Chapter Six

167The "boss" of the corrupt organization "Tammany Hall" — which is to say, the master of the city government of New York — was at that time the famous Richard Croker, one of the most powerful men in the United States.

He was a tall, sturdily built man, with broad shoulders, with a short, grayish-dark little beard, with the general appearance of a coarse fellow who had grown rich. He had toiled among the street boys of New York, and he had never had an intelligent face. But one could see that this was a man of character and no fool. He never made a single speech. Newspaper reporters could never get an interview out of him. The newspapers, however, never stopped talking about him — whom he rewarded and whom he punished, whom he would make the next candidate for this or that office, to whom he gave the opportunity to make several hundred thousand dollars off a municipal contract.

The cartoon papers printed his picture every week.

168They used to depict him as a tiger. The Tammany organization is commonly called by the name of that beast, and his face was perfectly suited to it. When his round face with the broad mouth and round large eyes was a little "fixed up," and to his head was attached the body of a tiger, there emerged a natural picture of the wild creature in a Croker shape. In this shape people used to picture the corruption-swamp of Tammany Hall.

The first time I saw him, it happened that I spent almost an entire night in his company.

This was on the evening and night after the elections of 1898. There was an election for governor of New York State, and Tammany Hall, which usually confined itself to its rule over the city, this time tried to stick its tiger paw into the "politics" of the State of New York as well. It put up a man of its own as candidate for governor. This was an American by the name of Augustus Van Wyck, a brother of the Tammany mayor of the city of New York, Robert Van Wyck. Croker took an active part in this fight.

The candidate of the Republicans was Theodore Roosevelt ^* (see Volume Two, pages 280 and 287).

This time Roosevelt was elected. Croker's candidate fell through.

169My meeting with Croker thus took place on the evening after those elections. It was in the "Democratic Club," on Fifth Avenue. Croker, who was then a widower, had his residence there. His rooms were on an upper floor. The large club hall and a few smaller rooms were on the first floor.

The result of the elections was already known. No hope remained for the Democrats (that is, for Croker's party).

There I found a modest number of Tammany politicians. They all kept putting on a brave face. But the defeat was written all over their faces. And little by little they drifted off. When Tammany wins, the club seethes all night long. This time, by about eleven o'clock it was already nearly empty. There remained only a few of the politicians, a couple of the reporters, and Croker himself. The "boss" was cheerful, like a seasoned gambler who stays calm whether he wins or loses — a "good sport."

Among those present I found August Belmont, one of the richest men in New York, and one of the most important figures in New York "society." He was a Tammany man. And in that he was an exception, for usually the "aristocrats" of the city did not mix personally in "politics," and if they did — it was in the Republican party.

170It was interesting to me to see how Belmont chummed with Richard Croker.

He was much younger than Croker, and he spoke to him as a grandchild to a grandfather. Now he stands whispering with a couple of the others present, and now he leaves them and runs to the "grandfather" to ask him something.

I watch: Belmont speaks in an earnest tone, and Croker hears him out with a friendly grandfatherly smile.

One of the reporters makes a remark to Croker:

— Why shouldn't you claim the State? ^*

— Of course we are claiming it — Croker answered, and laughed.

— A laughing tiger — I quietly remarked to another reporter.

— A laughing tiger would not be so dangerous as a laughing Croker — that one answered.

It was already deep night, and only five people remained. We sat in the large, comfortably furnished hall — a small group around a hugely large table. Beyond that the hall was empty. We chatted, and Croker spoke quite freely and openheartedly, as though we were all one family. At a certain point he made this remark:

— One must not forget that there is a large element that always votes against us.

171I was then holding my notebook in my hand, and I was jotting down his words. He noticed it, and his face clouded over.

— What are you writing down, young man? — he asked me. — Excuse me, allow me to see what you have just noted down.

I put my notebook into my pocket.

— We are talking here privately, not for the press, — he went on, somewhat angrily, — had I known that you would write this down for your newspaper, I would have borne that in mind.

— If this is private, it will remain private, — I answered.

He was uneasy. But another reporter, an older man, with a clerical appearance, with whom Croker was well acquainted, and with whom I had met several times, assured him that I was a "gentleman," and that whatever was not meant for the press I would not publish.

Croker calmed down. But for the first minute his eyes still could not move away from the pocket into which I had put my little notebook.

In the third volume of these "Pages" (pages 363–365) the account was given of the "Lexow Committee," which the Albany Senate sent to New York to investigate the corruption of the New York police under the criminal rule of Tammany Hall. The result then was Tammany's defeat at the next municipal elections. A decent man was elected as mayor of New York, a businessman by the name of Strong, and several police captains and police inspectors were punished. For a couple of years172the police behaved a little more decently. Afterward it became the same as before again. So the Albany Senate again sent an investigating committee — the "Mazet Committee," as it was called, after the name of the chairman.

Croker was one of those who were summoned to be examined. The investigation was conducted by an attorney by the name of Moss, and he put questions to those who were called. He asked Croker about how he commanded over Tammany. One question he put to him concerned himself. Moss was a member of Tammany, but Croker had "cut off his head." That is, Moss was to have received the nomination for a certain office, and Croker struck his name off the ballot because he, Moss, had fought certain shady doings in a Tammany district. Now, then, at the Mazet hearing, Moss asked Croker about that affair, in order to show an example of how Croker rules.

— You cut off my head too, didn't you? — Moss asked.

— Yes, chopped it off right down to the shoulders, — Croker answered, without even a smile.

— Is it not a fact, then, that you are in politics in the interests of your own pocket? — Moss asked him further.

— Yes, for my pocket all the time (yes, always for my own pocket) — Croker answered with an insolent irony, as if to say: "Hypocrites like you make pious faces; but you too work for your pockets. I hate to put on a pretense. I speak openly."

The phrase "for my pocket all the time" became famous.

173Seymour, the business manager of the "Commercial Advertiser" — an American of medium height with a sharp, somewhat crooked nose — was pacing nervously about Steffens's desk. I do not believe I ever saw him without a cigar in his mouth, and when he was preoccupied, he would chew and chew the cigar. So it was now. Steffens was standing without his jacket, his shirt in his pockets, earnest, preoccupied. Wright, the editor-in-chief, had come out of his little room, and all three were standing and talking quietly, as though there were a corpse lying in the house.

Lacassagne, the assistant city editor, was also preoccupied.

I was sitting in my usual place. I saw that something serious was the trouble. But what it consisted of I did not know. Soon I caught sight of the "Evening Post" of that day, and everything became clear to me.

The "Evening Post" had a very important "beat." ^*

It concerned Admiral Dewey, the hero of Manila.

When the war with Spain ended, a stormy reception awaited him in the United States. But he did not come home right away. He first set off across the world. He had174visited various countries in Europe. Everywhere he was given a great welcome, and dispatches flew to America about the parade being made over him. It was a triumphal journey through the greatest capital cities. Afterward he set off for America. But when and by what route he would arrive no one knew.

The editorial offices of the daily papers were on edge. Each of them was preparing for the moment when Dewey's flagship would appear near the shores of New York. Every editor trembled lest another editor get a "beat," lest another newspaper come out with an interview with the great guest, and his own not. The big sensational papers watched one another. And each made special preparations so that its competitors should not suspect.

The upshot was that a "beat" really did happen, but it was not one of the big sensational newspapers that got it, but rather one of the quieter, more respectable ones, for which a "beat" in the news is a rarity — the aristocratic "Evening Post."

It happened by chance. One of its reporters had gone off to Staten Island for a sports event — a regatta of sailing yachts. But it just so happened that, while this reporter found himself on a tiny little steamboat in the waters near Staten Island, he caught sight in the distance of Admiral Dewey's ship. He at once made a dash for it. He was the first American to greet the newly famous admiral and to have an interview with him.

The lucky reporter — Fitzgerald was his175name — then drove to the shore and telephoned in his interview. When the paper came out, several city editors very nearly fainted.

For the great wide world, Dewey was the hero. In the newspaper world of New York, Fitzgerald was the hero.

One time, while I was thus sitting in my place, beside Steffens's desk, there came in a tall man with a large, soft "Rough Rider" hat. Steffens received him with a particular warmth. They chatted for a couple of minutes. Then Steffens introduced me to him. This was Theodore Roosevelt, the one who later became President of the United States, one of the most lively and interesting rulers of the republic.

He was then governor of New York. Steffens had become friends with him some three years earlier, when Roosevelt was the police commissioner of New York and Steffens a police reporter for the "Evening Post."

Now Roosevelt had run up to the editorial office merely to see Steffens for a minute. In part he did this to display his democratic manner, but in part quite sincerely. For he really was a democratic man, a mixture of noble, progressive strivings and courage, with shrewdness and political egoism.

We chatted for a minute, and as he talked he cheerfully flashed his famous large teeth. He176took his leave, and with that my acquaintance with him ended.

During the time that I was at the "Commercial Advertiser" I became acquainted with Samuel Gompers, the president of the American Federation of Labor — that is, of the American labor movement.

It was announced that in the aristocratic "Nineteenth Century Club" a debate would take place between him, Samuel Gompers, and Edward Atkinson, who was then a professor of political economy at Harvard University. Atkinson was known as an anti-union man. He had written articles and books in which he strove to prove that the capitalists were entirely in the right and that trade unionism was a misfortune for the country and even for the workers as well.

A king has a court jester and a court poet. Atkinson was the court economist of King Capital.

The debate had nothing to do with my work for the newspaper, for it took place in an evening, and the report would appear in the morning papers. But it interested me, and I attended it.

There had gathered a crowd of dressed-up men and women, mostly very rich people — some of them from "high" society.

Atkinson had the floor first, and he set out arguments in favor of the manufacturers and against the organized workers.

When Gompers stood up to answer him, I expected that his arguments would lack the most important points, the ones that are required in such a case. To a177debate with a man like Professor Atkinson, I believed, one needed a socialist, and not such a conservative labor leader as Gompers.

I never attacked Gompers personally, as some of our comrades used to do. I would even defend him to a certain degree. But I too was far from him. And now, being present at this debate between a representative of capital and a representative of the working class, it pained me to see Gompers, and not one of our own, standing up against such an enemy of the workers.

But Gompers did a far better "job" than I had expected of him. His speech was a pleasant surprise for me. He answered Atkinson quite cleverly, sharply, and incisively. I was in seventh heaven. I wanted to applaud, to shout "Hurrah!" But sitting at the reporters' table I had to control myself.

The aristocratic audience sympathized entirely with Atkinson. Also certain venomous remarks that Gompers made were answered by the listeners, chiefly the women listeners, with malicious laughter, and when Atkinson again took the floor, he received one ovation after another.

When the debate ended, I ran up to Gompers and began to shake both his hands.

— You have given me indescribable pleasure, Mr. Gompers — I said.

In that crowd he had felt like a lonely outsider, and my words were very welcome to him. As though they had fallen from heaven.

178— It is very pleasant for me to hear such words here, — he said, shaking my hand.

I explained to him that I was a socialist, and I told him my name. He answered that he had heard of me, and he would not let me go: I had to take a walk with him; he wanted to chat with me, to become better acquainted.

We went into a café, and afterward we strolled. We spent about three hours together. It was already getting light when we parted.

Years later, when we had become friends, I reminded him of that episode. He remembered it quite well, and we often, with a smile, would again recall our meeting after his debate with Atkinson.

At that time there lived "Buffalo Bill," the proprietor of the famous circus "The Wild West." His real name was Cody, and people usually called him "Captain Cody." He himself was one of the most famous riders and marksmen in America.

The camp of his riders and trick-performers was on Staten Island. I visited him there. I found him riding — a tall, robust man, with a small, grayish little beard — and rehearsing with his circus. An orchestra was playing, and the riders under his command were busy practicing a riders' dance.

A reporter from another newspaper, a friend of mine, let him know that I was a "literary man,"

179and that I wished to look over his camp not simply as a reporter, but with the aim of describing it in a story. He became interested and was very hospitable to me. He showed me everything and explained it, and when I was already about to leave, he detained me:

— You must eat lunch with us — he said to me, — we will not let you go away hungry.

The "dining room" was a large canvas camp tent. The "Rough Riders," gymnastics specialists, and other circus people — among whom were a couple of mountain riders from the Caucasus — were sitting at long tables, with Captain Cody at the head, and I sat beside him. It seemed to me that I was a guest of the ruler of a wild, ancient tribe.

Captain Cody personally, this famous circus leader, made on me the impression of a man with a yearning soul. In the middle of the meal he gave a signal to the orchestra. The musicians took up their instruments and began to play a merry march. Buffalo Bill quietly sang along, but in his merry singing mournful tones sounded to me.

In the Chinese quarter on Mott Street and the surrounding areas, there ruled at that time a coarse, ignorant man by the name of "Chuck" Connors. He was a great power among the toughs of the Bowery, and in the city people used to jokingly call him "the mayor of Chinatown." Various anecdotes used to be told about him, in which he was portrayed as an180interesting man, a clever, capable, and talented one. Chiefly it was literary men, artists, or people with artistic pretensions who used to take an interest in him. And the number of Americans with such pretensions had then begun to multiply. To be a connoisseur of a painting, a statue, an Oriental carpet (kovyor) became as much of a fashion as to be a connoisseur of a horse. "Chuck" became known as an "interesting rough fellow," and this reputation of his reached as far as San Francisco.

I became acquainted with him through Steffens. I saw him twice and had conversations with him — one time a rather long one. I did not hear from him a single interesting word. One could see that he was no fool, but that "artistic possibilities" lay hidden within him I could not detect. I suspected that a big fuss was being made over him chiefly because to appreciate an "interesting type" meant to be "artistically inclined."

At that time there developed among "high society" the fashion of going "slumming," visiting the poor quarters and seeing how the "other half" lives — that is, the poor classes. "Upstart" Americans, who only yesterday had been butchers or wagon-drivers, would aristocratically inspect the poor quarters with "artistic" curiosity. Through this, there grew up in the poor East Side two restaurants where millionaires used to spend their evenings. This was supposed to mean that they were inspecting the poor "other half." But in truth the millionaires inspected one another there, for to the residents of the poor quarters these restaurants were too expensive.

181Among the well-known people whom I "interviewed" as a reporter was Russell Sage, one of the greatest millionaires in America, and also one of the stingiest. I visited him in his residence — a fine, old house, with white columns in front, on Fifth Avenue near Forty-second Street (the building is long gone). It was about nine o'clock in the morning, and he asked me to walk with him on foot to his Wall Street bank — a rather long walk, which he used to take twice every day. So we walked and chatted.

He was by then already an old man — tall, lean, as though dried out. And he had a dry, dried-out voice as well. When he spoke, there hovered on his thin lips and in his old eyes a glinting look of the sort that is somehow both a smile and yet not a smile.

About his business affairs he did not want to talk. He nimbly wriggled away from my questions. He spoke of all sorts of side matters. Only one question, regarding his millions, he answered for me.

Seeing that I could get nowhere with him in any case, I went for broke ("for the one").

— What do you need so much money for, Mr. Sage? — I asked.

— Just for the fun of making it (only for the sport and the pleasure that making the money gives me) — he answered.

And this time that little smile did not appear on his herring-like face. He looked absolutely182earnest, as though what he had said were the truest truth. But it was only a part of the truth. He loved not only to make money, but indeed also to have money. He was one of the cleverest speculators and one of the most famous moneylenders in the world. ^*

One of the personalities who remained in my memory from those several years was Bishop Potter, the then chief clergyman of the Episcopal Church of New York. I cannot say, however, that I gained a notion of his character. I remember chiefly his manner of speech. It happened that I had to interview him about a certain matter, and I visited him. Out of our conversation there developed a simple chat. He made an impression on me with his noble, pastoral face, but more than anything I remember his voice and his way of speaking.

If a manner of speech can be dressed up in aristocratic garments, he had that sort of speech. Every letter came out aristocratic with him. With his speaking he reminded me of the famous English actor Henry Irving.

183In Irving's case, the pronunciation and the speech-melody had been worked out on the Shakespearean stage, where all his life he had spoken in declamatory tones. And Bishop Potter had developed a similar melody and pronunciation in his "pulpit," where he used to deliver his sermons to the rich congregants of the church. In both of them the habit had become "a second nature." But despite the theatrical effect, both made the impression of sincerity. When we hear two Chinese carrying on a conversation, it seems to us that they are speaking in musical notes. It was in just such a kind of note-speech that Irving and Potter spoke. Their note-speech had become a natural tongue for them.

One time, while I was sitting and writing at the long black table of the editorial office, I noticed one of the "copy boys" leading up to Steffens a man of about fifty. About ten minutes later the visitor went out again.

— Guess who that was — Steffens said to me.

He told me: the man had come asking for a job in the editorial office, any kind of job at all.

— What can you do? — Steffens had asked him.

— I know, I ought to be able to do everything — that one had answered. — A few years ago I was the managing editor of this very newspaper — right here, at the "Commercial Advertiser."

Now he was ready to work as a simple reporter. But from his short conversation with him184Steffens concluded to himself that he was not at all suited for him.

Newspaper work in America is an insecure occupation. A "new broom" in the form of a new city editor sweeps out several reporters, and in their places he takes on others. The American newspaper men were not organized, and all attempts to organize them had failed. For a trifle one could lose one's position, and a new place was not easy to obtain. There was always a mass of candidates. Only very capable writers and news-gatherers were sure of their livelihood. But there were also those who simply could not sit long in one place. Into the newspaper profession come all sorts of adventurers.

Among the reporters with whom I became acquainted there was a considerable percentage of talented people. Once I asked one of these why he did not write fiction.

— I tried and failed — was his answer.

A couple of days later he showed me the manuscript of a short story. He had sent it to the magazines, and no one had accepted it.

I read it through and agreed with the editors who had rejected the manuscript. It was impossible to recognize that the author was the reporter who wrote such brilliant sketches.

For the newspaper he wrote quickly, directly, just as he185had seen and felt. To touch it up, to embellish it, there was no time. But when he set about creating literature, he began to think up "clever" happenings, little scenes, winged phrases, piquant witticisms. Otherwise it would not deserve the festive name "literature," he believed. The simple lines, sincere and truly beautiful, which he used to write for the newspaper, were too workaday — so he thought. And so, in fact, the editors of the magazines also thought. The result was that, in order for "literature" to come out, he so over-contrived his story that it had no flavor at all. With his fancy words he embellished every bit of life out of it.

Another "star reporter," with whom I became well acquainted in those years, did not have enough of one creative faculty. He could describe wonderfully what he saw or heard. But not create something himself.

A third had a talent for verse and for sketches, but not for stories. He had a truly beautiful style. He was a born poet. A short while later he threw away his reporter's work and became a writer of advertisements — a trade that pays well and that, in America, had even then drawn off some of the best talents.

Among the newspaper men there were specialists in obscenity and dirty anecdotes. One of them was a handsome young man, a dandy. He always wore a white necktie, like a Protestant clergyman. It suited his handsome, pale face. Another took no interest in his appearance. His coat was almost186always crumpled and his hair disheveled. He was a lean, tall man, with a birdlike face.

And in the manner in which these two used to speak obscenity there was also a difference. The dandy used to utter the most disgusting words coldbloodedly, as though they were quite ordinary words — a part of decent speech. The other used to shoot them out as though with anger. He was altogether a venomous, hot-tempered, ill-natured fellow. But he was a highly honorable man.

When his wife died (we were then working together on the Molineux case), out of heartache he took to drink and got so drunk that he too died.

Idealists I found few among the reporters with whom I became acquainted at that time. I remember two single-taxers and one truly religious man, for whom Christ was an ideal. But the word "idealist" can be interpreted in all sorts of ways. Often a man is devoted to noble dreams which he cannot express in words. There are many such people in America. The Yankees are far more sentimental and more inclined toward idealism than Europeans imagine. The European has quite a false notion of the American.

Among the events that I attended as a reporter for the "Commercial Advertiser," there has risen up in my memory a scene in which the main figure was the famous Russian fighter for freedom and scholar, Peter Kropotkin. I was already acquainted187with him from London. And now, when he was visiting New York and I had come up to him in his hotel, he asked me to stay in his room until the other reporters would arrive. He spoke English excellently. But he was not sure that he would know how to deal with the American newspaper men.

At the appointed time the representatives of the press began to appear. When they had all assembled, one of them began to put questions to him. They were chiefly interested in the fact that he, a Russian prince (knyaz), was the leader of the anarchist movement. The questions were at first natural and intelligent. But soon a young reporter burst in with the following words:

— Tell us, Prince, how does one make a bomb. — And he held his paper and pencil ready to note down the answer.

Kropotkin gave a start, with such an expression on his face as though he had hastily clenched his teeth.

The other reporters gave a smile. But they pricked up their ears to hear what "the Prince" would answer.

I tried to explain to the boy that to put such a question made no sense. But he did not understand and would not understand.

— It would make a good story (it would be interesting to read) — he argued, with anger at me.

Kropotkin gave lectures in New York in English and in Russian. Our Russian colony gave him a banquet, showed him the deepest love and respect; and the more one became acquainted with him,188the stronger these feelings toward him became. With his simplicity, his absolute humility, and his warm Russian heartiness, he literally enchanted everyone.

The majority of us were Social Democrats. But in our relations with him party affiliations were forgotten. Besides that: for us, the Russians, he was chiefly Kropotkin, the famous hero of the struggle against czarist despotism.