San Francisco and the Earthquake of 1906

Martinez

His life in San Francisco was one of continuous work — Torrey and Atkins were his dealers, and MacBeth in New York. Everything went smoothly until the earthquake. About two weeks before the earthquake, my father took me to meet Marty at Coppa's. I was a bit shy and as I walked with my father down the long lane between the tables, the hubbub died down and all the patrons stared at me while Marty rose, gave me a hidalgo's greeting — a deep bow and a graceful hand kiss — a delightful compliment to my beauty. I was overwhelmed but managed to be gracious in return and I knew then Marty would play a large role in my life. Now an old lady, I can recall and repeat the impression I made at that time. I had a natural beauty from living outdoors and living in books with a vivid interest in ideas and life and really unconscious of the beauty that meant so little to me. Thanks to my father who permitted me to be in his study from ten years on to listen to his friends — scientists exploring or expounding their theories, writers examining and criticizing each other's work, engineers and entrepeneurs

---

from the Arctic or the tropics analysing their problems or graphically describing life in the rough — and so had absorbed a rich background.

So, Marty had a chair brought for me next to him at the artist's table. For the rest of the evening he paid his entire attention to me, making sketches of me and planning for a portrait he must do at once. So, though somewhat bewildered by the attention I was getting, I quietly gave Marty a willing listener and was delighted to sit for a portrait when my father agreed I could sit. A week-end later, the day he set for my first sitting, the earthquake had shaken up my plans and interrupted the budding romance.

The night of the earthquake, a cataclysm for San Francisco, Marty had spent the evening at the Bohemian Club and, in a blissful state from much libation, was wending his way, fanned by the cool sea breezes, through the silent streets down into the Latin Quarter. By the time he reached Montgomery Street, his sight had cleared enough to see a light in Champro's coffee shop. He dropped in for an hour of reminiscing of his student days in Paris while consuming another quart of "dago red". By the time he reached his studio, at four o'clock, he was wide awake and, sitting at his desk, was sketching and mulling over the next day's work. Suddenly his Michelangelo cast on the top of his bookcase shot into the middle of the room shattering into pieces and his mirror on casters (for his models) whirled about the remnants in a mad dance. Then, when his chair began to bounce, he muttered, "I can't be as drunk as that!", but the familiar sounds of crunching and cracking of separating brick walls recalled the earthquakes of his youth in Mexico and, instinctively, he shot into the entrance alcove, a safety measure in

---

Mexico, since arches were shelters from falling timbers. A bit shaken and with much trepidation, he watched the wall over his bed open out and with a tremendous crash, fall into the alley below. A gentle dawn, hovering over the sleeping city, shed its soft light into the studio and over the tons of bricks resting on his bed. The "shake" having subsided, he tried the door and found it jammed. Returning to his studio, he saw the horrified face of the Italian concierge leaning out the broken window of the building across the alley. While he stared in utter disbelief, Marty demanded help to get out of the building. After asking, "Is it really you, Mr. Martinez?", then satisfied that Marty was not a ghost, he told Marty to wait and he would come to let him out. Marty was the only person permitted to sleep in the building, so in a few moments the Italian and two assistants drawn from the crowd opened the jammed doors. Marty stepped outside to find the landscape changed — the Italian quarter was almost flat and Chinatown was mostly in ruins. Lines of frightened humans, the voluble Italian men gesticulating wildly and bellowing, the women praying before the ruins of their homes. A doctor and his assistants were working on the injured in the group at the corner. However, the loss of life was greatest in Chinatown in which great underground rabbit warrens housed large numbers of Chinese coolies, never really identified, their bodies stacked like cordwood in the public square.

Porter Garnett appeared to look for Marty. His head bound up, he related how the quake loosened a large ornamental Chinese platter on

---

the wall above his bed and, though it saved his life, hit him on the head and left a deep gash which was bleeding profusely. Leaping out of bed, the wall against which his bed rested separated and fell into the street. Calling the doctor in the room next to his, who while stitching up his scalp was telling him he had just heard that the Italian quarter was in ruins. Dressing quickly Porter rushed down to rescue Marty. (Porter Garnett gave us the beautiful platter as a wedding present later.) While talking they observed fires starting along the waterfront. The army was put in control and soon soldiers roamed the streets under orders to warn the citizens to move out because there was no water to fight the fires breaking out all over the city. So Marty grabbed a few of his treasures, mostly connected with Rosalia and carried them to a friend's house on Russian Hill nearby and returned to pick up some paintings to find a group of his friends holding a wake, certain Marty was lying under the ton of bricks. There was much rejoicing when he appeared. There was no time now to pick up anything. The army was on the job — the city doomed — all water mains broken — ordering everyone to go out to the park where temporary quarters were hastily being erected to take care of the crowds. Later, the fire devastated both hills and Marty's treasures were lost. A week later he learned the Montgomery block which also housed Hotaling's Whiskey was saved to protect the new Customs House, so his studio was intact. It was then that everyone was chanting Charlie Fields' "If, as some say, God spanked the town for being over-frisky, why did he knock the churches down and save Hotaling's Whiskey?"

---

A young officer told them there was a boat that could be reached at the wharf and advised anyone whose friends or relatives had a home in Oakland to take it. His friend, Vail Bakewell, a singer, insisted he come with him and Marty found himself in the charming home of a minister, his father. He was on his way to the Athens Club in Oakland when Marty ran across my father who persuaded him to come up to Piedmont with him. So, fixing him a studio in the old house, he settled down to enjoy life in the country for the week in which he waited for his studio in the Montgomery Block to be emptied and brought the contents to Piedmont.

Marty was a great friend of Willis Polk, the architect, who recounted his experiences of the earthquake to a group of us at the restored Coppa's. He had built the Chronicle Building, then one of the few modern steel supported buildings in San Francisco. While everyone was running about inspecting their buildings for strains, he was called to discover the source of strange sounds coming from the basement of the Chronicle Building. By the time he reached the spot the police had roped off a large area around the building, fearing it might collapse. He scanned the crowd while heading for the basement, found several of his workmen, called to them to follow him declaring, "This building cannot collapse if I get help!" They rushed after him into the basement in which were installed great jacks in case of a slight sinking or shifting, because the land all the way up to his building had been filled in land. As the men dashed about under his hectic directions spinning the wheels of the jacks, gradually the roar subsided,

---

the building stabilized, and no sounds issued from the basement — the building was saved. As soon as he got out of the basement his knees began to shake and he said, with satisfaction, "A narrow escape!", and congratulated his men on their courage to which a very large crowd applauded and declared him and his men heroes. Then the authorities having decided they must clear a strip of the town up to Van Ness Avenue to save the rest of the city, gave him the job of demolition. He was given a detail of soldiers to carry the dynamite, supplies and lanterns. Without anxiety or incident he demolished a scattering of old buildings and when about the tackle the last one noticed that his detail of soldiers were almost youngsters. Nervously they held the lanterns while he set the dynamite chargers, then absorbed in lighting the fuses with his cigar, finished, looked about, and realized the frightened youngsters had vanished with the lantern. For a moment he watched the sinister flickering and twinkling of the fuses and told himself, "If I don't remember where the door is I entered, I go up with the building!" He spent ten seconds in intensive concentration, recalling his route, then hurriedly crossed the basement and dashed out the entrance he figured was there. When a safe distance from the building, he was much shaken and declared it the "narrowest escape of his life" — his presence of mind and his memory had served him well and saved his life.