The Fantastic City

Somewhere in the eighteen-nineties was lost much of the ingenuous charm of the old city — never all of it; but with a new generation came a new metropolitanism, patterned, however remotely, on that of New York. We acquired a social leader of the Ward McAllister order — a young man from Baltimore who organized subscription dances known as the 'Greenways' and led innumerable cotillions. The sons and daughters of Apollo belles and beaus danced at the Greenways.

In those days young San Francisco was taught to polka and to waltz, to trip the schottische and Varsovienne, at Lunt's dancing-school, which was almost a social institution in the eighties and nineties. Professor Lunt was built like Von Hindenburg, but he was light as thistledown on his feet. I can see him now leading a cotillion, waltzing lightly down the long room in his Prince Albert coat, with his fierce mustache, followed by a troop of waltzing youths and maidens. Among them might have been discovered the young Frank Norris. Lunt's dancing-school was in Polk Street; the future novelist may have dreamed of 'McTeague,' the Polk Street dentist, while he danced the German.

An assistant dancing-master, Mr. Reynolds, was as strange a type for the part as Professor Lunt. He looked like a financier of scholarly tastes, with his sparse, iron-gray hair and finely cut features. Patiently he balanced before the infant class, counting in a sing-song voice, 'One-two-three, One-two-three. Turn out them little toes-two- three'; for his English was a bit faulty in spite of the scholarly appearance.

Little girls were wearing long 'shavings' curls then. Wet strands of hair were plastered around curling-sticks and brushed dry to form the hollow tubes; a process that severely tried juvenile patience. The little girls' mothers wore bustles, tie-backs, and Langtry bangs, for the fame of the Jersey Lily and the fashions she set reached us long before she came to California to fall in love with it and buy a ranch. General Barnes selected the place in Lake County and Langtry bought it 'sight unseen.' In spite of the wild country — it was miles beyond St. Helena, the nearest town — and a ranch-house of little comfort and no luxury, it pleased her and she planned to establish a stock farm there to raise famous racers. The house was elaborately refitted and furnished. I remember hearing of a carload of furniture that went up from Chadburne's store in Market Street. The Lily's brother came out from England to be manager and there were great expectations. But, after all, Langtry spent only that first summer at the place, which was sold a few years later.

The Jersey Lily, so admired for her face and form, was never, to my mind, half so lovely as Mrs. James Brown Potter, who was for a time her rival in London, one of the few women for whom Lord Kitchener ever expressed any admiration.

The nineties were a quaint period I've since learned. Young moderns refer to it as the 'Mauve Decade,' but we called it Fin de Siècle, and thought it very sophisticated and advanced. It was the fashion to be 'end of the century' in everything — which meant to be modernistic with an added flash of the bizarre. Aubrey Beardsley's drawings, for example, were very Fin de Siècle and so was the 'Yellow Book' of London, in which they appeared and which one found at Doxey's fascinating bookshop in the Palace Hotel. Its yellow cover with splashes of black expressed the quality, which was an elusive one, difficult to convey. The latest fashion from Paris was not necessarily Fin de Siècle, while a home-built gown of foulard in dashing zigzag pattern might be. 'Lady Windermere's Fan,' as drama, was distinctly so; and Mrs. Patrick Campbell, exotic and mysterious. But Daudet's 'Sapho' distinctly was not, nor was Olga Nethersole, the English actress who played it through a storm of horrified protest.

'The Lark,' published in San Francisco, was eminently Fin de Siècle. We were inordinately proud of it and of the fact that its fame reached London. Gelett Burgess, Bruce Porter, and Ernest Peixotto were its editors, and the small five-by-seven periodical, printed on butcher's paper, first gave the world that immortal quatrain on 'The Purple Cow':

'I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.'

Somewhat later its author, Gelett Burgess, produced a sequel:

'Ah, yes, I wrote "the Purple Cow" —
I'm sorry now I wrote it,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it.'

Novels by a new writer, Mrs. Atherton, were daringly Fin de Siècle, or so we thought, and learned with amazement that she was the beautiful young Mrs. Atherton, of Menlo Park. More daring than hers was a novel by Amélie Rives, 'The Quick or the Dead,' which was surreptitiously read by conservatives and generally considered very shocking. But when 'Trilby' appeared serially in 'Harper's Magazine,' tastes had broadened, and almost no one was seriously distressed by Du Maurier's picture of life in the Paris Latin Quarter in all its delightful informality. The Trilby craze was terrific. We wore Trilby hats, Trilby coats, Trilby slippers, and what not; ate Trilby chocolates, played Trilby waltzes, and developed a 'Trilby type' in beauty. When the play was given at the Baldwin, with Wilton Lackaye as Svengali, the house overflowed at every performance. It was said the lovely voice that sang 'Ben Bolt' in the wings for the heroine belonged to a Mills College girl, Mabel Gilman. She afterward went on the stage in New York and became Mrs. Corey, of Paris.

I cannot recall in these years the first time I used a telephone. One adjusts so easily to many things in passing which seem, looking back, great and radical changes, as indeed they were. I recall the first telephone in our home when so few of our friends had installed them that there were only tradesmen to call up; but not the first time I lifted a receiver from the hook and heard a distant voice. It was a thrill, without doubt, but so soon accepted as part of everyday living that the first strangeness was forgotten. Just as I've forgotten the first horseless carriage I ever saw, although I do recall the first few driven in Golden Gate Park, where they looked so bobby and absurd with no horses in front.

I remember, too, the experience of a friend when she first talked over 'long distance.' She was the wife of Judge Wallace, one of the wittiest of San Francisco jurists. Mrs. Wallace called up her brother, Judge Ryland, in San José, and she told me that when at her home in Van Ness Avenue she heard his voice across fifty miles, it frightened her. Adventuring into the supernatural, it seemed.

The year the first horseless carriages appeared in the Park would have been when slowly circling the bandstand we listened to selections from 'The Mikado.' The 'Pinafore' craze had been succeeded by one for Gilbert and Sullivan's new Japanese opera. Its lilting airs were whistled, sung, played, and chorused all over the land. Traveling troupes presented it in San Francisco and there was a season of 'The Mikado' at the Tivoli — that picturesque old villa of opera in Eddy Street which gave the greatest pleasure to San Francisco music-lovers for many years. It had started as a beer-garden in Sutter Street, where the Jewish synagogue afterward stood. Men went there for good beer and the excellent music served with it — so excellent that the Tivoli Garden began to be patronized for its music, with beer a mere incidental. Finally the proprietors branched out to build the Eddy Street Opera House, a white villa with lattices and trailing vines and a balcony opening to an outside gallery where refreshment was served between acts. A stock company was organized to give opera at popular prices and then the proprietors branched still further out, and engaged famous prima donnas and tenors to sing short seasons with the stock company. So that, for example, one heard Zélie de Lussan, a great Carmen of her day, and even Tetrazzini in 'Lucia,' for fifty or seventy cents. There was a little soubrette named Gracie Plaisted who went on like the brook with undiminished verve while prima donnas came and passed.

After the matinée on Saturday afternoons, Market Street from Powell to Kearney was a popular promenade, where many of the city's interesting figures passed in review — actors, writers, politicians, and celebrities of the sporting fraternity, with pretty women to send them flaunting glances. A bright procession, never fashionable like the old march on Montgomery Street, but well worth reviewing. One might see, for example, Joaquin Miller, Poet of the Sierras, wearing his blue flannel miner's shirt, a broad felt hat, and trousers stuffed into high boots, although he hadn't been near a mine in years. Or 'Pompadour Jim,' the young bank clerk who was making a name for himself as an athlete at the Olympic Club. 'Gentleman Jim' was a later title which James J. Corbett won with the championship in the ring.

There would be 'White Hat' McCarthy, a funny little Irishman who wore always an enormous white beaver hat which, over his odd little figure, looked very top-heavy, like pictures of the Mad Hatter in 'Wonderland.' White Hat was a familiar character on the race-tracks and about the hotels. He had friends in all classes and foregathered with millionaires at the Palace bar in the same easy good-fellowship with which he met his race-track friends in other places.

White Hat McCarthy was the originator of a joke heard, I suppose, around the world in its day. There came to live in San Francisco for a year or two a tall, rangy Englishman, Lord Talbot Clifton, who was much impressed by the personality of White Hat. The two became great friends and one often saw them crossing the Palace Court, little White Hat who reached Clifton's elbow, taking two steps to his long companion's one. They went together to Del Monte for a visit and the Englishman signed his name in the register. 'Lord Talbot Clifton and valet.' White Hat regarded the signature, then scrawled beneath it, 'White Hat McCarthy and valise.'

Ambrose Bierce was another figure of the Market Street parade, conspicuous for his really striking good looks. He had a shock of blond-gray hair that curled over his head and beneath the brim of his hat, with brilliant sea-blue eyes. Bierce wrote a daily newspaper column, seemingly inspired by a perpetual exasperation with human stupidity to which he was never reconciled. It was widely read and much quoted. He was never a prophet without honor in his own country.

Chris Buckley, the blind political boss whom Bierce excoriated, might stand briefly with friends on a Market Street corner, but one saw him more often driving with one of his disciples behind a pair of fast trotters. He was a man of singular power who in spite of blindness had gained control of city elections and the loyalty of many henchmen. Unscrupulous in politics, but faithful to friends, stories were told of his many charities.

Local politics had fallen almost altogether into the hands of professional politicians when James D. Phelan ran for Mayor and was elected — 'The Millionaire Mayor,' until it was discovered that, in spite of being the victim of great wealth, he was the most tireless and progressive mayor the city had known. Mr. Phelan was the popular president of the Bohemian Club for years, when 'Uncle George' Bromley spread there the genial glow of his wit.

'Uncle George' was a brother of Isaac T. Bromley, of the 'New York Tribune,' noted as an after-dinner speaker. But his own wit was far more spontaneous than Isaac's, so those who heard them both declared. It seemed to fall as the gentle dew from heaven. 'That reminds me —' he would say whenever there was a pause, and I suppose he had no idea on earth of what it reminded him until he was well under way. But the story, whatever it was, was always a good one. He was a famous night owl, lingering in the club lounge as long as there was any one willing and able to sit up a little later for companionship.

Once when he was aged and venerable the club entertained a visiting celebrity, who was delighted with the old gentleman's humor and marveled at midnight that it was still fresh. Others of the company fell away and still the wit of Uncle George charmed the visitor until there was none left but these two. Once or twice in the small hours the guest, feeling the need of sleep, ventured to suggest an adjournment and was overruled. 'It's early yet,' Uncle George would say, and go on with his story.

At 5 A.M. the desperately sleepy guest firmly announced his intention to depart. 'But it's early yet,' Uncle George protested. 'Don't go! What shall I do the rest of the evening?'

Among clearly remembered figures of these later years is Judge B———, the only person I ever knew who had survived a really thorough attempt at suicide. When it strangely failed, he accepted his destiny of life with a resignation courteous and detached. The adventure left him with the scar of a long slash across his throat and a genuinely ironic attitude toward living which made him different, especially from the sort of weary-of-life people who cling so tenaciously to it. After his retirement from the bench in San Francisco, Judge B——— had found it difficult to reëstablish his practice. In time he was reduced to desperate need, although his friends, including ourselves, never guessed this. The first knowledge of it came in newspaper headlines one morning. Judge B——— had been found lying unconscious on the beach below the Cliff House, his throat cut from ear to ear. He had gone from the room, where he lived alone, to the ocean beach in the early evening, taking a razor in his pocket. There were still people strolling on the sands, so he waited until the beach was deserted. Then he waded out into the ocean and, when the waters reached his shoulders, slashed his throat and fell unconscious into the waves — which perversely washed him ashore. After that, he waited until death came of its own accord a few years later, and in the interim often dined with us, an interesting and cheerful guest, only slightly sardonic. Something of his serene immunity to the temper of fate, so difficultly gained, I've never forgotten.

Then there is little Mr. Chang; no reason to recall him except that he was so engagingly unique, a quaint little Korean gentleman who looked briefly at the Occident from a hotel window and then hurried home. Also he reminds me of the strange career of a San Francisco gentleman, who became Prime Minister of Korea. It sounds like stage extravaganza, but this quiet, conservative gentleman, Clarence Greathouse, one of the perennial bachelors of the South Park set, actually did find himself Prime Minister of the Hermit Kingdom, living in a palace in Seoul where he ended his days. It had come about simply enough. Mr. Greathouse, who read law and wrote editorials for San Francisco newspapers, was appointed American Consul-General in Yokohama, where his knowledge of international law impressed statesmen of the East. At the end of his consular service, the King of Korea sent for him to be the royal advisor on certain matters. His counsel, it appears, was invaluable, for the King made him Prime Minister for life, and Mr. Greathouse never came back to South Park. When, after his death, his mother, who had lived in his palace in Seoul, desired to return to her old home in Kentucky, Mr. Chang was appointed by the King to serve as honorary escort across the Pacific. He cut off his queue for this ordeal of travel, and discarded robes of silk for English tweeds fashioned by a Japanese tailor.

We asked him to dine with Mrs. Greathouse, and it happened that for a few moments before dinner Mr. Chang was left alone in the living-room. When we descended again from regions above, he had vanished. Not a trace of him. It was disconcerting and alarming. It might even be international if we had permanently lost Mr. Chang.

A messenger was sent to the Occidental Hotel in the wild hope that he might find his way back there. They arrived almost together, Mr. Chang and the messenger. Some homing instinct had led him safely through perilous streets in the right direction. It was made clear to him that we desired his return and awaited his presence at dinner, although he spoke no English and the messenger knew no Korean. Mr. Chang in turn made it clear that he would remain at the hotel. The incident was closed. He had escorted Mrs. Greathouse to our home, but dining with foreigners was not part of his duty as honorary escort. A few days later, Mrs. Greathouse saw him safely off on the steamer for Korea and herself departed for the sequestered quiet of Versailles, Kentucky, which must have seemed drab after all the exotic color and strange ceremony she had known.

She told us many details of the life in Seoul. The little Queen of Korea, assassinated by rioters who broke into the royal palace, had been her friend. Mrs. Greathouse had dined at the palace a few evenings before the tragedy. 'The Queen was a gentle, pretty creature, she said, highly intelligent; and her dreadful death plunged the King into deep grief. He had found refuge from the mob in the Russian Legation, believing her safe. It had been an uprising of a party favoring Japanese influence in Korea above that of Russia, favored by the rulers. Mrs. Greathouse told how assassins pursued the little Queen who ran before them from room to room of the long, low palace until in the last refuge they overtook her and killed her with swords.

In the last of these Fin de Siècle days came the Spanish-American War. The city was suddenly filled with soldiers, transports lying out in the bay, and much concomitant gayety. For the presence of the troops, camped on Presidio hills, the sailing of transports for the Philippines with bands, flowers, and pretty girls waving farewells, and endless parties for officers and men, made another long fiesta for San Francisco. No one thought of the grim side of war. It hadn't any very grim side in the Philippines, for that matter; the total losses of the campaign were twenty men, no officers. In Cuba it was more like war, but General Shafter, so long in command at Fort Mason, who fought at Santiago, came safely home again with his men, and it was all over in less than a year. As wars go, a very decent war.

The new century belonged to younger generations. Grandchildren of my friends married and built homes out on the hills above the Presidio and looked politely vague if one remarked that just a few years ago this was all a waste of sand.

On a silver gray day of November, 1905, I looked back from the deck of a ferry-boat crossing the bay and saw San Francisco for the last time. My home thereafter was to be in a distant place, and this, that had been my home for nearly fifty years, seemed instinct with living individuality at the end, regretful for the parting; possibly because I had seen it grow, street by street, from the ramshackle town of the eighteen-fifties.

The Ferry Tower rose slim and graceful against the background of hills, all covered over with homes. They reached the slopes of Twin Peaks beyond the Mission. Palaces of Nob Hill loomed against the sky and Russian Hill's high gardens were green above skyscrapers of Montgomery Street. On the crest of Telegraph Hill a group of eucalyptus trees stood in silhouette and the long docks below were busy with the commerce of many ships.

It was a beautiful city. No amount of architecture unrestrained could destroy the setting; the hills sweeping upward from the bay where islands were green after early winter rains, and beyond, through the Golden Gate, the far horizon of the Pacific. Sea-gulls slanted their long wings over the widening stretch of water as I watched the city recede in the silver light.

Had I known how soon it would lie in ruins, I might have turned back, disarranged plans and the course of events, to stay until the end. Yet, had I also known how soon it would be rebuilt in new beauty, I might still have gone my way, as I did, with a feeling of sadness and pride.