Hollywood

by Gore Vidal

  TWELVE

  1

  Burden nodded, and shivered. Plainly, he was never going to go back to what he had been before the flu. He would simply go forward to the end. Glumly, he stared at the flag-draped pine-wood box that contained the remains of “the unknown soldier,” a current fetish all round the world as the world’s leaders interred the odd set of unidentified bones, thus honoring, as they liked to put it, the anonymous multitudes that they had sacrificed for nothing at all. The coffin had been placed on a bier hidden by floral wreaths. Burden wondered who—or what—was inside the box.

  On the stage at the center of the amphitheater, the world’s leaders or their military representatives were solemnly arranging themselves. They had been summoned to Washington for the Arms Limitation Conference. Harding had appropriated Borah’s original notion; then he had subtly maneuvered the entire American political establishment into accepting some sort of disarmament. Whether or not Harding and Hughes had brought round the foreign leaders would be apparent the next day when the conference began its work. Meanwhile, this celebration of the unknown soldier was carefully calculated to influence the public everywhere: never again would there be such a slaughter.

  Of the foreign dignitaries, the highest-ranking was Aristide Briand, the French prime minister, all in black, a contrast to the bemedalled military men that crowded the platform. Even the former British prime minister, Arthur Balfour, had found a gaudy uniform to wear. How the English enjoyed dressing up! thought Burden sourly. But then his mood was generally bad these days. Life was moving too fast for him or he too slow for it. He gazed without interest at Marshal Foch and Admiral Beatty, at Chinese and Japanese war-lords, their gold and silver braid glistening in the cold morning sun. Earlier, they had all paraded past the White House, and then, having hopelessly tied up traffic, the foreign contingent had somehow got across the Potomac to the cemetery, losing, according to Borah, the President in the process. “His car was last seen,” said the Lion of Idaho, with quiet satisfaction, “driving off the road and into the cemetery, a shortcut, you might say, to immortality.”

  Borah now sat next to Kitty, Mrs. Borah beside Burden. “Did you see poor Mr. Wilson?” Mrs. Borah had the look of an alert sheep.

  Burden nodded; and Kitty answered. The uses of a wife in politics were manifold. “He looked so shattered, sitting there in his car, with Edith, who looked so well. She’s taken off pounds, I’d say.”

  “Do you ever go see them?” asked Borah.

  “No.” Burden did not feel as guilty as he should. He had been the former President’s political ally, not friend. “I don’t think they particularly want visitors. He has his court.”

  “I wouldn’t go out in public if I was in such bad shape.” Borah was stern. Certainly the image of the frail half-paralyzed Wilson was an arresting one as he drove past the west end of the White House in the endless train of the unknown soldier. When Harding saw his predecessor pass before him in review, like a ghost of war, he had bowed low, and Wilson had raised a long white hand in response, past to present. Who was future?

  Borah was muttering discontentedly. “I don’t like the look of all this.”

  “We merely honor the dead.” Burden was pious.

  “No, not that. This conference. It’s not what I asked for. It’s not what I wanted, not at all. Disarm, yes. All of us. But this is going to turn itself into another League of Nations. If it does, I stand opposed. I warned Harding.”

  Plainly Borah was distressed that the President would get the credit for what he took to be uniquely his own idea.

  Whatever adventures the Hardings might have had getting through the traffic, they were now on the stage of the amphitheater. The President was as nobly handsome as ever, in a Chesterfield, and carrying a hat while Mrs. Harding was suitably veiled in black.

  The Marine band played the national anthem. A chaplain exhorted God in a most ecumenical way. Then, at exactly noon, a single bugler played taps, and the tears came to Burden’s eyes. What was better than to die in youth for one’s own kind and country? What was worse than to live on into middle age, a peripheral man of state? The soprano, Rosa Ponselle, sang “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth,” and Burden’s sadness remained elevated and pure. Then the band played “America,” a resolutely tinny anthem calculated to stifle all elevated feeling in Burden or anyone else. He dried his eyes as the Secretary of War came out onto the stage, where a microphone on a metal stick was transmitting by telephone the proceedings to Madison Square Garden in New York and to San Francisco’s Auditorium as well as to local crowds in Washington itself. This would be the largest audience in history for any public occasion, thanks to the perfecting of radio.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

  Everyone rose, as Harding, without his coat, stepped forward to the microphone. He made a deprecating gesture to the audience; they were to be seated. He had, as the press liked to say of presidents in their second year, “grown” in office. The somewhat coarse senator—“a character out of a low-life Dreiser novel,” Lodge had called him—was now the silver-haired embodiment of all that was good and sane and normal in his country.

  Harding struck—as who did not on such occasions?—the Lincoln note. “Standing today on hallowed ground, conscious that all America has halted to share in the tribute of the heart, and mind, and soul to this fellow American, and knowing that the world is noting this expression of the republic’s mindfulness, it is fitting to say that his sacrifice, and that of the millions dead, shall not be in vain.” The resonant voice almost convinced. But Burden knew, as they all knew, British admirals of the fleet and marshals of France, that life was all that the poor set of bones in the box had had—and lost so that boundaries might be redrawn by shady men of state and profits made by the busy.

  “There must be, there shall be the commanding voice of a conscious civilization against armed warfare …” Burden wondered how many times after similar wars Capitoline geese had honked the same fervent message in the wake of some awful blood-letting. But all that it took was a generation to forget war’s horrors in order to hunger, yet again, for war’s thrills and profits. How stupid the human race was, thought Burden, staring at a bemedalled Japanese prince, who was known to be plotting war in the Pacific. Little did the Japanese suspect that now that the gentle polyglot republic of North America had got the taste of blood in its mouth there would be no stopping it. War was money earned. War was the ultimate expression of that racial pride with which the white Caucasian tribe had been so overly endowed. It would have been much more suitable for Harding to do a war-dance, with tomahawk and feathered war-bonnet, borrowed from the Indian chief who stood, most incongruously, at the edge of the bemedalled war-lords. To the beat of tom-toms, they would all shout “Blood!” and the wars would continue, each more destructive than the last until no one on earth was left alive.

  “As we return this poor clay to its native soil, garlanded by love and covered with the decorations that only nations can bestow, I can sense the prayers of our people, of all peoples, that this Armistice Day shall mark the beginning of a new and lasting era of peace on earth, good will among men. Let me join in that prayer.” The President then said the Lord’s Prayer and all those around Burden said it along with him. Senatorial and ambassadorial faces were streaked with tears. Burden was exalted now by his own disdain for so much generalized hypocrisy. Taps and a single set of bones could trigger in him a sense of his own mortality, and of his likeness to all others. But monkish prayers chilled him and a quartet from the Metropolitan Opera singing “The Supreme Sacrifice” reminded him of how cold he was as the President pinned the Congressional Medal of Honor onto the flag that draped the box. He was followed by the other war-lords. While each was adding a medal to the constellation, Burden turned to Borah. “When shall we have our next war?”

  Borah looked startled; then he almost smiled. “Twenty years, if we don’t disarm now.”

  “If we do?”
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  Borah grunted, and Burden said, “In twenty years, if we do disarm. Let’s hope we’re as lucky next time as we were this time.”

  Now the pall-bearers appeared. They lifted up the coffin. Led by the Hardings, a procession descended to a marble crypt just beneath the amphitheater. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever find our car,” said Kitty. She was quite unmoved. Somehow, women were never much affected by the grief of warriors or, to be precise, the grief of the tribal elders, dreaming of future wars through a haze of present tears.

  2

  The Duchess was in a state. “The third letter this week, and what does the Secret Service do? Nothing.” Then she rounded on Daugherty. “And that Bureau of Investigation of yours, what do they do?”

  “Stolen cars and Bolsheviks are their specialty,” Daugherty began, but the Duchess was in full torrent. “The President’s life is threatened daily.” She held up the letter. “Christmas Day will be his last day on earth, this one says, and you still can’t find who sends them, who writes them.”

  Jess felt sorry for Daugherty, who was now staring glumly out the window at the snow falling on the south lawn. A moment before, the Washington Monument had disappeared in a swirl of snow. The world outside was contracting, while the oval sitting room was too warm for Jess; but then he could not endure too much heat. Along with his other disabilities, he was now officially a diabetic, according to a lugubrious doctor, who told him that he could eat nothing, drink nothing, do nothing. The last joy of his life was to serve Daugherty as “bumper,” to use a good Ohio word, to worship the Hardings and to make sure that the money kept rolling in. Life was unfair, he decided. He should have been on top of the world. Now its weight was on top of him. Lately, Lucie Daugherty’s health had grown worse and Jess was obliged to look after her in the night so that Daugherty could get some sleep. All three now lived in the Wardman Park Hotel and the door between Daugherty’s room and Jess’s was always open at night so that Jess could call for help in case he had a bad dream or the insomniac Daugherty could summon Jess for a talk during the late dark watches. There was more fun to be had in Washington Court House, and Jess tried to spend at least a week every month back home, gossiping with Roxy about his grand life which wasn’t all that grand, what with diabetes and Lucie Daugherty failing.

  Laddie Boy announced the President’s approach. “Don’t tell Warren!” The Duchess stuck the letters inside her blouse; and bared her teeth in a terrifying smile of welcome.

  Harding looked weary despite his recent triumphs. He had astonished the world on November 12 when he had proposed to the Disarmament Conference that the United States was willing to scrap thirty capital ships. The Secretary of State, Charles Evans Hughes, had read off the particulars of Harding’s secret plan, to the consternation of the war-lords present. Great Britain, Japan, France and Italy were invited to rid themselves of close to two million tons of war-ships.

  Harding had figured that if any word of his plan were to leak to the press, military expansionists everywhere would have time to rally public opinion against disarmament. Hence the thunderbolt, hurled by Hughes in the presence of the benign presidential author. It was Harding’s theory that once world opinion was appealed to, there would be no way for the various governments to back down.

  Harding’s gamble paid off. The world was enthralled, and in the course of a single morning Harding became the central figure on the world’s stage, and the most beloved.

  But W.G. was the historical Harding only part-time. Most of the time, he was a harassed politician married to the Duchess. Now, in the oval sitting room, he sat down heavily in a chair beside the fire and cupped his right cheek in his right hand. “I’m going to propose to Congress that a single term for the president is quite enough. I can’t take much more of this place. Nobody can nowadays. If I can get Congress to limit the presidency to one term, will it apply to me?” W.G. looked at the Attorney General.

  “No,” said Daugherty. “Besides, Congress can’t change the Constitution. They can pass a bill asking for a change, but then it’s up to the states to ratify, and that takes years. If you don’t like the job, don’t run again.”

  “Warren, have you been eating sauerkraut again?” the Duchess was stern. “It gives him gas so then he thinks he’s having a heart attack and that gets him all moody.”

  “In March 1929, after two terms of this hell, I’ll be sixty-five, which is pretty old, and then what?”

  “It’s sauerkraut.” The Duchess rubbed the back of W.G.’s neck. “You’re all knotted up.”

  “If you’re going to feel like this when you’re the most popular man in the world,” said Daugherty, “what are you going to feel like when something goes wrong?”

  W.G. groaned, more contentedly than not, as the Duchess’s powerful fingers worked over the taut muscles of his neck. “I’m serious about this. I mean the principle, not me. One six-year term would make it possible for us to have some really good presidents for a change …”

  “Warren! You’re morbid.”

  W.G. sighed and shut his eyes. “Because I have to think all the time about being re-elected, just like everybody else who’s lived in this house, I spend most of my time doing favors for this one and that one, so he’ll help me out. Well, that is no way to run a government, bribing people. It’s a wonder any of our appointments are ever any good, considering why we go and make them!”

  “Except for me,” said Daugherty, “you’ve got the most admired Cabinet this century.”

  “Well, you make up for a lot,” said the Duchess with one of her unexpected flashes of black humor. “Now, Warren, about Christmas …”

  But as the First Lady was about to bring up the subject of the assassination threats, Harding sat up straight and announced: “Harry, I’m pardoning Debs. In time for Christmas.”

  “Warren!” The Duchess looked more than ever grim. She hated equally communism, labor agitators and Alice Roosevelt Longworth. “We’ve been through all this.”

  Indeed they had, and Jess had been part of W.G.’s secret plot to release Debs and all the other political prisoners that Wilson had locked up. Shortly before the inauguration, W.G. had told Daugherty that he should have a talk with Debs and if he seemed to pose no particular threat to the United States, he would be pardoned. Currently, Debs was serving a ten-year sentence in an Atlanta prison. Daugherty had managed the whole thing in his customary unorthodox way. Debs had been put on a train to Washington, without guards. Jess had met him at Union Station, and found him an amiable quick-witted old man. Together they had gone to the Justice Department, where Daugherty had a long talk with the country’s leading Socialist, and found no harm in him other than a perverse and potentially dangerous affection for the people at large. W.G. had planned to release Debs on the Fourth of July, 1921, but the New York Times had got wind of all this and announced, severely, that Debs “is where he belongs. He should stay there.” W.G. had made a number of private unpublishable remarks to the effect that the pro-German sympathies of the Times had done far more damage to the Allied cause than the Socialist Party; then he had backed down for the time being. Now the peace treaty with Germany had been signed and the war was officially over.

  “We’re back to normal,” said W.G., as he started a staring contest with Laddie, who, invariably, broke down, with wild cries and a race around the room in order to avoid his master’s eyes. “So now it’s most becoming that we make peace with all our own folks.”

  “They will overthrow the government, Warren. You mark my words.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Debs wants to do that.” Daugherty was soothing.

  “The only thing he wanted when I took him down to the depot, to take him back to jail, was a pound of quill toothpicks.” Jess made his contribution to history.

  Daugherty shook his head no, which often meant yes. “I’ll draw up a commutation, if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want, Harry.” Laddie Boy gave a howl of ecstatic fear, and raced from the
room.

  “But they should all sign pledges, saying they’ll lead an upright life and obey the laws …”

  “No.” W.G. stood up and, idly, picked dog hairs off his coat. “That sort of a pledge is demeaning. It sounds like he’s bargaining with us to go free, and he isn’t. I am.”

  “Why?” asked the Duchess.

  “Because this is what I was elected to do. Restore the country. The war’s over …”

  “Mr. Wilson’s war.” Thus, the Duchess brought herself round. Then one of the Secret Service men appeared at the door; apologetically, he signalled Jess to come with him. The others, preoccupied with pardons, did not notice his departure.

  Nan Britton was in the President’s office, seated demurely on a sofa beside the open-grate burning fire. Jess wondered what the going price was for the murder of a presidential mistress. Surely, the Italian Black Hand could be persuaded to encase her in cement and file her away in some commodious river. “Oh, Jess! I couldn’t stay away after that lovely ceremony in Arlington which we could hear just as clear as could be all the way up in Madison Square Garden.”

  “Whaddaya know?” Jess was cordial. But he felt slightly nauseated all the time now, and he had pains in his right side which the doctor said were nothing; but his urine smelled of apples and that was a sign of diabetes. He took pills; tried to diet; drank quantities of water.

  “Well, Elizabeth Ann is just thriving, with my sister. I’m still going to the Columbia School of Journalism and they all say that I have great talent as a writer, particularly about the emotions.”

  Was this blackmail? Jess wondered. So far she had not been particularly demanding. W.G. had always helped her out financially, and she had made several visits to the White House, like this, in secret. One of the agents, Jim Sloan, was in constant touch with her, and whenever she wanted to see W.G. she would alert Sloan. The previous summer, W.G. had sent for Nan, or so she had told Jess. They had met in the office on a Sunday like today. But there was no place for them to make love. The guards that marched regularly past the windows of the oval office had an unobstructed view of what went on inside. Finally, W.G. had found a nearby closet and there the star-crossed—Duchess-crossed was more like it—lovers became as one amongst the frock coats and umbrellas, a place only marginally less frightening to Jess than his own sinister downstairs closet in Washington Court House.