Empire: A Novel

by Gore Vidal

  TWELVE

  – 1 –

  BLAISE stared a moment at the door to the house in Lafayette Square, exactly opposite the White House. All in all, he decided, it was a tribute to the energy and colorfulness of Theodore Roosevelt that this less than splendid house, formerly rented by Elihu Root, was now occupied by Representative William Randolph Hearst. Plainly, it was Roosevelt’s powerful magnetism that drew to sleepy backward Washington Hearst and himself, not to mention the likes of Elihu Root, now gone back to New York to practice law, his place as secretary of war more than amply filled by that human mastodon William Howard Taft, the President’s most trusted adviser on the Philippines, where he had reigned in viceregal splendor during the … whatever it was: no one had yet come up with the right word for the violent resistance of so many Filipinos to Yankee rule. As of February 1, 1904, a week ago, Taft had become secretary of war, complaining bitterly to everyone that he would not be able to live on his salary; yet while every office-holder made the same complaint, everyone accepted office and, somehow, got by, thought Blaise, cynically.

  The familiar corpulent George opened the door, just as if they were still in a real city instead of this curious Southern village. “Mr. Blaise, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Over the years, George had come to regard Blaise as the Chief’s young brother, or even son, a role Blaise had never once had any desire to play. But play-act both men must, the omnipotent Hearst, publisher now of eight papers (Boston had surrendered), and the wealthy Blaise, who had still to make his mark at anything, particularly since yesterday’s disastrous fire had destroyed his Baltimore printing press. Although Hapgood had made arrangements with a new press, the Examiner would not appear for several weeks.

  Hearst sat, enthroned, in the wood-panelled study, listening to a small and—to Blaise—perfectly appalling Georgian named Thomas E. Watson, who had served a term in the House, as member of the Farmers’ Alliance; been vice-presidential candidate of the Populist Party; might now be the Populist candidate for president in 1904. Currently, Hearst was desperately wooing him to support the Democratic Party—and Hearst, who was weak in the Godly South, thanks to the aura of scandal about his name; yet, practically speaking, Hearst was the closest thing, politically, to a socialist or Populist among the national possibilities. Certainly, he appealed to Watson; but then Watson appealed to Watson even more.

  Jim Day was seated on a sofa facing Hearst; he greeted Blaise with a smile; and continued to listen to the tiny fiery Watson, who stood at the room’s center, declaiming. Blaise’s entrance was made little of. Hearst waved him to a chair. Watson ignored him as a preacher would a late-comer to a revival meeting.

  “I dedicated my book on Thomas Jefferson to you, Mr. Hearst, because I see you as Jefferson’s heir, politically, that is.”

  “Lucky for me.” Lately, Hearst had begun, tentatively, to tell jokes. “He didn’t leave a cent when he died.”

  “That’s to his eternal credit.” Watson’s blue eyes flashed, unamused. “I’m writing biographies of my—and your—heroes, Jackson and Napoleon, and I’ll dedicate them all to you if you continue to fight the good fight for the people, just as they did, against the trusts, the Jew bankers, the idolatrous papists, and all the rest of the foreign element that keeps down our people, the original people of this republic.” There was more in this vein. Hearst listened patiently. At the Democratic Convention in July, Watson could swing the Southern delegates to Hearst, and the nomination; at election time, Watson was worth five million votes to the nominee. But would Watson himself be a Democrat in July? or would he be the candidate of the Populists? Blaise did not envy the Chief. From what Blaise could tell of the American people—glimpsed, admittedly somewhat askew, through their tribunes—they tended to sectarian madness. Religion ran like poison through their veins, followed by—or mingled with—racism of a sort undreamed of in wicked old Europe. There was always a “they” at whom a pejorative verb could be launched, automatically transitiving “they” to the ominous all-evil “them” who must be destroyed so that Eden could be regained. Blaise would rather be a humble worker in his father’s encaustic-tile plant at Lowell, Massachusetts, than president of so strenuously mad a country as the United States. He could not fathom it; did not want to; marvelled that Caroline had got the range of the place, and all without in any way becoming one of—yes, them.

  Watson spoke for another half-hour; then, with a peroration on the absolute necessity, if the United States were ever to know greatness, of a rural free mail delivery service, he stopped. “Mr. Watson,” Hearst rose; he towered over the tiny orator, “I have admired—even simulated you …”

  “Emulated,” Blaise murmured automatically to himself. The Chief was still having his problems with English. “Now I know we can do great things together this summer, fall, forever. But where I need you—really need you—is your working for me. No, that’s wrong, I’d be working for you, for your ideas, if you’d only take over as editor of the New York American. You’re a natural.”

  This was exceptionally well done, thought Blaise. The Chief was learning. Watson expressed gratitude for confidence placed; but did not, quite, take the bait. After more compliments exchanged, Watson left. Hearst sighed.

  “Hard work,” said Blaise.

  “He’s a wonderful orator,” said Jim. “But if you’re not a crowd, he’s pretty tiring.”

  “What do you think, Jim?” Hearst turned to Day. Blaise was, suddenly, completely jealous. They were on a first-name basis, something rare for Hearst to be with anyone. Of course, Jim was Hearst’s senior in the House of Representatives; even so, it had taken a year before Hearst had called Blaise by his first name.

  “I think Colonel Bryan’s going to try again, and I’ll be with him, as always, and he’ll fail to be nominated, so I guess you’ll be the candidate—or Cleveland, if he’s in a Lazarus mood.”

  “Cleveland’s really dead.” Hearst turned to Blaise. “You know, I got on the Labor Committee, over Williams’s dead body.” To Jim: “How do you get a bill passed in the House?”

  “First,” said Jim, “you get somebody to write it for you. Then … Well, Congress isn’t at all like a newspaper.”

  “I figured that one out. But,” Hearst pointed toward the White House, “that place is. Roosevelt’s just like me, storming around, making news …” Hearst turned to Blaise. “Sorry about the fire. I guess you’ll start up again, won’t you?”

  “Next week. There’s a chance that Caroline might sell me the Tribune.” Caroline had been, even for her, unusually intricate on the subject. He knew that she needed money to pay John Apgar Sanford’s debts. On the other hand, if she could hold out for a year, she would have her share of an estate that kept growing, despite the money he was pouring into his Connecticut Avenue Italianate palazzo. Blaise had put Houghteling to work, increasing the pressure on Sanford’s edgy creditors. If a crisis could be provoked …

  “I’d love to get my hands on that paper.” Hearst was wistful. “She’s made a go of it. Amazing. A woman.”

  “Galling! My own sister.”

  “She even understands politics.” Jim made his contribution. “Kitty really likes her,” he added. “Kitty’s the politician in our family,” he added to his addition.

  “I want to investigate the coal-railroad monopoly,” Hearst announced, more or less at Jim. “I’ve spent sixty thousand dollars of my own money, investigating how six railroads own eleven coal mines, secretly, and get this cheap coal, and then water their stock and sell it to the public, and the Attorney General, and that noisy fraud across the road, know all about it and they won’t do a thing.”

  Blaise rather liked Hearst’s editorial approach to politics. He rooted about for scandal; found it; publicized it. But now instead of just selling newspapers, Hearst might be able, with a scandal of this nature, to destroy the Administration. That was direct power.

  “You take this one to the House Judiciary Committee. I’ll show you how to go about it. But I do
n’t think you’ll be able to smoke out the Attorney General.”

  “Wait and see. You know, if I’m nominated, I’m going to give the Democratic National Committee one and a half million dollars for the campaign.”

  Jim whistled; then smiled. “Why after you’re nominated? Spread it around before and you will be nominated.” Hearst let that one go; he continued, “The idea is, the party, to raise money, won’t have to go to the railroads, to the trusts, the way they do when the candidate’s a conservative, with his hand out …”

  “And only five fingers.” Jim smiled at Blaise, who realized that he had never had a man-friend before, except the son of his now-retired mistress.

  “What?” Hearst was baffled.

  “A joke. Of ours.” Blaise was delighted by Jim’s “ours.”

  “Roosevelt,” declared Hearst, somberly, “has all sorts of luck.”

  “Except bad,” noted Jim. “There’s never been anything like him.”

  “I hate him, I think.” But Hearst’s thin voice sounded more wistful than passionate. “He calls me McKinley’s murderer.”

  “Why don’t you suggest that he hired that anarchist to kill McKinley so that he could become president?” Blaise improvised, for Jim’s amusement.

  “We were never able to find a connection,” said Hearst sadly, startling Blaise, who put nothing beyond the Chief, but this seemed to be, even for Hearst, a singularly grotesque caper.

  “Well, when in doubt, make something up.” Jim was cheerful.

  Blaise recalled, word for word, the latest Henry Adams characterization of William McKinley: “a very supple and highly paid agent of the crudest capitalism.” He decided not to repeat this to Hearst, who had accepted with his usual equanimity the fact that he would never be received at the other side of Lafayette Square.

  But Hearst was now discussing the joys of parenthood with James Burden Day. Since Millicent would give birth in two months, she refused to leave New York City for fear that any child born in the District of Columbia would grow up to be a politician. “Or Negro,” said Jim. “Law of averages.”

  George announced, “Miss Frederika Bingham,” to Hearst’s surprise. Blaise rose. “I asked her to meet me here. We’re going to look at my new house. She’s got ambition, as a decorator of houses. She’s read Mrs. Wharton’s book.”

  Frederika was cool. Hearst was courtly. Jim was friendly; he had met her a number of times. Blaise shook her hand.

  “My mother wants to know, Mr. Hearst, why you refuse to come to her congressional at-homes.” Frederika spoke to Hearst but kept her eyes on Blaise, who admired the ease with which she could handle any social situation. In this, she resembled Caroline, no recommendation, of course. Did he hate his sister? envy her? love her? He could never make up his mind. Certainly if he were the publisher of the Tribune, and she a mere society lady, they would probably get on. As it was, the primal emotion was, no doubt, envy.

  “I don’t know any congressmen,” said Hearst meekly. “Except Mr. Day and Mr. Williams …”

  “The Speaker,” said Jim, “swears he doesn’t know you by sight.”

  “So you see, I wouldn’t be at home, would I?”

  “All the more reason for coming to our house. Mother will introduce you to the right people. Mr. Sanford, I have only an hour …”

  They said their farewells; and got into the Binghams’ chauffeured motor car. “Did you hear about Cissy Patterson?”

  Blaise confessed that he did not know who she was; he was told; then: “Last week, after the wedding, the groom didn’t show up at the wedding breakfast in the Patterson house.” The Patterson palace was now directly in front of them as they entered Dupont Circle. “So Cissy was in tears, and a friend of the groom, this Austrian, went looking for him, and found him at the railroad station, buying a ticket for New York. Apparently, he had gone to his bank right after the service, and they had told him that the million dollars that he had been promised hadn’t been deposited.”

  “Did he go?”

  “He stayed. The check was still being cleared. I don’t think Cissy’s going to be very happy, do you?”

  Blaise said no.

  “I’d like to be like Caroline. Independent. With something to do.”

  “Having children’s quite enough to do.” Blaise was patriarchal; French.

  The Connecticut Avenue house was a vast and, to Blaise’s eye, most beautiful rendering in a modern way of Saint-Cloud-le-Duc, which he more and more missed. Neither he nor Caroline had returned, according to their post-Poussin treaty, and he was more than ever homesick while she was less; yet of the two, it was she who had loved the place more, and stayed on and on, while he had turned himself eagerly into a full-time American. Now they had reversed roles.

  A caretaker in a heavy overcoat let them in. The interior of the house was even colder than outside. Together they explored the double drawing room, adapted from Saint-Cloud; and the ballroom, copied from a castle of Ludwig of Bavaria. There was even a lift, which Frederika thought a mistake. “The poor Walshes thought they were so clever in putting their ballroom on the top floor. But the elevator could only hold four people at a time, so when the guests all arrive at once, the party takes forever to begin.” She laughed; he found her easy, something that most American girls were not. They tended to take command.

  But then, as if to prove that she, too, was American and managerial by nature, Frederika told Blaise exactly how to decorate the various rooms; and he was pleasantly surprised to discover that he did not in the least mind so much advice. As they talked, their mingled breaths like smoke in the icy air, Blaise thought seriously of marriage, not to Frederika, but to someone suitable, someone who would be able to look after the house, not to mention Saint-Cloud-le-Duc. Both Alice Roosevelt and Marguerite Cassini had appealed to him. But the first was far too self-important and the second far too Slavicly sly. Alice Hay had charmed him; but he had not charmed her, and she was now married to a New York Wadsworth. Millicent Smith, the Countess Glenellen, was not without a certain appeal. She had grown up in Washington; gone to school with Caroline; married the Earl Glenellen, from whom she was now separated after what was thought to have been the most exciting fist-fight in the history of the American embassy at London. Lord Glenellen had been knocked unconscious by the fragile Millicent, who later explained to the appalled ambassador that she had cheated, holding in her right fist, not the traditional street-fighter’s roll of coins, but a metal cigar container (cigar inside), which had added exceptional, if unfair, force to her blow. Millicent was also much admired for the strength of her character. Nevertheless, the more Blaise studied the field the less any one person appealed to him. He had considered going back to Paris; but that would have been an acknowledgment of defeat for him, and a victory for Caroline.

  “I’m freezing. And I’m late,” Frederika announced, as they made their way to the front door, where the watchman let them out. “Mother’s at home Saturday,” Frederika announced, as she dropped Blaise off at Willard’s.

  “I’ll be there,” he said. They shook hands, formally, and he went into the hotel. Why not, he wondered, marry Frederika? She appealed to him in an entirely practical way; that is, there was no passion of the sort that might end with a fist-fight in the White House’s Blue Room. She could certainly manage a dozen households. On the other hand, there was Mrs. Bingham, and all those cows. No, a Sanford must marry within that gilded circle where cows could be peripheral but never central, as in the Bingham case.

  – 2 –

  WHILE BLAISE brooded on cows, Caroline paid court to Henry Adams, as a dutiful niece now matured by matrimony. He seemed smaller, older, and definitely sadder. “The fire that destroyed your brother’s printing press also made molten my little book on the twelfth century.” He sighed, stretched out his hands in a propitiatory way toward the fire, begetter of molten typeface. “I shall have to delay publication, not that I really, ever, publish. The edition is only for me, and you, and a few others …”r />
  “Hearts?”

  “We are only three now.” He frowned. “I worry about Hay. He is being slowly worn to death by that maniac across the street, and that madhouse of a Senate. Cabot …” he began; and ended. “I’m in a cheery mood, as you can see.” He gazed at her reflectively. “Why do we never see Mr. Sanford?”

  “Because I thought it was the ageing Mrs. Sanford whose company you pretend to enjoy.”

  “Oh, no pretense. No pretense. I find it hard to talk to some of the new girls. But then I’m very dull. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. It’s your most attractive feature. If you were older, I might have married you instead of my cousin, who is merely—not attractively—dull.”

  Adams laughed his muted dog’s bark of a laugh. “You’ll do very well.”

  “Surely you like Alice.” Washington had taken to saying the name “Alice” with a slight pause between syllables, to denote that the Alice was meant.

  “I like her better than her father. But then I like everyone better than I like him. Last week, I went to my first White House dinner since 1878, during the sullen reign of Rutherford B. Hayes, where lemonade flowed like champagne. I was only asked because Brooks could not come. They needed an Adams, any Adams, while the President always needs a pair of humble ears. Mine were never so humble. He did not stop talking for two hours. The contents,” Adams smiled sweetly at Nebuchadnezzar eating grass, “of that mind confound me! All history is neatly on file in that great round Dutch cheese of a head. But—so generous is he that he will share all that he knows with anyone, no matter how humble. I was awed. Speechless. Poor John, what he must go through, day after day …”