The House of the Prophet

by Louis Auchincloss

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Roger Cutter (1)

  Roger Cutter (2)

  Manuscript of Felix Leitner’s “My Youth and Parents,” Written in 1965 for Roger Cutter

  Letter to Roger Cutter from Heyward Satterlee, March 3, 1974

  First Chapter from the Privately Printed Memoirs of Frances Ward Leitner, “My Life and Law”

  Manuscript of Felix Leitner’s “The Versailles Treaty and Me,” Written in 1965 for Roger Cutter

  The Chapter on Marriage in the Privately Printed Memoirs of Frances Ward Leitner, “My Life and Law.”

  Memorandum of Grant Stowe Concerning the Partnership of Felix Leitner, Prepared in 1959 in Connection with His History of Dinwiddie, Stowe & Whelan

  Roger Cutter (3)

  Roger Cutter (4)

  Gladys Leitner’s Account of the Summer of 1938, Written for Roger Cutter in 1974

  Manuscript of Felix Leitner’s “My First Divorce,” Written for Roger Cutter in 1965

  Roger Cutter (5)

  Passages from the Paris Journal of Fiona Satterlee, April 1946

  Roger Cutter (6)

  Roger Cutter (7)

  Roger Cutter (8)

  About the Author

  Copyright © 1980 by Louis Auchincloss

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Auchincloss, Louis.

  The house of the prophet.

  I. Title.

  PZ3.A898Hp [PS3501.U25] 813'.5'4 79-21382

  ISBN 0-395-29084-8

  eISBN 978-0-547-79052-7

  v1.0613

  For Adele

  A prophet is not without honor,

  save in his own country and

  in his own house.

  —Matthew 13:57

  Roger Cutter (1)

  NOTHING is more shocking about old age than the speed with which even the most famous persons are isolated and forgotten. Felix Leitner had been a friend of presidents, of chiefs of state; his books and columns had been read by millions and taught in schools and colleges; his name had been mentioned in cartoon captions, in plays and even musicals, as the very symbol of the intellectual commentator, the detached political philosopher; and yet, in his eighty-third year, a “guest” at Mrs. Corliss’s small but select nursing home in McLean, Virginia, he was largely dependent on me for his books, his papers, his company and the management of such affairs as he had left.

  I do not mean to imply that Felix’s isolation was entirely the result of the world’s hardness or shortness of memory. Most of his old friends were dead or in similar condition. His daughter, Felicia, came dutifully, if rather noisily, once a month to call; the thinness of their relationship was as much his fault as hers. He had no wife, but then he had been twice divorced. And younger friends were put off by his sudden irrationalities. Some were secretly repelled; others wondered if it was worth their while to call, if he would even remember that they had. And McLean is a half hour’s drive from Washington.

  He had made a considerable recovery from the stroke that had for a month paralyzed his left side. He could walk again, though laboriously, and he had fair use of his arms. His speech was usually clear, though the wrong word sometimes emerged. But his brain was given to curious twists. Sometimes he would be rational for as much as fifteen minutes at a time, a strange shrill ghost of the old Felix; at others, he would take complete leave of reality. The alteration would come without warning, as in this interchange:

  “Roger, do you remember my address book?”

  “The red leather one? It’s with your other things in storage. Do you want me to get it out?”

  “No, but I want you to do something for me. It has an invaluable list of people who do things and fix things: you know, tailors, cleaners, upholsterers, caterers, and the like. I couldn’t get on without it. I want you to speak to my lawyer about putting it in my will.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I want to leave it to Harvard.”

  It never ceased to seem strange to me that I should be the person in the world closest to Felix. All of my life I had seen him through a barrier of older, more privileged people. As a boy, in Seal Cove, Maine, he had been the revered friend of my parents, the star of their circle. When as a young man I had been favored with his friendship, there had been nothing like intimacy. It had been the relationship of master and disciple. And even in the last years, when as his principal research assistant I had come to play a major role in his personal life, running his household, paying the bills and so forth, the factor of employment had placed a certain distance between us. But now, suddenly, I was “in charge of” Felix Leitner. And it was a position, too, that nobody disputed, nobody envied me.

  Except perhaps Julie Pryor. She had been the closest of his woman friends in the last years and had acted as his hostess at the little parties in Q Street. It had been she who had persuaded me that Felix should be moved to a nursing home.

  “It’s really not safe to have him at home, Roger, no matter how well you set it up. When the next stroke comes, he should be in a spot where there’s every sort of help available. I know just the place, too—Mrs. Corliss’s in McLean. It isn’t like a nursing home at all. Very comfortable, with only a few distinguished patients. Justice Kent went there, and old Senator Blandford. We can see him all the time and take him out for drives and meals. He might even come home if he gets better!”

  Of course, we both knew that Felix wasn’t going to get better. But I felt sick after this conversation with Julie. I had prayed that Felix would die before so drastic a step should become necessary. What I found hardest to bear was the speed with which one became accustomed to his present state. It was as if he had died and we had buried him and placed a crazy barber’s pole instead of a tombstone on the site. Sometimes, when I sat by him in his wheelchair, watching him stare at some inane family comedy on the television screen, I would almost shriek under my breath, “Die, can’t you! Die now!”

  But when he was moved to the nursing home, he seemed to improve, and I had to concede that Julie had been right.

  Mrs. Corliss was of Virginian origin, very distinguished, if one were to credit all she claimed. She was a little chirping bird of a woman, with raven-black dyed hair, a sharp knife of a nose and two plump hands that she was always clapping or clasping. Her establishment, a former private house, was all on one story with little oblong wings that protruded into a pretty garden and lawn. It had been “modern” when built in 1920. She could take six inmates, each of whom had a bedroom and living room. Meals were served on trays, but there was a large parlor and a dining room for those who were sufficiently “ambulatory” to use them. The furnishing was comfortable, miscellaneous, Victorian. The walls were covered with large bad landscapes and prints of historical scenes. The service was excellent, and the nurses did not wear uniforms. The “guests” did not see each other unless they wanted to. It was not unlike a small summer hotel.

  Felix seemed calmer after a few weeks in the place, and his mind was distinctly improved. But there were moments, perhaps when he sensed that he was never going to get
out of there, that he had terrible tantrums. I happened to be present when he threw a glass of tomato juice at the girl who brought him his tray. He had wanted some other aperitif. Mrs. Corliss appeared almost at once, as if she had anticipated the incident.

  “Now, Mr. Leitner,” she said in a firm but kindly tone, tapping the tips of her fingers together, “I think I had better explain to you one of our house rules. We are all ladies and gentlemen here, and we try to get on. Mary is going to have to change her dress, which will mean that Mrs. Lydig next door will have to wait another fifteen minutes for her lunch. Now we don’t want that to happen again, do we?”

  Felix stared at her with his mouth half open as if he did not understand. But when he spoke, he was perfectly docile.

  “It was an accident,” he said bleakly.

  And this was the great Felix Leitner!

  It was the time of Watergate. The funeral pyre of our presidency, providing as it did a flickering background for the decline of Felix, gave me a lurid sense of national conflagration. Although I had never been an admirer of Nixon, I found that for some curious psychological reason I tended to identify myself in his plight. As the months passed with their increasingly scandalous revelations, I felt some of the agony of our chief executive, twisting and turning, doubling back in his tracks, increasingly tangled in the mesh of his lies, an Emperor Jones alone in the fetid jungle of his misgovernment, listening to the ineluctable approach of the drums. Then I would imagine the president impeached, indicted, convicted, even jailed, standing, pale and haggard, in the corner of a prison yard while a circle of convicts mocked him. I fancied that there might be a kind of masochistic ecstasy in the sheer scale of such humiliation. The fall would be so awesome as to dwarf the crime.

  On Felix’s eighty-third birthday I arranged a little party in Mrs. Corliss’s parlor, with champagne and a cake, for some of the old Washington friends. There were only about a dozen there, including Gladys Leitner—Felix’s second wife—the faithful Julie and a nice young man from the Washington Post. Mrs. Corliss, very gracious, with an orchid pinned to her shoulder, glanced about among the elderly, perhaps in search of new recruits. Felix, neat and brushed, looked oddly young in his wheelchair. His snow-white hair was almost regal, and his long pale face and once so luminous skin seemed less blotched than ordinarily in these sad days. But when he rolled his large eyes you could see how bloodshot they were.

  The conversation was desultory, constrained. We talked, of course, of Watergate. Gladys Leitner took the lead.

  “Everyone seems to be so moral these days. I’ve never known anything like it! People who don’t hesitate to cheat on their spouses or their income taxes, people who can’t cross a border without smuggling something or fill in the simplest form without telling a lie, are suddenly very stern indeed about what goes on in the White House. It seems that in America only the president must obey the rules! But I fail to see why we should throw out an efficient administration for something that hasn’t cost us a single penny or a single drop of blood. What is it they say? ‘Nobody drowned at Watergate!’”

  Gladys had shriveled with age, yet you could see that she had been a handsome woman. She was dyed and wrinkled and bony, but there was still a distinct air of chic, a whiff of the daring twenties, in her high heels, her jangling bracelets, her husky voice. It was notorious that she had always regretted having left Felix, but he had never given her the chance to come back. Now she seemed to be challenging the precedence of Julie Pryor, who was talking to the Post reporter. Julie, nearing seventy, was still blonde, with a faded, lovely elegance, the very opposite of her rival. It might have been a diplomatic question between them: who ranked whom? The divorced spouse or the “friend”?

  “Did you hear that, Julie?” Felix demanded shrilly. “Did you hear what Gladys said?”

  “No. What, dear?” Julie responded in that gentle voice that seemed to make every relationship intimate.

  “She thinks Nixon shouldn’t be impeached!”

  “Oh, Gladys, how can you defend that terrible man? He’s disgraced us in the eyes of the whole world!”

  “Stuff and nonsense, Julie. You should spend more time away from Washington. Why, in Paris, where I’ve just been, everyone was asking me what ‘Monsieur Neexon’ had really done. They can’t believe a great nation would seriously consider cashiering its chief executive for spying on a rival political party. ‘Who doesn’t do that?’ they ask.”

  “It’s not the spying, Gladys. You can tell your Gallic friends it’s the cover-up.”

  “But if you spy, don’t you have to cover up?”

  “I’m afraid I find you very cynical.”

  “Perhaps Gladys finds you naive, my dear.” This was from Felix, who seemed to be playing his old game of setting one admirer against the other.

  “I do, Felix, I do!” Gladys affirmed.

  “What do you think, Mr. Leitner?” the man from the Post asked, to break the impasse.

  “Well, I can’t help having some friendly feeling for a man who has been so appreciative of my columns. I should hate to see him shot.”

  A nervous titter spread through the listening group.

  “Surely they won’t go that far!” Mrs. Corliss exclaimed.

  “Oh, but they will. You’ll see. They’ll back him up against a wall and riddle him with bullets, just the way they do in banana republics. Once Congress gets the bit in its teeth, you can’t stop them. They’ve always wanted to kill a president. Now they’ll do it.” Felix glared about the silent half circle. “But they’ll find they won’t like his successor any better.”

  “You don’t care for Mr. Ford?” the Post reporter asked.

  “Ford? Why should I care about Ford? I’m talking about that Greek fellow. What’s his name?”

  “Agnew?” The reporter relaxed, as one who recognizes that he is dealing with a lunatic. “We thought he had resigned his office. To escape indictment.”

  “What if he did? The act regulating the devolution of the presidency provides that if the chief executive be impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors, his successor shall be the vice-president elected to serve with him, if that vice-president be living and competent. Certainly your man Agnew meets those qualifications. Now, whether or not a previous resignation of office will bar his claim is a matter for the Supreme Court, but I suggest their decision in U.S. versus Elder is controlling.”

  The Post reporter turned to me, gaping, and whispered: “Is that so? I never heard it. What the hell is this Elder case?”

  I was happy to wrap another cloud over his misted vision. “Mr. Leitner is a great constitutional expert, you know,” I whispered back.

  His stare was followed after a moment by a little snort. “Come off it, Cutter. Who’s loony now?”

  Gladys Leitner sought to regain her lead. “It’s the Duke of Windsor all over again,” she opined. “Except there it was the conservatives who wanted to get rid of the king because of his socialist views. With Nixon it’s just the opposite.”

  I wondered if I could read contempt in Felix’s steady stare. He had always considered his ex-wife a goose.

  “I thought it was the religious issue,” Julie put in. “Surely if Mrs. Simpson hadn’t been a divorcée, he wouldn’t have had to abdicate.”

  Mrs. Corliss suggested that it might have been because the duchess was an American. She went on to say that if this were so, it was most unjust, as Wallis Warfield had been very well born—even, it was hinted, a distant relative of Mrs. Corliss.

  “You’re all wet!” Felix exclaimed with sudden loudness, and we all stared at him in surprise. “Mrs. Simpson could never have been an acceptable queen to the English,” he continued in something like his old clear, faintly grating tone. “They could never have stomached the fact that there were two living men who would have been privileged to state, even in the sacred precincts of a gentlemen’s club and without risk of being called out or expelled: ‘I’ve fucked the Queen of England!’”

  The
effect on the listening circle was as if somebody had broken wind. Never had I heard that word from Felix’s tongue. When it was necessary to be explicit, he had always used a more exact term.

  “Two men?” Julie asked. “What two men?”

  “Her first two husbands.” I explained.

  “But surely there have been queens who were widows,” she protested. “What about Catherine Parr? And queens who had lovers. Yes, there was that poor woman who married George the Fourth. What about her?”

  “No, no. I see it!” the Post reporter exclaimed with enthusiasm. “A widow would have been acceptable because her husband was dead. And if a queen had a lover who was crazy enough to make that boast in a club, he could be beaten up. Mr. Leitner is quite right. It’s the fact that those two men were entitled to say it! That a gentleman would have had to take it from them.” He turned to me and murmured, “It completely explains that whole abdication crisis. The old boy’s as much on the ball as ever!”

  I thought it was a good moment to tell Gladys Leitner that I wanted to ask her a favor. She nodded, and we moved to a corner of the room.

  “I’m going to write a book about Felix.”

  “You always were,” she said, with a sniff of hostility.

  “I’m going to write two, as a matter of fact. The first will be a university press kind of thing, a history of his thinking. The second will be much more personal, a picture of Felix Leitner, the man. It will be...”

  “A best seller, of course. A sensation! I suggest you get Warren Beatty for the film.”

  But I was determined to be patient. “It will be a serious book. Perhaps even more serious than the first. I want to tell the whole story. I want conversations, letters, everything. I want to reconstruct him, as best I can.”

  “And does Felix know this?”

  “He’s always known it. Ever since I became his principal assistant, back in nineteen fifty. He wants the whole truth told.”