illuminating or comprehensive as Goddard’s effort. Perhaps the best summary of Brisbane’s approach to journalism comes from his colleague, Russell:
His theory of it was this. You can’t get people’s attention without shouting at them. We shout at them in order to make them think. The most valuable function that any man can perform in this world is to cause people to think . . . . We use the big headline and the editorial and the picture to attract people’s attention, get hold of their minds, then when we have gotten hold of their minds we stimulate them to think . . .”
31
Years later, Russell would wonder how much thinking ever got done amid all the shouting, but he believed Brisbane to have been sincere in his intentions and infallible in his “extraordinary intuition” about the sympathies of the common man. “I never knew him to make a mistake in that respect,” said Russell. “I have seen him handle hundreds, literally hundreds of stories that came up and give out instructions as to how they should be handled, treated and so forth. I never knew him to make a slip on any of them. . . . He would have what would be the popular response of everything that came up. . . . [H]e was able to put himself right in the position of the average man, how the average man would feel about the whole thing, how it would seem to them.”
32
32
Brisbane’s
Evening Journal
certainly had appeal. He claims to have told his secretary, a gentleman named Flynn, that his ambition was to catch the circulation of the
Evening World
within seven years. He swore off all drink but milk and tea until he reached his target. It took him seven weeks. His exact sales can’t be determined, but Hearst confirmed that circulation skyrocketed under Brisbane’s leadership. He would collect about $50,000 in bonus payments before he and Hearst agreed to replace the commission schedule with a larger flat salary. By that time he was the highest-paid editor in the history of journalism, and it would be decades before anyone caught up to him.
Evening Journal
certainly had appeal. He claims to have told his secretary, a gentleman named Flynn, that his ambition was to catch the circulation of the
Evening World
within seven years. He swore off all drink but milk and tea until he reached his target. It took him seven weeks. His exact sales can’t be determined, but Hearst confirmed that circulation skyrocketed under Brisbane’s leadership. He would collect about $50,000 in bonus payments before he and Hearst agreed to replace the commission schedule with a larger flat salary. By that time he was the highest-paid editor in the history of journalism, and it would be decades before anyone caught up to him.
To make his change of newspaper allegiance complete, Brisbane took up residence in the shanty. Hearst would drag himself home at 4 a.m. after seeing the morning edition to press and find Brisbane rising to start his day. “We lived together pretty much without seeing much of each other,” said Hearst. “Because we divided the work and I worked on the morning paper most of the time and he worked on the evening paper. . . . [Brisbane] got up that early and I worked late and I frequently got home about five o’clock and I had my supper with him when he was having his breakfast.”
33
33
The roommates developed some peculiar ways of enjoying one another’s company. In the morning, they would take off their shoes and socks, drop all of their pocket change on the floor, and race to pick up the coins using only their feet. Each man kept what he retrieved. Hearst was nimble but Brisbane had unusually prehensile toes and claimed the lion’s share of the cash.
That was about as exciting as it got at the shanty unless Jack Follansbee happened to be in town. A female acquaintance once asked Brisbane about reports of raucous gatherings at his home address. Brisbane insisted that neither he nor Hearst entertained or drank—they were too busy at their respective papers. The woman was skeptical so Brisbane offered to march her over to Lexington for an immediate tour of his tranquil home. She accepted. They climbed the shanty’s stairs to find the tall, handsome Follansbee in mid-bash with a crowd of well-refreshed friends. It was to such moments that Follansbee owed a controversial position in Hearst ’s circle. A friend of the family, Clara Anthony, wrote Phoebe to say she would like to see Follansbee, for one, “break his ugly neck, and every other fawning sycophant that exploits Will follow suit.”
34
34
Hearst and Brisbane were on their way to becoming lasting friends as well as colleagues, a relationship based on mutual respect for each other as newspapermen. “At the time I took the job,” Brisbane remarked, “I thought Hearst didn’t know much about the newspaper business. I was wrong.”
35
Hearst valued Brisbane’s companionship as well as his abilities: “He had a great charm. He was very interesting, not only to men, but to women . . . they loved to hear him talk—like Bernard Shaw in that respect.”
36
35
Hearst valued Brisbane’s companionship as well as his abilities: “He had a great charm. He was very interesting, not only to men, but to women . . . they loved to hear him talk—like Bernard Shaw in that respect.”
36
Hearst himself liked to hear Brisbane talk. Lincoln Steffens dined with the pair and Brisbane, as per usual, carried the conversation. Hearst spoke well when he felt the need, but he did not feel it often. “He does not want to win you,” said Steffens. Brisbane was so much more voluble and assertive than Hearst that many guessed he was actually the brains behind the
Journal
. He sometimes received stock tips on the assumption that he was in charge.
37
Journal
. He sometimes received stock tips on the assumption that he was in charge.
37
Hearst’s relationship with Brisbane was typical of his male friendships. He was not close to any other publishers, nor to other men in public life, nor to any of his old college chums who did not work in journalism, except for Follansbee, who was away most of the year at the Babicora. Almost all of Hearst’s friends were on his payroll—Brisbane would stay there for life—and their relationships were more collegial than intimate. Whether out of insecurity, or a simple preference born of his upbringing in a largely female world, Hearst preferred to confide in women, particularly his mother and his girlfriends. He rarely revealed his inner life to men and, in truth, he was a bit lost in any male society outside of his newsrooms. It took gregarious and self-assured individuals like Brisbane, Follansbee, and George Pancoast to conquer his reticence and become his friends, and Hearst was happy to let them serve as his front-men outside the office. At the same time, there was never any doubt among them as to who was in charge: they all lived in Hearst’s house, attended shows he wanted to see, ate in his favorite restaurants, and vacationed where he wanted to travel, on his schedule. Someone had to lead and, however quiet his demeanor, Hearst understood himself as a great man on a great mission, somewhat beyond his peers and worthy of having friends and followers in subordinate positions. This made for sadly limited friendships but Hearst showed Brisbane and other select staffers unusual degrees of support, trust, loyalty, and freedom in their work, and they were all in it for the work.
Happy as he was with Hearst, Brisbane remained on good terms with his former employers. He dined occasionally on Pulitzer’s yacht; they would tease one another over the circumstances of their parting, Brisbane insisting that he had jumped for less money, Uncle Joe answering with a snort. Brisbane would also speak warmly of Dana. Even after the
Sun
’s ferocious attacks on the yellow press, Brisbane described Dana in a trade journal as an avuncular codger with unsurpassed accomplishments and a taste for lemon meringue pie and watered whiskey. If journalism were a religion, Brisbane declared, “Dana would be the pope.”
38
Sun
’s ferocious attacks on the yellow press, Brisbane described Dana in a trade journal as an avuncular codger with unsurpassed accomplishments and a taste for lemon meringue pie and watered whiskey. If journalism were a religion, Brisbane declared, “Dana would be the pope.”
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