by Gore Vidal
“So that’s how they do it in France.”
Blaise left Pennsylvania Station aboard the parlor-car with every intention of stopping in Baltimore, but the sight, from the train window, of those interminable brick row-houses, all alike, with scoured white stone steps, depressed him, and he continued on to Washington.
During the train journey, Blaise thought, rather more insistently than usual, about himself. He was twenty-six; he was rich; he was attractive to women, even though he was not seriously attracted to them. Anne de Bieville had called him gâté—spoiled. But there was more to it than that, he knew, as the town of Havre de Grace, bleak under snow, moved slowly past his window. He had become too used to being the one wooed; and seduced. Except for occasional visits to the Tenderloin’s more exclusive bordellos, Blaise had made no effort to find himself a mistress, much less a wife. Plon had been amazed, and wondered, solicitously, if Blaise might not be in ill-health, suffering perhaps from some debilitating malady of the sort that begins, as all things French must, with the liver and then moves, inexorably, devastatingly southward. But as Blaise was as sturdy as a young pony, Plon had, finally, come to the sad conclusion that the illness was not of the flesh but the spirit: Anglo-Saxonism, a state of mind notoriously debilitating to the whole man. Plon had suggested more exercise, like tennis.
Blaise was duly impressed by the renovated lobby of Willard’s, which still extended from street to street. Just behind the monumental cigar stand, the city’s political center, there was a new telephone room. Here he gave the telephone operator the number of the Washington Tribune. She plugged various wires into sockets.
“Your number is ready.” She indicated a booth.
When Blaise lifted the receiver and asked for Caroline, a deep Negro voice said, “There is no Miss Sanford here. This is the Bell residence.”
“But isn’t this number—”
“No, sir, it isn’t. We have been getting wrong numbers here all week.” The man hung up. After two more attempts, Blaise got through to the Tribune.
Caroline was delighted with Blaise’s misadventure. “Now we can write the story. Everyone in Washington knows that the only telephone that never works properly is Alexander Graham Bell’s. ‘Inventor without honor.’ How’s that for a head? But, of course, he’s got plenty of honor for inventing the telephone. Perhaps ‘Inventor without a repairman.’ ” Caroline agreed to meet Blaise at Mrs. Benedict Tracy Bingham’s “ ‘palatial home.’ The occasion is humble. She is pouring tea for the new members of Congress. I have to be there. You don’t, of course. Oh, but you do. You’re a publisher, too—at last!” she added, with bright, impersonal malice.
Mrs. Bingham stood before a palatial fireplace, taken from a Welsh castle, she said, belonging to Beowulf, an ancestor of Mr. Bingham on the maternal side. As usual the milk lord of the District of Columbia was nowhere to be seen. “We are surrounded by Apgars,” said Caroline, who had met Blaise at the door. But Blaise could not tell an Apgar from anyone else in the crowded room, where the new congressmen and their ladies looked supremely ill at ease despite Mrs. Bingham’s deep-throated welcomes. Although she was not learned in matters of history, much less myth, she had the politician’s ability to remember not only names but congressional districts. After many consultations with Caroline, it had been decided that Mrs. Bingham’s destiny was to fill the void at the center of Washington’s social life and become a political hostess. There had been no proper salon in years. The Hay-Adams drawing room was far too rarefied for mere mortals, much less itinerant politicians; embassies were out of bounds, while the White House was essentially a family—even tribal—affair now that the Roosevelts were all arrived. So Caroline had encouraged Mrs. Bingham to move to the high—relatively high—ground; and there set her standard.
“Blaise Sanford!” she exclaimed, as Caroline approached, half-brother on her arm. Blaise found himself transfixed by dull onyx eyes, and a powerful handclasp. “Baltimore is closer than New York, and blood,” she added, significantly, “thicker than water.”
“Yes.” Blaise had never found talking to American ladies, as opposed to girls, easy. But then ladies like Mrs. Bingham had conversation enough for two. An occasional “yes” or “no” could see a young man safely through this sort of encounter. “You’ll live here, naturally. Baltimore is out of the question. Washington’s more convenient, in every way. Caroline, have you heard? Alice Roosevelt has lost all her teeth, and only eighteen years old. I think that’s so romantic, don’t you? Such a great calamity, at so tender an age.”
“How,” asked Caroline, “did she lose the teeth?”
“A horse kicked her.” Mrs. Bingham looked almost youthful as she bore, yet again, ill tidings. “Now she’s developed an abscess in her lower jaw, and all the teeth fell crashing out …”
“Poor girl,” said Blaise. He had never met Miss Roosevelt, but she was known to be clever and eager to have a social life of great intensity anywhere on earth except in dowdy Washington. He could not blame her. Idly, he wondered if he should marry her. She was said to be good-looking. But then the thought of the dentures that she soon must wear erased any fantasy of a White House wedding.
Caroline helped Mrs. Bingham greet the arriving guests, and Blaise was taken off by an Apgar lady, “your fifth cousin,” she said. They kept track, the Apgars, of their vast cousinage. As Blaise tried to make conversation, he looked about the room, all gilt and crystal and old-fashioned shiny black horsehair, and tried to recognize who was who among the politicians, and failed. But he was able to tell which man present was a politician—the uniform black Prince Albert frock-coat was the give-away, not to mention the inevitably large mouth and huge chest, suitable for speech-making to enormous crowds. So many opera tenors, he decided, disguised as preachers. Caroline, he noted, seemed in her element; she was supremely poised, as Mrs. Bingham introduced her to the new men of state; and once each had realized that this young lady was proprietor of the Tribune, her hand would be taken not in one hand but two glad-hands, and her arm pumped, as if from the depths of her being printer’s ink might be summoned up, to spell out, again and again, the politician’s name in stories that would give pleasure to his constituents and profits to his sponsors.
Bleakly, Blaise realized that the Baltimore Examiner could never have the same effect on these overexcited men, excepting, always, the Maryland delegation, to a man to be avoided. Fortunately, Hapgood had promised to act as buffer; and Hapgood knew them all.
A wiry young man with a full head of coppery hair—for some reason, a full head of hair was a rarity in the republic’s political life—turned to Blaise, and said, “You’re Mr. Sanford. Caroline’s brother.” The young man’s handshake was highly professional. By gripping hard the other man’s fingers, the politician got the first grip, thus saving himself from the malicious working-man, whose superior strength could, with a grinding squeeze, reduce even the sturdiest man of state to his knees. McKinley’s famous trick of simultaneously shaking the honest yeoman’s hand while appearing gently to caress its owner’s elbow was simply a precaution. Should the other begin to crush the presidential fingers, the affectionate grip on the elbow would be transformed to a sudden sharp blow, calculated to cause such unexpected pain that the grip would be loosened. Blaise had learned all the tricks, in the Chief’s service.
“You’re one of the new—congressmen?” Despite the political handclasp, the young man seemed far too athletic and handsome to be a tribune of the people; but that, indeed, was what he was. “James Burden Day,” he said; and named his state and district; also cousinage. “We’re all of us Apgars,” he said.
“Yes.” Blaise was vague. He had no memory of James Burden Day, but he was not displeased to have a distant cousin in the Congress, particularly one who looked like a gentleman even if he did represent a barbarous state, whose barbarous accent he also affected, if it was not, grim thought, his own.
“I was here before, in the comptroller’s office. That’s when I got to know Del Hay and, of
course, Miss Sanford.” They exchanged condolences on Del’s death. “After he went off to Pretoria, I never saw him again. He was going to marry Miss Sanford …?” Day inserted a question in his voice.
“Yes. This month, I think. He was also going to join the President’s staff.”
“Poor … Mr. Hay,” said the young man, unexpectedly; and his pale blue eyes looked suddenly, directly, embarrassingly, into Blaise’s. With one hand, Blaise touched his own forehead, as if to deflect by this meaningless gesture that sharp disquieting gaze; and wondered why he should find Mr. Day disturbing. After all, the inference that Caroline did not care for Del was none of Blaise’s business. But Day had made him uneasy, which he did not like. He was also reminded, yet again, that although he was the Sanford, Washington was very much Caroline’s city. She had made herself a high place; and he had none yet.
Day said the expected things. Del dead so young; President dead so tragically; Mr. Hay devastated. “Even more so now,” said Blaise, wishing that he was as tall as Day, who was able to speak to him with such intimacy and warmth, and yet could look, whenever he chose, over Blaise’s head to see what new magnate had entered the room. But Blaise continued: “Mr. Hay’s oldest friend just died, Clarence King. You know, the geologist.”
“I didn’t know …”
“My sister tells me he died in Arizona a few weeks ago. So in six months poor Mr. Hay has lost his son, friend and president.”
“Well,” said Day, with sudden cold-bloodedness, “he hasn’t lost his job, has he? Funny that Roosevelt hasn’t replaced him. But then,” and the smile was boyish and engaging, “I’m a Democrat, and I carry a spear for Bryan, in the people’s name.”
“We’re crucifying them,” said Blaise, matching the other’s boyish coldness, “upon a cross of silver this time around.” Both men laughed.
“I’m Frederika Bingham.” A pale blond girl, with a languid manner, introduced herself. “I know who you are, of course, but Mamma thinks that you should know who I am.” She smiled at Blaise, a somewhat crooked smile that revealed curiously sharp incisors. She smelled of lilac-water. Day smelled of not quite clean broadcloth. Of all Blaise’s faculties, the sense of smell was the strongest and, in sexual matters, the most decisive. “I saw you at the Casino, at Newport,” he said.
“You will go far in politics,” said the young woman, her voice on a dying fall, her eyes not on Blaise but on James Burden Day.
“Except Mr. Sanford doesn’t go into politics at all,” said Day. “He doesn’t have to, lucky man.”
“I get everyone mixed up,” said Frederika contentedly. Blaise could see that Day attracted her; and that he didn’t. Masculine competitiveness began, like a tide, to rise, for no reason other than the moon’s disposition, or was it lilac, or the other? The other …
Caroline joined them. She, too, was attracted, Blaise could see. A storm of male resolve broke—behind his eyes or wherever such storms break. One male—admittedly taller than he—had attracted two women. He must, somehow, establish his own primacy. “You have come back, as you said you would,” Caroline greeted Day warmly. “In Congress, at last.”
“Father wants you to do something about milk,” said Frederika, gazing thoughtfully at Blaise. At least, he had willed her attention from the other.
“But I don’t come from a dairy state,” said Day, answering for Blaise.
“You are naive!” Caroline seemed to be bestowing a high compliment; but Day blushed, as she meant him to do. “The fact that there is not a single cow in your state means that when you finally do something for all the cows in the nation—I don’t know just what you’ll have to do, but Mr. Bingham will tell you—you will be thought disinterested and altruistic and a true friend of …”
“… of the dairy interests,” finished Day, habitual healthy bronze heightened.
“No. No. Of the cows.” Caroline was emphatic.
“Father really likes them.” Thoughtfully, Frederika smiled her crooked smile at Blaise. “Cows, that is. He can moon around that dairy of his—the one in Chevy Chase—all day.”
“I know how he feels.” Blaise could tell that Caroline was about to improvise an aria. She could, with no effort, say what others would like to hear, with astonishing spontaneity. “I was like that at Saint-Cloud-le-Duc. Remember, Blaise? The cows, the milking rooms, the churns where they still make butter the way they did when Louis XV stayed there? It was Paradise, and at its center not God but the Cow …” Before Caroline could complete her panegyric, Day pulled a small, plump, pretty woman to his side, and said, “This is my wife, Kitty.”
“The cow …” Caroline repeated absently; then her voice trailed off as, politely, she gave the woman her hand. “But this is thrilling,” she began.
Blaise understood her disappointment. Since James Burden Day was uncommonly fetching, Blaise suspected that Caroline’s phantom list of possibilities might once have included him. The speed with which Caroline now set out to charm Kitty convinced Blaise that he was right. “Mr. Day never hinted that he might … And to you!” she exclaimed, eyes radiant, as if with admiration for Kitty. “Oh, he is lucky! We are lucky to have you in Washington. Aren’t we, Blaise? Except you live in Baltimore …”
“Oh, no, I don’t,” Blaise growled.
But Caroline was not to be stopped. “Was it so sudden? We heard nothing here, and between Frederika’s mother and the Tribune’s ‘Society Lady,’ we’re supposed to know everything.”
“Well, it was sudden,” said Kitty. She had a low nasal voice of the sort that Blaise liked least in a country where nearly everyone’s voice got on his nerves.
“We got married,” said Day, “on election day. We’d always planned that,” he added.
“Only if you were elected.” Kitty was flat in her humor. “I wasn’t about to marry somebody who was going to stay on in American City, and practice law like everybody else. No, sir,” she said to Caroline, who took the “sir” in easy stride. “I wanted to get out of the state almost as bad as Jim, Representative Day, I guess I have to call him now.”
“Surely not at breakfast.” Caroline was gracious.
Mrs. Bingham, sensing discord or at the least drama, approached and Frederika fled. “Isn’t this a surprise?” The voice was accusing. “Mr. Day never let on that he was going home to get both elected and married, to Judge Halliday’s daughter. Judge Halliday,” Mrs. Bingham explained, “is to that state what Mark Hanna is to Ohio, and then some.”
Blaise noticed that Day was smiling, with embarrassment. On the other hand, Kitty looked as if she had indeed, like the fabulous feline, swallowed the canary. As Caroline now prepared to rise to new heights of insincerity, Blaise was suddenly conscious of the degree and intensity of his sister’s sexuality, no less powerful for her innocence or, rather, ignorance. He wondered, perversely, what it would be like to switch roles with her; then, looking at Day and Kitty, thought better of it. The sort of wall that a man might breach no woman could, at least not in their world. Here the cards were entirely stacked against women; only men could play a relatively free hand.
Kitty spoke of houses and servants, and Caroline offered to help with both. Day turned to Blaise. “I hope we’ll see you, now that you’re nearby.”
“I hope so, too.” Then Blaise added recklessly, “But I won’t be nearby. I’ll be right here.”
“In Washington?” The sandy eyebrows arched.
“Yes, in Washington. New York’s too far away and Baltimore is nowhere at all. I’m looking for a house,” he improvised, inspired by Caroline. She was not the only one who could spin a bright web in company.
“Then we’ll see more of you.” Day was easy; charming. “It won’t be the same, though, without Del.”
“I think I shall build a house,” said Blaise, allowing for no sentiment. “In Connecticut Avenue. The best of country life, the best of village life. She would never,” Blaise lowered his voice, not that Caroline and Kitty could have heard either of them in the noisy room,
“never have married Del.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I know her,” Blaise lied. “Better than myself,” Blaise told the truth.
– 4 –
JOHAN HAY was at the window to Henry Adams’s study, looking down on the passersby. The Porcupine was always amazed at how many people Hay could recognize, particularly now that everyone they knew had been so dramatically transformed by age. “General Dan Sickles, with crutches,” Hay announced, as the aged, blear-eyed warrior, murderer, and queen’s lover hobbled beneath the window in icy H Street.
“Surely, he’s dead.” This season, Adams affected to believe that everyone of their acquaintance was dead unless proven otherwise.
“He may well be dead.” Hay was judicious. “But he has taken to moving about, like Lazarus. Where is his leg, by the way?”
“Shot off at the battle of Gettysburg, which he nearly lost for us, the four-flusher.”
“No. No.” Hay turned round in the window seat, and settled his back as comfortably as he could against cushions. “When the leg was detached, by cannonball, Sickles sent someone to find it. Then he had a charming box made for it so that he could carry it around with him. I think he said he was going to give it to one of his clubs in New York.”
“Another point against New York. I would not allow Sickles in any club, much less his leg.” Adams sat beside the fire; he wore a mulberry velvet smoking jacket. As always on Sunday, the breakfast table was set more elaborately than usual. At noon, the guests would arrive. Hay was never entirely sure how many were directly invited and how many simply showed up. When queried, Adams looked mysterious. “All is random,” he would murmur. “Like the universe.”
But this morning, all was not random in their lives. Adams had come back from Europe at the end of December, in time to attend, on New Year’s Day, Clarence King’s funeral in New York City. He had stayed on in the city longer than usual. He had been, he wrote Hay, astonished by King’s will; but said no more.