One GRACE "I think you''ll find, Mr. Pulitzer, that as a woman, I''m able to infiltrate parts of society your other reporters can''t access. Why, look what Nellie Bly has done in her reporting ." I clutch a leather folio to my chest, the little speech I''ve prepared running through my mind once more. As I lean down to right my skirts, I stumble on an uneven piece of wet ground, my shoe slipping, the hem of my dress dropping into nearly an inch of dirty water. So much for making a good first impression. "Bad luck," a red-haired newsboy shouts out at me, a mischievous grin on his face and the latest edition of the World in his hands. It''s busy today on Park Row, the street that slashes northeast from lower Broadway and houses the major New York newspapers, its proximity to City Hall an attractive proposition for journalists keen to keep up with the inner workings of government.
Horse-drawn vehicles form a steady stream of traffic, interspersed by the odd bicycle swerving between them. I gaze up at the building that houses the New York World , number 99 Park Row, the endless stories piled on top of one another. The tallest building in the city, it was originally the site of French''s Hotel. Legend has it that back when Joseph Pulitzer was a penniless veteran he was thrown out of the hotel. Twenty years later he returned, his fortune made, and bought the hotel, demolished it, and constructed this building, topping the new edifice with a four hundred and twenty-five ton gold dome. Two miles of wrought iron columns support the world''s largest pressroom, and hopefully, if all goes well--my new place of employment. "Why, look what Nellie Bly has been able to do," I continue. I''ve rehearsed my opening salvo so frequently the words have become rote, but it''s done little to calm the nerves inside me.
Whereas men go into these interviews needing to be good, I must be better. The crack Miss Bly and others like her have opened for women trying to break into the newspaper industry has made the seemingly impossible possible, but still no easy feat by any measure. The various articles I''ve written for smaller papers enclosed in my late father''s leather folio represent the last few years of my life. The topics aren''t as varied as I''d like: plenty of pieces on women''s fashion, some on the care and running of a household from which I borrowed heavily from my mother''s example given my lack of a household of my own, the stray piece of relationship advice, which may seem odd from someone who is decidedly--and happily--single. To my readers, my nom de plume A. Markham is a married woman of a respectable age, her children grown, her days spent puttering around her house and dispensing advice when she is not otherwise occupied with her husband''s comfort. I check in with building security, the appointment I made last week the only manner in which I could ensure admittance given the tightly controlled access to Pulitzer''s offices. I hurry up to the eighteenth floor, which houses the newsroom.
All of my previous articles for the various small newspapers that have seen A. Markham''s advice as fit to print have been sent by post, and so for the first time in my life, I set foot in a newsroom. I am immediately, irrevocably, in love. The newsroom feels like a living, breathing entity, the pulse in the air vibrating with excitement. There is shouting and keys tapping, and I''ve never heard more glorious sounds in all my life. Rolltop desks fill the room. Placards on the walls that say: "Accuracy, Accuracy, Accuracy! Who? What? Where? When? How? The Facts--The Color--The Facts!" surround the perimeter of the newsroom. Peeking out between the placards, windows reveal the city below, and beyond, a view all the way to the East River, New York City in all her muck and glory on proud display.
It''s absolutely perfect. A man approaches me. "Can I help you, miss?" "I''m here to see Mr. Pulitzer," I reply. "I have an appointment." Due to his declining health, Pulitzer is reportedly rarely at his office, favoring his private homes or yacht instead, so I seized this rare opportunity for a private meeting. The man''s eyes widen slightly. "And your name?" "Grace Harrington.
" "Follow me, Miss Harrington." I walk behind him through the newsroom to Mr. Pulitzer''s office, struggling to keep from gaping at each new sight that reveals itself. And at the same time, with every step it becomes evident that I am the only woman in the newsroom at the moment, my appearance drawing notice from more than one quarter of the room. I tried on several outfits before I settled on this one: a sensible white dress with a light blue stripe, fine enough for such a meeting. For all of his success, the rumors that his family in Hungary was wealthy before he arrived in the United States, Pulitzer is a self-made man who understands the divide between rich and poor more than most, considering he''s experienced both strata. The man leads me into Pulitzer''s office and announces me before shutting the door behind me, leaving me alone with the newspaperman. Pulitzer rises from his desk for a moment until I take a seat, and then he follows suit after offering a polite greeting.
Pulitzer is a tall, slim man with a full head of red hair and a matching beard. His career in New York is distinguished--he served as a politician before he began running the World . Like my father, he fought with the northern states in the war. Pulitzer had been pulling back from his newspaper''s daily operations, but that was before William Randolph Hearst announced his presence on the scene, and the man who was an unmatched Goliath in New York journalism gained a competitor. In the days when Pulitzer anticipated retiring from professional life, he''s unexpectedly forced to wage a war for his paper''s supremacy. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Pulitzer." "I was most intrigued by your letter.
I admired your father a great deal when we served in the war together. I was sorry to hear of his death." There''s a pang at the mention of my father''s passing, one that hasn''t quite faded in the years since I lost him. I''m not proud that I''ve used their past friendship to secure this meeting, but the competition for a job as a reporter is fierce--particularly at a paper as popular as the World --and since my gender is already a hurdle I must overcome, why not even the odds a bit? "I confess, I was surprised when you asked for this appointment. While I admired your father when we fought alongside each other, it''s been many years. How may I help you, Miss Harrington?" "I''m here for a job if you have one. As a reporter. I''ve spent the last few years writing for smaller papers, getting experience where I could.
" I gesture to the leather folio in my lap. "I''ve brought samples of my work if you''d like to look at them. They''re not necessarily the kinds of stories I want to cover, but they''re a start." "Why do you wish to work here, Miss Harrington?" Pulitzer asks, making no move to take the folio from me. "Because of the stories you investigate, the impact you have. The World has one of the largest circulations in the world." Indeed, Mr. Pulitzer has just slashed the World ''s price to one cent, saying he prefers power to profits, circulation the measure by which success is currently judged.
"You have the opportunity to reach readers, to bring about change, to help people who desperately need assistance," I add. "I''ve admired the work you''ve done for years. You''ve long set the tone the rest of the New York newspaper industry follows. You''ve filled a gap in the news, given a voice to people who wouldn''t have otherwise had one. I''ve read the articles you wrote when you were a reporter yourself in St. Louis, and I admire the manner in which you address society''s ills. You''ve revolutionized the newspaper. I want to be part of that.
" "That''s all fine and good, but why should I hire you? What would you bring to the World that someone else wouldn''t?" "My gender, for one. A woman knows what it''s like to be pushed to society''s margins. There are some who might argue that a woman cannot do this job as effectively as a man. They would be wrong. Nellie Bly has proven that. You did, too, when you hired her." "And what do you know of Nellie Bly?" "You gave her a chance when others wouldn''t." "Cockerill gave her a chance," he replies, referring to his editor.
"With all due respect, Mr. Pulitzer, we both know this is your paper. You saw something in Nellie Bly. And now she''s gone, and you need another reporter who can take on the kinds of stories she did and can go places your male journalists can''t. What she accomplished at the Women''s Lunatic Asylum"--the words "lunatic asylum" fall distastefully from my mouth--"on Blackwell''s Island, going undercover like that, was nothing short of extraordinary. Those women''s lives have been changed because of Miss Bly''s courage and her daring. Those placards out there, the philosophy with which you run your newsroom--I promise to uphold it every single day I work for you." Pulitzer leans back in his chair.
"You''re plucky like Bly, I''ll give you that." "I am." "Your stepfather is Henry Shelton, isn''t he?" Pulitzer asks. "He is." "And how does he feel about his stepdaughter sullying the family name with something as common as work--as a reporter no less? Considering how the papers are vilified these days, I''d imagine he wants something very different for you." "He isn''t pleased," I admit. Pulitzer is silent for a beat. "I have to say, I admi.