ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, January 21, 1996 TAG: 9601200001
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: G-8 EDITION: METRO
DATELINE: SAN SIMEON, CALIF.
One Friday evening, during the six-mile bus ride up to Hearst Castle, a public address system blasted passengers with music from the Roaring '20s: trilling saxophones, waa-waa trumpets, simple tunes and lame syncopation. Then a crackle of annoying static broke in, followed by the sandpapery voice of an old-time announcer:
``Hearst Castle Radio is on the air! Decades in Review!
``It's 1919, and the end of the decade sees changes in the states, the nation and the world!
``Dateline: San Simeon, California. Along the rugged coast of central California, noted newspaper publisher William Randolph Hearst, 56, makes plans for improving his sprawling ranch by building something more comfortable than the tents he and his family have used over the years.''
The bus riders listened raptly, as if they had gathered around an old wooden Zenith radio on a Sunday afternoon. Private conversations stopped, and everyone fell under the spell.
Years slipped away, and according to the Walter Winchell-style narrative, Hearst's castle-building played a predominant role in every one of those years - although a few other things were going on as well.
``1920! Hearst replaces tents with cottages. Concrete work is completed on three guest houses, which occupy the traditional Hearst family campground high in the hills overlooking the Pacific Ocean. In the news: The 18th Amendment - Prohibition - takes effect.''
Obviously, the passengers that night were supposed to feel as if they had signed on for an excursion through history, into an era when gangsters had cachet, movie stars were truly glamorous and a free-spending publishing baron could summon the world's elite to his lavish, overdone, art-filled house.
The state of California, which owns Hearst Castle now, makes an admirable effort to flesh out the rococo old manse by conducting evening tours on Fridays and Saturdays with costumed characters simulating the carefree lifestyles of the rich and famous..
A male guide in a straw fedora ushered the passengers off the bus and handed some of them over to another guide, Mova Verde, who led the way toward the outdoor Neptune Pool. Verde wore a severe blue uniform that might have belonged to a Depression-era customs inspector, but her eyes glinted with mischief.
In the waning light provided by a bright-orange Pacific sunset, she gestured toward the aforementioned pool, its water clear as bootleg gin, its terraces slathered in marble and statuary - some of it '30s Moderne but most of it purchased from dealers specializing in Greco-Roman antiquities. The effect must have been exactly as Hearst and his architect Julia Morgan intended back in the '20s: a scene of unimaginable luxury, a pool that would overshadow even Hollywood's brightest stars.
Across the way, in silhouette, three women sat chatting at a table beneath a colonnade. Wearing 1930s dresses and skull-hugging chapeaux, they functioned as part of the tableau vivant that the park system has arranged for its weekend-night guests. Residents of nearby towns eagerly volunteer for this duty and pose free of charge.
``As we go through the estate on our evening tour, you'll see a lot of people in period dress,'' Verde said. ``It makes the place come alive a little bit more. But I won't be talking to them, and they probably won't be talking to us. Please don't think they're being rude.''
Instead, the tourists were allowed to imagine that they had stumbled invisibly into Hearst's regular party scene. Hearst commanded 27 newspapers, numerous magazines, radio stations and a movie studio, and therefore he could induce stars, athletes, world leaders and literati to hang out at his ``ranch.''
For half the year, Hearst Castle visitors of today must do their imagining in the daytime, choosing among four tours, each one covering a different aspect of La Cuesta Encantada (``The Enchanted Hill''). In spring and fall, out come the costumes for the special weekend evening tours.
But even in the daytime, guides make a valiant effort to pump up the glamour. One morning, Laney Brouwer ushered her group to poolside and conjured up a tantalizing scene: ``Winston Churchill might be floating around the center of the pool in an inner tube with a cigar in his mouth,'' Brouwer said. ``The Marx brothers might be doing a little water ballet for you near the shallow side. And you might see Gertrude Ederle, the first woman to swim the English Channel. She, of course, would be at the deep end.''
Daytime visitors enjoy touring Hearst Castle for a variety of reasons. Those interested in architecture and decoration can marvel at the extravagance and craftsmanship that went into Hearst's Mediterranean Revival-style Casa Grande and its three luxurious guest houses.
Aficionados of art and antiques examine Hearst's bewilderingly eclectic collection, ranging from priceless medieval tapestries and Grecian urns to Navajo rugs (none of it labeled, another reminder that this was an estate, not a museum).
In the milder months, amateur horticulturists file through the gardens, dazzled by the imported greenery, brilliant flowers and their improbably beautiful backdrop - the deep blue Pacific expanse of San Simeon Bay.
The evening tour, however, places more emphasis on the social aspects of this exercise in gross excess: Hearst Castle as playground. Once they had taken the train from Los Angeles or landed on Hearst's private airstrip, what kind of experience could his famous visitors expect?
``You were only invited once,'' Verde said. ``If you turned an invitation down, you would not get another chance, so you tried to make the time. I understand that Katharine Hepburn always regretted that she turned down her one invitation.
``Mr. Hearst invited Hollywood stars, yes, but also diplomats, aviation pioneers and anyone he might admire or find amusing. Charles Lindbergh was a frequent guest. Charlie Chaplin was here quite a bit.''
All day, the pampered swells could set their own agenda: tennis, swimming, horseback riding, strolling through the vast private zoo, or playing some billiards in W.C. Fields' favorite room - the one with the magnificent 16th century Norman tapestry depicting a stag hunt. Although Hearst derided golf as an ``old man's game,'' he would fly his golfer friends up to Pebble Beach for the day on his private trimotor plane.
At dusk, the host's expectations became more rigid. He managed to convey a certain sense of rectitude by strictly controlling the liquor consumption, the dining hours and the indoor games (``no hanky-panky,'' Verde noted).
The guide winked at her entourage and led everyone toward the main house. ``We haven't talked about the hostess. You haven't met her yet,'' she said. ``I don't know if you'll see her this evening. Sometimes the guests whisper a little bit about the scandal up here, but don't let it bother you. Everyone knows about Marion Davies and Mr. Hearst. Mrs. Hearst probably knows, too, but they're never here at the same time. Marion Davies had starred in 100 films by the early 1930s.''
In her coy way, Verde was referring to Hearst's mistress, whom he had plucked from the Ziegfeld Follies of 1917 and put to work as the star of mostly forgettable flicks cranked out by his own Cosmopolitan Productions. Mr. and Mrs. Hearst soon separated. Hearst and Marion Davies lived together - primarily at the castle - until his death in 1951.
And now the guide would reveal how some of the palmier evenings at La Casa Grande might have looked. She opened a side door to the cavernous Assembly Room, 2,300 square feet of opulence under an intricately carved ceiling, the walls decorated with dark wainscotting made from an old Italian choir loft. A massive stone mantlepiece extracted from a chateau in Burgundy was flanked by medieval tapestries larger than the average lawn.
``It's right after sunset, so I'm sure Mr. Hearst is going to be waiting for us,'' Verde whispered. But the host was not in evidence. Instead, people reclined on the couches or sat in easy chairs, reading 1930s magazines, while a white-jacketed butler glided around the room with a tray of the heavily rationed cocktails. Some women chatted and idly worked on a jigsaw puzzle on the south side of the hall. On the north side, two couples played poker.
Hearst presided over his domain like a middle-brow king, and most of his orchestrations took place in the Refectory, the massive Middle Ages dining hall immediately behind the Assembly Room - baronial, heavy with carved wood and lightened only by the colorful horseracing banners from Siena that hung along each side of the long table.
Members of the tour group had arrived too early for dinner, so they could only imagine, with Verde's help, how that part of the evening would go. ``This was a ranch, and Mr. Hearst expected to have a very casual dining style,'' she said. ``This is where you got all your meals. There was no room service! He even used paper napkins, plain stoneware china. They would eat cheese and crackers here. Mr. Hearst liked poultry - from the poultry ranch down below, quail and pheasant and wild turkey. If you were here on Sunday, you got ice cream, Hearst's favorite.''
A plain bottle of Heinz ketchup and a yellow jar of French's mustard near the host's midtable place-setting underscored the informality of it all. They next trooped through the kitchen, a cold, hotel-style facility softened only by the '30s-era condiment jars and baking powder boxes (all props) that had been scattered about.
Upstairs, the guests walked past a few of the 38 bedrooms and 41 bathrooms (all of the latter featuring the latest in plumbing fixtures, the controversial ``French Cascade,'' or overhead shower). In one bedroom, an impeccably groomed middle-age man slipped on his suit jacket. In another, two women conversed, while another placed a phone call. The rooms were small, though lavishly appointed, but still a status rung below the quarters available in the three guest houses, which are mansions themselves.
Hearst executives and unescorted women usually were assigned to bedrooms in the main house, the women for their own protection and the men for accessibility. Hearst typically worked through the early morning hours in the library of his private Gothic Suite one floor above, summoning his minions no matter the time.
Not a single costumed ``guest'' cavorted in those hallowed chambers. A scowling portrait of the publisher as a young man loomed over the head of a long, polished table, surrounded by shelves holding nearly 4,000 books. Grecian urns, ranging in age from 2,300 to 2,800 years, lined the walls of an even larger library one floor below. The effect of both rooms is somber and intimidating.
Harpo Marx in his memoirs revealed that he and Marion Davies would sneak up to the main library when the boss wasn't around. They pushed the furniture aside and did cartwheels. ``Marion Davies liked to have a good time, and sometimes she did things that Mr. Hearst didn't approve of,'' Verde disclosed with a saucy smile.
Shortly, the tourists reboarded the bus, their faces registering awe, bemusement or mild disgust. A few them giggled. Then Bing Crosby came on the PA and warbled ``Hasta Maana'' while the bus tooled downhill under a planetarium-perfect black sky. There was nothing left to say.
LENGTH: Long : 191 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: SANDRA BROWN KELLY. 1. Most of the statuary surroundingby CNBthe Roman-style pool at San Simeon was purchased from dealers
specializing in Greco-Roman antiquities. 2. An exterior view of
Hearst's Mediterranean Revival-style Casa Grande. 3. Beautiful
craftsmanship and detail show in an intricately carved bed (left) in
one of the 38 bedrooms, and in the exterior of San Simeon (right).
4. A Roman-style building with columns (above) overlooks the outside
reflecting pool. color.
ROBERT CROSS CHICAGO TRIBUNE