by Gore Vidal
“He was the first to tell me about you.”
“Well, whoever he is, he’s a good customer. The girls do like him.”
“When he comes down, do tell him that Mr. Thomas Apgar is forever in his debt.”
“I will, sir.” Yes, I have appropriated the name of the Third Brother as my nom de guerre or rather d’amour. Since the proprietress is a devoted reader of the popular newspaper press, she is thrilled to have as her client such a kindly old gentleman as Mr. Thomas Apgar, whose son will soon be marrying a beauteous French princess. “That picture of her in Ritzman’s really quite takes your breath away!”
“I firmly believe,” I said Apgar-ishly, “that despite her being French, she will make my son a good wife.”
It is now the night of February 14—no, the morning of February 15—and our trunks have already been sent on ahead to Willard’s Hotel in Washington.
This afternoon, when confronted with the Fifth Avenue Hotel bill, I nearly departed this life. From January 5, when I paid our first month’s bill through February 14, we owed $1,800! or slightly more than half my present fortune, since I have received only a small advance from Jamie and nothing so far from the Ledger for The Last Days of Napoleon III. The Nation will pay me its few pennies for Cavour only upon publication. So I was in something of a panic. Fortunately, the Stevens-related Colonel was on the premises. He showed the bill to the manager, who admitted that there were serious errors in the addition. Eventually, mercifully, the total bill was reduced by close to a third.
“Why, we should be paying you and the Princess just for the advertising your being here brings us!” The Colonel was too kind; and I said so. After all, the Fifth Avenue Hotel is the place where presidents and kings stay.
“Well, Mrs. Stevens thinks the world of you. Come on. Let’s have an eye-opener.” The good Colonel led me into the Amen Corner.
“Just for a moment. We’re due at Mr. Peter Marié’s tea party.”
“You’re certainly meeting the whole kit and caboodle!” exclaimed the Colonel.
The elegant Mr. Marié is the Saint-Simon of New York. No, that is not quite right. McAllister is the one who worries about precedence. The exquisite Mr. Marié is more a masculine—well, fairly masculine—Madame Récamier, who wants single-handedly to make the art of conversation flourish on Manhattan Island. Each St. Valentine’s Day he writes his invitations in verse and expects one to answer in verse. A prize is given to the best acceptance poem as well as for other set pieces. He is a gallant if absurd old creature.
Those excluded from this particular social alp see only the absurdity or, as the Colonel said, “Hope you and the Princess won’t be too bored.”
“We are so tired that we are beyond boredom.” This is perfectly true. Each of us would like to sleep for a month. I dread the plunge into Washington society, which, I gather, is even busier than New York’s, as well as a good deal more raw.
At that moment Bryant entered the Amen Corner with several men, of whom one was the amiable Collector of the Port and another was Senator Roscoe Conkling, whose enormous torso always looks as if it is about to burst the tight stylish suits he affects. On this occasion Conkling towered over everyone save the Collector. The senatorial head is what lady novelists call leonine, and its thinning, wiry grey-red hair is brushed straight back from the broad forehead at whose center is a perfect curl, the celebrated hyacinthine lock. Beneath Olympian brow and ephebic twist of hair, the small light-coloured eyes are as alert as those of some jungle cat.
“Forgive me!” The Colonel leapt to his feet to greet the great men.
As I made my way past them, trying to look invisible, the ever-punctilious Bryant stopped me. “Dear Schuyler.”
I was required to receive one by one the introductions Bryant made. By accident I was so close to Conkling when we shook hands that my face was almost crushed into the proud tweed curve of the Senator’s upper belly or lower chest, the two having long since merged to make a Republican colossus. Happily for me, he smells most appetizingly of violet water and good cigars.
The other men proved to be leaders of the state’s regular Republican party. Known as the Stalwarts, they are the enemies of every sort of reform and hence fierce supporters of General Grant and of the spoils system. I suppose old Bryant must stay in with everyone, just as everyone must stay in, or try to stay in, with him and with the Post.
“Mr. Schuyler is an old colleague.”
The Stalwarts affected to know all about me except for Conkling, who had neither listened to my name nor looked at me. He stared over my head, lost in Olympian meditation.
Bryant was gracious. “Mr. Schuyler will be describing the Centennial Exhibition for us.” He added for my benefit, “It will be opened on May tenth.”
The genial Collector Arthur wanted to know: “When will you be going back to Paris, Mr. Schuyler?”
“Not until after the election. And my daughter’s marriage….” As I spoke I noted with some amusement that on the word “Paris,” Conkling’s head had gone abruptly from the heights to the foothills—that is, to me.
“Forgive me, Mr. Schuyler.” The ordinarily loud and resonant voice was now low and caressing. “I was so preoccupied that I didn’t hear your name properly.”
“But then we met so briefly last summer.” I was vague and self-effacing. “And you must meet so many people.”
“Not like you, Mr. Schuyler. And certainly not like your magnificent daughter…”
“I read that she is to be married into a good Republican family.” Bryant broke short a potentially dangerous exchange. Whilst our finest poet spoke of politics and Apgars, I could feel from Conkling a wave of almost electrical energy, of warning. The man’s animal force is impressive, even disturbing.
But Conkling’s secret is safe enough with me; not that there is much of a secret, since everyone in political life knows of his affair with Kate, including her husband. Fortunately, from the lovers’ point of view, Sprague’s recent bankruptcy has so aggravated his drinking that he is now as invisible as Conkling’s long-suffering wife, the reclusive matron of Utica, New York.
Tea and dinner with old Mr. Marié made a fitting coda to this phase of our New York life.
Emma and John arrived together, chaperoned by one of the grander Apgar female connections. I came alone, not expecting to remain much after the poetry and the tea. But when warned that I might not stay for dinner, Mr. Marié was insistent. “You will find many of your literary confrères, awaiting you with such eagerness! Or as Racine would say…” And he said something that Racine had indeed written and in an accent that Racine might almost have understood.
Surprisingly, the master of “tong” was not present, nor was his Mystic Rose. Since most of the non-literary guests were exactly the same set that I have met night after night, I asked Denise Sanford why the Sovereign had stayed away.
“Because the other one’s here,” said Denise. “The real one. And he’s here too.” Then she presented me to Mr. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor III. A bit younger than I, Mr. Astor looks not at all like his grandfather. He is slow but agreeable, and much too red in the face.
Mrs. J.J. Astor is from South Carolina, and droll. “Every day we follow your career, Mr. Schuyler. In the newspaper press. We were particularly delighted by your daughter’s engagement because it will keep her here and we need all the grace and beauty we can get. Of course, my husband and I have been longing to meet you but there was no way.”
“Nothing could be simpler, Mrs. Astor—”
“Nothing could be more difficult, Mr. Schuyler. In New York, it’s first come first serve. And Lina”—the family diminutive for the awesome Caroline Schermerhorn Astor!—“got you first. So we must just wait our turn.” I found her delightful, and rather wish we had not been taken so quickly and so firmly in hand by McAllister, since the other Astor house seems in every way more appealing t
han that of the Mystic Rose.
I spoke to Stedman and his wife; to the Gilders (manly sister as well as girlish wife). I met Bayard Taylor, a large professional sort of writer; his verses for the evening were most charming and won the first prize. My own doggerel was read aloud by Mr. Marié, stresses in all the wrong places. Nevertheless, the company applauded.
Bryant came for tea and then departed. As America’s highest-paid poet, he did not write anything for the occasion. I don’t blame him.
For me the pleasantest part of the evening was sitting beside Denise on a wide Turkish leather cushion. Small, rosy, quick to comprehend everything, I like her easily the best of our new acquaintances.
“How do you find hotel life alone?” I asked.
“It is like heaven!” Obviously no grief for the departed husband. “No servants to worry about, no menus to prepare, no invitations to send out. I simply lie in bed all day and read, or look out the window and watch the snow fall in the park. And wait for Emma’s visits.”
“Which are daily, I gather.”
“Would that they were! We are addicted to one another. She does me more good than any of the doctors. Her imitation yesterday of the Mystic Rose made me laugh so much that my doctor was furious with her, since I am not to be overstimulated.”
I wanted to ask just what it is that is wrong with her but did not dare, nor has Emma been very enlightening other than to say that Denise suffers from an unnamed feminine complaint of no great seriousness.
“I don’t know what I shall do without Emma. And you.” She treats me like a favourite uncle and I feel old, but then I am old and better to be a favourite uncle than no relation at all.
“When you go South you’ll come through Washington, won’t you?”
Denise shook her head. “If I go South, Bill’s boat will come and collect me. Sea air, the doctor says, is what I need. I must say I do hate sea air. I’m sure it’s most unhealthy. Look at the natives who live all year round at Newport, Rhode Island. They’re forever ill. That is, if they haven’t died in childbirth.”
“The men, too, or just the babies and their mothers?”
Denise’s laugh is loud and unaffected. “I don’t think my conversation is quite up to Mr. Marié’s high standards. But children are on my poor muddled mind. You see, I can’t have a child.”
“Do you really want one?”
“Oh, yes! That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
“I’m glad that Emma was born, but that was just luck. Most parents are as little fond of their children as their children are of them.”
“That’s your evil old Europe.”
“I was thinking of the Vanderbilts.”
“That’s your evil new rich!” She was prompt. “Anyway I am not to have children, it seems. In fact, should I ever try again, I am very apt to die.” This was matter-of-fact.
“Do you believe the doctors?”
“I believe my own past experiences and they have been absolutely dreadful.” She shuddered; then realized the impropriety of such a subject even between old uncle and favourite niece. “Besides,” she said, “I have been assured of my fatal flaw by a leading authority and friend of yours.”
“Who can that be?”
“Why, Madame Restell. Bill told me he saw you there the other night, with silly young Bennett.”
I was startled. Does Sanford tell his wife everything? About the cigar stores, too? “I thought husbands didn’t tell their wives about their visits to Madame Restell.”
“I think it’s the other way round.” Denise was sharp but amused. “Bill tells me whenever he goes there. Besides, Madame Restell and I are old friends.”
“You have deeply shocked an old man.” I moved away from her in mock horror, and almost fell off our leather cushion.
“Oh, dear!” Denise gave me a dazzling smile and a soft arm to steady myself with. “Well, it’s not as bad as it sounds. You see, Madame is really a very good doctor—”
“With a degree?”
“Who knows? Who cares? What’s important is that she has spent her life doing her peculiar job very well and many ladies like myself go to her.”
“In order to be able to give rather than to prevent birth?”
“In my case, yes.” Denise frowned. “She’s a kind woman, and very direct. I am not to be enceinte ever again. Those are her orders.”
“Is this such a burden?” I was, I suppose, shockingly intimate.
“Obviously not to my husband, who travels such a lot.” She was every bit as blunt. “Anyway I am used to the idea of not having children. In a way, it is a blessing. I have fewer means of boring others.” She laughed, and so did I. One of our ongoing jokes is the way that the fine New York lady only comes to life (relatively speaking) when she has got the subject round to her litter.
Curious, come to think of it, the detached manner in which Denise discusses her most intimate problems. I cannot tell if she is as detached and as cool as she seems. I suspect that she possesses naturally and to perfection that histrionic gift her husband so entirely lacks despite constant practice.
“I have, really, the best time of any one I know. I have my friends old and”—she tapped my arm—“new. I have a thousand interests, and even if I didn’t, being responsible for the building and furnishing of 362 Fifth Avenue is a life’s work. No.” She refused champagne from a waiter. I accepted a glass. “I only worry sometimes about Bill. He does not use himself in the right way.”
“You would have him in an office downtown making even more money?”
“Oh, no! There’s quite enough of that going on without Bill joining the wolf pack. Besides, we have more than we need. It’s just that I wish he would really do something. Take advantage of our—of his place.”
“Boats, hunting…”
“Not enough for a clever man. And he is clever. I know that you think him stupid…”
“How do you know that?” I stupidly answered, unprepared for the charge. “I mean, I don’t think him at all stupid,” I stammered; and spilled champagne. The tremor that comes and goes is confined only to the right hand. What does that mean?
“Oh, you do! I can tell. So does Emma. It’s his manner. You see, he’s not known many intelligent people in his life. Neither have I,” she added quickly. “But I think I’m more at ease with those cleverer than I. Certainly, I want to be in their company as much as possible, while Bill is shy, feels that he must pretend to be whatever he thinks the other person wants him to be—usually a railroad magnate. I shudder for him sometimes. Particularly when he is with you or Emma.”
“But we like him. Not,” I added firmly, “as much as we like you.”
“I did want you to say that!” The girl beamed at me. “I feel that I’ve known the two of you all my life. Would that I had! This”—Denise glanced at Mr. Marié’s charming fussy rooms filled with tame writers and painters as well as with quite un-tame magnates and their wives—“is really the very best that we can do. And it is not chez Princess Mathilde, is it?”
“There are longueurs at Paris, too.”
“Not like here where there are no courteurs? Is there such a word?”
“There is now. You’ve invented it!”
“Well, I shall want you and Emma all summer at Newport, Rhode Island, and the days will pass like minutes as we enjoy our courteurs.”
“But Mr. Sanford…?”
“I hope…I think he will enter politics.”
“Good God!”
“I’m one of the few ladies who do not pretend to mind having Senator Conkling as a dinner partner.”
“I should’ve thought that that huge beautiful creature would be in great demand.”
“Not with the likes of us who want nothing from Washington. And, of course, the poor goose is so very vain.”
“And you would want your husband to be
like Mr. Conkling?”
“In his own way, yes. It’s not the fashion, of course, for people like Bill to go into politics. Why should he? Why should any of us? After all, we buy the senators who buy the elections. Even so, I think Bill is well suited for that life. And it would give him an interest.”
“Would you like to live at Washington?”
“Heavens, no! I should be like Mrs. Conkling and cultivate my garden the way she does hers in—where is it? Utica!”
Emma and I both agreed that we are sorry, all in all, to be leaving New York.
“But then Washington will be an adventure.” Emma is in enormously good spirits.
“For me certainly.” I have not told her how much I dread the work that I must do. Daily I receive memoranda from Jamie. Lists of people I must meet, as well as keys to the locks of innumerable cupboards containing political skeletons.
Fortunately, I am caught up in all my other work. The truly dreadful piece on the Emperor’s death is written. The long and perhaps overintricate analysis of Cavour and the House of Savoy is in Godkin’s hands at The Nation. The campaign biography of Governor Tilden waits upon his nomination: Mr. Dutton was firm about that. Meanwhile, Bigelow and Green have set advertisement-concocters to work, assembling the raw material for a book.
I have also had several unsatisfactory meetings with a lecture agent who insists upon reminding me at regular intervals that I am not Mark Twain. I tell him that this pleases me more than not, but subtlety is lost on him. He thinks that I can do well on the lecture circuit if I stick to the dresses and hair styles of the Empress and her court. When I finally balked at this, loftily told him, “You should really book not me, not a political writer, not an historian, but my daughter the Princess d’Agrigente.” The little man was all afire. “Would she do it? I can get her twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights.”
Emma was much amused. “If worse comes to worse, I can keep us both. Perhaps I will. Poor Papa, you work too hard.”
Just now, as I was writing in this book, Emma came in to say good night. She kissed my cheek, as always. I kissed her hand. “October,” she whispered. “Not June. John’s agreed.”
