1876

by Gore Vidal

  The Tildens are from Columbia County, close to where my mother’s family lived, to where Martin Van Buren lived. In fact, the old President was a friend of Tilden’s father and a benefactor to the Governor in his youth, as he was to me. But then Van Buren and I shared the same father. We were both illegitimate sons to Aaron Burr; needless to say, neither of us ever acknowledged this consanguinity to the other. Nevertheless, one of the strongest links between Tilden and me is the Van Buren connection. Tonight, when the Governor commented on my physical resemblance to the great man, I responded with an exact replica of Van Buren’s secret smile which made the stony expression of the Egyptian Sphinx seem positively open and garrulous.

  Bigelow was in good spirits, but tired. “We’ve been working night and day on the address to the legislature. I don’t know how he does it.” Bigelow indicated Tilden, who looked reasonably fit, the belching controlled by a constant nibbling at dry biscuits. “He lives on tea. He is an addict, I tell him.”

  “Better tea than whisky, as is reputed.”

  “You’ve heard those rumours?” Bigelow did not seem overly concerned.

  “Only in Republican households.”

  “Like the Apgars?” Bigelow gave me a sidelong smile, and filled my glass with madeira. The ladies had withdrawn. Tilden drank tea, nibbled biscuits, listened as Green whispered into one of his ears and an adviser on economics named Wells in the other ear. “How does the Governor listen to two conversations simultaneously?”

  “He’s still got a lot of snap.” Bigelow was admiring.

  “You were worried about him, his health…”

  “I still am. But I accept the fact that he enjoys ill health—literally enjoys it. He also cannot stop working. So be it. After Grant, who would not work at the presidency—even had he understood the job—the Governor will be refreshing. At the moment all of us are exhausted except for the Governor. But then he has no life, you see, except the law and politics.”

  “If elected, will he marry?”

  Bigelow tapped the half-empty glass of soda water in front of him—an abstemious group, the Tilden ring. “I think so. After all, a wife would ease his days in the White House.”

  “Obviously a man of passionate nature.” I was moderately reckless after two glasses of madeira and a splendid hock earlier on.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” Bigelow took my irony in good part.

  “Has he ever shown an interest in the ladies?”

  Bigelow shook his head. “Never. It is curious. But also, in another way, admirable. I mean he is like a saint, absolutely removed from temptation.”

  “Saints, dear Bigelow, are not removed but remove themselves from temptation.”

  “Then he is simply chosen to be what he is, a constant worker in the public’s interest. Green is the same.”

  “Mr. Green has never married?”

  “Never. He, too, lives for his work.”

  “Another demi-saint?” I think the puritan Bigelow really does admire these flawed men. Not that I regard bachelorhood as a flaw; rather, the contrary. But apparently neither Tilden nor Green has had any commerce at all with women, with that half of the world who have given me, certainly, not only pleasure but a necessary measure of the common humanity. Had I not Emma, I would make another. Or, considering my advanced age, adopt, kidnap, seduce or otherwise acquire that feminine company without which I simply cannot breathe. The New York world of men’s clubs and bars, of back-room politics and of sportsmen’s pavilions is no world for me. I am an effete Parisian, and bloom only in the company of ladies.

  Incidentally (why ‘incidentally’? All-importantly!), Bigelow said, “The Governor will name you minister to almost any post you might want, saving that at St. James’s.”

  “You don’t know what this means to me.” My voice grew hoarse with real emotion. Such an appointment does mean everything to me—once Emma is married, of course.

  “In foreign affairs, you are one of our brightest stars, except for your unfortunate passion for the French,” Bigelow added; and the mood lightened.

  “Then you should be pleased with last Saturday’s gush published under my name in the Ledger.”

  “It did not sound quite your style. And why did you never mention the good Dr. Evans, the Empress’s ubiquitous dentist? What’s become of him?”

  “Still pulling teeth, I should think.” Happily, we gossiped about the old good times in Paris, never to come again.

  I did, delicately, try to convince Bigelow of the worthiness of Thiers and, in general, of the Third and current French Republic, but he is deeply, mysteriously anti-French. I put it down to his essential puritanism. Bigelow hates the Roman Church with a passion worthy of the true Republican he was until he became New York’s secretary of state and a Democrat. For decades Bigelow has been assuring me that the wickedest and most rapacious force in the world is the papacy, which one day soon will collide in a perfect Armageddon with virtuous Protestantism, setting off a new, more bloody civil war right here in the United States, the Fort Sumter to be located in the old Sixth Ward, where the benighted Irish live.

  I confess that I, too, once shared all these prejudices, particularly in regard to the Irish, whom I looked upon as a kind of disease or blight, killing my New York. Of course they and the later immigrants did indeed destroy the old Dutch-English village of my youth, but nothing valuable was lost. I daresay the fact that I have spent most of my life in Roman Catholic countries has not only made me more tolerant than Bigelow, but also convinced me that Roman Catholic societies are more agreeable to live in than Protestant ones because they are not in the slightest degree Christian.

  At the end of the evening Tilden looked very tired, despite a quantity of tea and several mysterious pills.

  “I hope you will come to see us at Albany, once you’re finished with General Grant.”

  I said that I could think of no greater pleasure. Green was suddenly at Tilden’s side. Handsome, rough-hewn, he physically overshadows his slight master. “Governor, did you mention to Mr. Schuyler our plans for advertisement concoctors?”

  “Not yet. Not yet.” Tilden’s voice was low; he seemed annoyed. But Green was not to be stopped. He turned to me. “In the next few weeks we shall be starting a bureau, using all sorts of writers and artists to prepare material for the newspaper press…”

  “Mr. Schuyler is far too distinguished a man of letters for this sort of thing.” Tilden’s eyes opened very wide as he held in his throat what must have been a powerful belch that slowly, and no doubt painfully, he allowed to dissipate through widely flared nostrils.

  “Well, Governor, you know as well as I do that we can use all the writers we can get and with Mr. Schuyler at the Ledger…”

  “Mr. Schuyler is not at the Ledger. He is merely published by them.”

  “But, Governor—”

  I interrupted what looked to be something very like a quarrel by saying, “Actually, I have approached my publisher about doing a campaign biography. He is interested. Bigelow has promised to provide me with material. So once you are nominated…”

  Both Tilden and Green liked the sound of this; we parted in a hail of Merry Christmases and Happy New Years. The Governor’s last words to me were “I’ll see you later.” This curious phrase is often on his lips.

  “What did you think of Mr. Tilden?” I could not wait to quiz Emma.

  “Not the easiest man to talk to.”

  “A little chilly?”

  “No. A passionate nature, I should think.”

  “That is not the impression I got, or anyone else.”

  “Well, there are all sorts of passions, aren’t there? Like my mother-in-law’s passion for money…”

  “Don’t mention her! I can feel the blood pounding in my ears.”

  “Or that charming Senator Conkling’s passion for Kate Sprague.”

 
“You liked him?”

  “I saw him only that one time when we exchanged ten words.”

  “I remember. And you said you found him vain.”

  “Oh, as a peacock! With that ridiculous curl in the middle of his forehead…”

  “The hyacinthine curl. I suppose he’s imitating Disraeli…”

  “But when he looked at Kate, one felt here is a passionate man.”

  “Well, he had come halfway round the world to see her, incognito he thought. I don’t think he fancied meeting us. Anyway, now you’ve met both party leaders. Which will it be? Who will be the president? Tilden or Conkling?”

  “Who cares? It’s only a game they play, Papa. It’s not important.”

  I detected in her voice an echo, a variation on a theme of Sanford’s. “Game or not, the result is important.”

  “But it is hardly like being the emperor, is it?” Emma continues to regard the United States as an overgrown Mexico.

  “I admit that our presidents have very little to do. The Congress governs—and does most of the stealing. But the president has many jobs to give, particularly to deserving old writers.”

  “Then, vive Tilden!” Emma was in a good mood. “As for his passion…”

  “Yes, how did you discover what no one has ever before noticed?”

  “By listening to him talk about canals.”

  “Canals?”

  “And railroads. And—oh, yes, justice.” Emma was like a schoolgirl, recalling her lessons. “He said that he was appalled by the inequality of the American system of justice. The courts are for the rich, he said.”

  “He should know. He made his fortune representing the rich, particularly the railroads.”

  “Then, perhaps, he wants to atone for his sins. He is a good man, Papa, if absurd.”

  “I don’t find him absurd, and doubt if he is good.”

  “Because you are a man. And an American. I only wish that he was less flatulent.”

  “A thunderer, like Prince Metternich?”

  “No, a whistler like Prince Napoleon.”

  We laughed at the old joke. I said that I thought his real and only passion is ill health.

  “No matter. I am sure that he will make a most amusing president, if such a thing is possible. Does he have a mistress?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I think not. He is like an old capon.” Thus we discussed the next president, and the restorer of our—my—fortunes.

  Emma went to bed, and I worked for a time on Cavour. Not easy work. I dread the prospect of writing a campaign biography, but if I must I must. Besides, I am sure that some ambitious young man in Mr. Dutton’s office will be able to take the actual task in hand, with a grace note or two from me.

  Four

  1

  NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1876. The Year of the Centennial, as every newspaper proclaims. I must say that if this new year continues at the same pace as the last month of the old year, I shall not survive until 1877.

  Emma and I continue to go round and round if not up and up. We attended a Patriarchs’ Ball at Delmonico’s, in the Blue Ballroom: “So difficult to decorate,” complained McAllister, who rules society whilst Mrs. Astor reigns. Earlier that evening we had sat with the Mystic Rose in her box at the Academy of Music and actually heard a few snatches of Verdi during those rare moments when the gentry were silent. The ball afterwards was of no great interest.

  The Belmonts’ gala proved to be much livelier than the Astor levee, and in a way more grand, for not only were there more Europeans but the women were far better-looking than those to be found at Mrs. Astor’s. Obviously it is Ward McAllister’s ambition to be the Prince Albert of New York, creating for his Victoria a sumptuous self-satisfied and pre-eminently dull court. In contrast, the rival court of the Belmonts is to the Astors’ Windsor a sort of Tuileries: brilliant, amusing, a bit vulgar and entirely delightful. Right off, in front of Mrs. Belmont, August Belmont declared his admiration for Emma; and his wife only sighed. “Now,” she said to Emma, “he will never cease to plague you. Too boring!”

  But today, of course, was the day of days in Apgar-land, for there, in the cold dull living rooms of the Third Brother, the Nine Brothers with their hundreds of family connections lauded Emma on her engagement, on her translation from French widow to serious Apgar-ish niceness.

  John was charming and awkward and rather appealing—to me. I suspect that Emma does not like him much but she has been trained like all members of her class to do what must be done gracefully and without complaint. Since there is no alternative to this marriage, Emma has accepted her rôle with every outward sign of enjoyment.

  Sister Faith was scarlet with pleasure, and kept hugging Emma, speechless at their new relationship. Emma soothed Faith, charmed the rest.

  Toasts were proposed in the dining room, where we dined à la fourchette. I was tactful. The Nine Apgars were heavy. The relatives were fascinated by this unlikely glamourous new connection.

  I had forgotten, of course (why, of course? my memory is still very good) the old New York Dutch custom of paying calls on New Year’s Day. To my surprise, it is still observed. And so not only did we enjoy the official gathering of the entire Apgar clan but we were also able to accept the congratulations of every “nice” person in the city who came to call, and if Mrs. Apgar is to be believed, only the bedridden remained at home.

  “That’s why we picked New Year’s Day for the announcement,” she told me as we stood side by side receiving an endless line of callers, most of them smelling of whisky punch. “You see, they all would be coming here anyway, so we are killing two birds with one stone.”

  Amongst the birds who arrived to be killed was Jamie Bennett. A majority of the Nine Brothers was noticeably cool to the proprietor of the scandalous Herald but Jamie carried it off well; he was only slightly drunk.

  “Poor Emma!” I heard him mutter in her ear. Fortunately no one but Emma and I heard him. She gave him her Medusa gaze, causing him to turn if not to stone to me.

  “Mr. Schuyler.” At least Jamie recalled some of his manners in that forbidding parlour with its dark walnut panelling, with its once-vivid rose-design rugs now faded to a suitable Apgar-ish rust.

  “Mr. Bennett.” I played to the hilt jovial father of the bride-to-be. “A pleasant surprise.”

  “But still a surprise?” Jamie leered. “Not exactly one of the houses I normally visit New Year’s Day, but this time I had to, for Emma.”

  “The gesture is much appreciated.”

  “When do they get married?”

  The question is still moot. There has been a good deal of talk of a Grace Church June wedding (favoured for a time by me), but we have just learned that the house that John has bought in Eleventh Street (or did the Third Brother buy it for him? Must find out) won’t be habitable until October. As a result, the family is divided between the two dates. So far Emma has not expressed herself; and John will not state his own preference until she has declared hers. He did say last week that if they were married in June, they could spend the summer at his family’s place in Maine…mosquitoes, juniper bushes, sand flies. Maine makes a very definite picture for me.

  Emma will opt for October, I think. Instinctively, she postpones putting such a definite end to what once was a most beautiful life. Earlier, driving down to the Third Brother’s house, she said, “We should hold a funeral for the Princess d’Agrigente.”

  I misunderstood her. “No such luck. That old woman will outlive us all.” The old woman, incidentally, has now demanded more money than was initially agreed upon for the support of Emma’s children.

  “No, I meant for me. When I become Mrs. Apgar.”

  “Delay!” I was vehement, altogether too vehement. In fact, I have been so overwrought all day that now I pay the price and feel most unwell. I write this in bed.
/>   “I don’t think I dare.”

  “But you are reluctant?”

  “I like John.” She answered in her own fashion; and left me nothing further to say.

  John took me aside after the family toasts and we stood in an alcove, sharing the cramped space with a life-size bronze deer. “I want you to know, sir, that I will do everything in my power to make Emma happy.”

  “Of course you will, dear boy.” I was on the verge of tears, not from sentiment but from one of those premonitory signals that herald the approaching stroke. I must rest more. See fewer people. Lose weight.

  “It’s amazing how she fits in! Why, it’s as if she’d always lived here.” This was John’s highest praise.

  I dried my eyes. “She is not unused to society.”

  John did not hear; he was staring raptly at Emma. “I thought we might go to Canada on the honeymoon, if we are married in June, of course.” Mosquitoes the size of quails filled my inner eye, not to mention gnats as big as rooks, circling carrion—if rooks eat flesh. Poor Emma. But now it is all out of my hands. I am simply an onlooker.

  In fact, so passive have I become that I allowed myself to be taken in hand by Jamie, who had mysteriously sobered up at the Apgar buffet table; he insisted on taking me to pay “a very special New Year’s Day call.”

  Since Emma was now lost to the Apgars for the rest of the day, including supper, I was able to excuse myself, pleading age and fatigue, “and perfect boredom, Papa.” Emma whispered in French as she kissed my cheek and sent me off with Jamie.

  Fifth Avenue was crowded with carriages. Despite the truly arctic cold, the whole town was busy paying calls.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as we lurched slowly through the confusion of carriages in Madison Square.

  “You’ll see. I’ve got more news from Washington for you.”

  “About Babcock?”

  “About a member of the President’s official family who has been selling federal offices. When do you go to Washington?”