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John K. Hutchens: Of Time and the River By Eve Berliner |
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The great John K. Hutchens. |
Johnny, age 12. |
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By Eve Berliner Like a fragile little bird,
he departed this earth gently, John Kennedy Hutchens, a poetic essence, a ray
of light, a grace. He was as if from another age, an age of gentility and
deep personal honor, a fineness of spirit to this quiet mischievous soul
whose heart belonged to history and language. He saw through the
eyes of his childhood until his dying day, 18 days before his 90th birthday,
the wondrous adventure of it all. Born The boy, seven or
eight years of age, sitting impatiently on the office boy's bench on Saturday
morning, his heart racing, waiting for his father to take him to lunch and on
to Comiskey Park, home of the Chicago White Sox! And the roar of the
ballpark exploded in his mind as the White Sox took the field against the
Detroit Tigers that hot summer day in July,1913, his first major league
baseball game, his father by his side. "That man
there," said his father, "is as great as any player you'll ever
see. His name's Ty Cobb." His father, the most
profound influence of his life who lived on vividly in his mind and spirit to
the day he died, the dream of being a newspaperman born with his father. * * * The Great Move from
Chicago to the Wilds of Montana came in the year 1917, John eleven years of
age, and thus began his life-long romance with the Old West, its history, its
characters, its lore forever ingrained in his secret rogue's heart, the
breathtaking beauty of the American landscape indelible in his mind. His father had made
his first journey to the lawless terrain of Lewis and The voices, the voices
that lived on in his mind, the boy at a respectful distance as the old men
gathered on the old courthouse lawn, men in their 90's some of whom fought in
the great Civil War, the old Northern Union Army men and Southern Confederates. "I fought at "I fought at "I fought for the
North," said the first. "I fought for the
South!" Suddenly two old
fierce men were rushing at one another, lunging with old fury, only at the
last moment throwing their arms around each other embracing and weeping. * * * He was eminent in the
world of books, John K. Hutchens, a man of the word, a man of literature, a
man of history -- editor of the New York Times Book Review, daily book
reviewer for the venerable New York Herald Tribune, Judge of the Book of the
Month Club in its glory days. "By John K. Hutchens", a byline of
distinction, revered. But above all, he was
a newspaperman. It was in his blood. His 70 year career
began auspiciously in the small offices of The Daily Missoulian and Sentinel
in His first byline at
age 17 came on July 4, 1923, the world heavyweight championship fight between
Jack Dempsey and Tommy Gibbons in a tiny oil town named Shelby, Montana, John
covering the story for The Missoulian-Sentinel, the fight attended, among
others, by 100 Blackfoot Indians and the former Mrs. Vanderbilt. ("Oh, were you
there too?" Mr. Dempsey commented in his In 1926, at age 21, he
joined the staff as a reporter. But it was the East
that was to lure him away, New York City the Mecca, John landing a job in
1927 at the old New York Evening Post published by Syrus H.M. Curtis,
beautifully printed in its old classical style, a fine journal, rising from
reporter to film critic to assistant drama editor, and living the romantic
life of an aspiring young newspaperman in Gramercy Park. The notoriously
meager wage paid by Mr. Curtis prompted his departure from the Post to join
the staff of Theatre Arts Magazine (1927-28), where he became assistant
editor. In 1929, the year of the crash, he moved to the New York Times as
drama critic and member of the drama staff, leaving in 1938 to become drama
critic for the literate and prestigious Boston Evening Transcript (1938-41)
where he had the good fortune of working with the esteemed Brooks Atkinson. Returning to the New
York Times in 1941 as radio editor, he was appointed assistant editor of the
New York Times Book Review, rising to become its editor in 1946 until his
profound misery with Lester Markel, Sunday Editor, drove him to the beloved
arms of the great New York Herald Tribune (l948) where he became columnist,
reviewer and finally daily book reviewer. In 1962, he left to become a member
of the board of the Book of the Month Club for the ensuing 25 years, John one
of five Judges to make selections for the Club that would propel a book to
acclaim and instant best sellerdom. John K. Hutchens was
himself the author of "One Man's * * * A remarkable array of
characters that passed through the life of John Hutchens, so many memorable
events and encounters: The young man working
furiously on a review of a Broadway theatre opening, the hour late, deadline
drawing near, the Times drama department deserted, suddenly sensing a
presence standing behind him, hovering over him, watching. "What do you
want?" he barked. "Why are you standing there?" And he turned. It was
old man Ochs, the publisher! He gasped! "You're perfectly
right," replied Mr. Ochs. "I'm terribly sorry," and quickly
walked away. The hanging -- it
remained with him to the end -- his father compelling him against the wishes
of his mother to witness a public hanging in the town square, the poor wretch
struggling at the end of the rope for several long minutes before the end
came, a recurring nightmare for John throughout his life. The confrontation of
the 10-year old with the Great Grizzly Bear of Glacier National Park, John
stealthily stealing away from the dangerous mom and her cubs, never turning
to look back. And the interview he
cherished with special delight -- his fascinating talk with the great and
miserable Ty Cobb, the nemesis of the Chicago White Sox whom he loathed and
loved (Cobb still holds the highest lifetime batting average of all time at
.367). Cobb's own personal All-Star team notable for Shoeless Joe Jackson,
Babe Ruth, Tris Speaker, but failing to include himself, Cobb unusually
gentle with John Hutchens -- John brought out the best of him. The imposing presence
of William Jennings Bryan was a familiar figure in young John's life. Bryan,
a friend of his father's would stop off for dinner with the Hutchens' family
in Illinois en route from Nebraska to Washington, D.C. where he was Secretary
of State for Woodrow Wilson, Bryan with two struggles against McKinley for
the Presidency (1896 and 1900), his fiery "Cross of Gold" speech
and oratorical power renowned. "Shouldn't I be
getting 16 of these?" young Johnny inquired demurely upon receiving a
silver dollar from Mr. Bryan. He received "a dozen of the best
ones" from his father for that impudent remark. And then there was
Grandma Hutch, born upstate "I thought Mr.
Lincoln was great," she told her grandson who'd come down to visit with
her from She was a devout
Democrat, as was John, his first Presidential ballot cast for Alfred E. Smith
in 1928. * * * So many he loved, so
much, his beloved wife Ruth and his Mistress Quickley (his Shakespearean
cat), little Hamilton College (four generations of Hutchens got off the train
in upstate Clinton, New York), Brooks Atkinson, "one of the four or five
rare people I've ever known"; American politics, the grand old game of
baseball (disillusionment at the end), the old New York World with its
astonishing array of writers (Heywood Broun, H.L. Mencken, Ring Lardner,
Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woolcott, etc. etc.), the New York Herald Tribune
("Where else could you have had so much fun for so little money?"),
and the venerable New York Times. He was a voracious
reader to the end, re-reading the old classics that he loved -- Mark Twain his
favorite, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Shakespeare, Boswells' Johnson, Joseph
Conrad, Herman Wouk. The old classics sustained him, 34 books around his bed
when he died in the early evening of He is a part of
history now. I see him still in his
little bow tie and walking stick, frail but hardy, his conversation full of
wit and urbanity, deep human sympathy, (the intermittent joke about Millard
Filmore, Chester A. Arthur or Grover Cleveland notwithstanding), great human
curiosity, affection, a man of immense and tender kindness, a noble beautiful
man, a rare one in this life, a gift. |
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