1876

by Gore Vidal

  “At Wormley’s Hotel?”

  “At Wormley’s Hotel. So we agreed not to dispute his election.”

  “But how could a Democrat have won the governorship of Louisiana when, according to the electoral commission, according to you as a commissioner, the state voted overwhelmingly for the Republicans?”

  Garfield’s face did not for an instant lose its beautiful candid expression. “Mr. Nordhoff, when you are dealt the cards, you play them.” So Caesar must have sounded when he set aside the old republic.

  Nordhoff was absolutely silenced. The waiter poured the three of us claret. Garfield raised his glass to drink, blue eyes aglow in the candlelight.

  Nordhoff proclaimed the toast. “To good government.”

  Garfield nodded. “To good government, yes. And to President Hayes.” Garfield drank; as did I.

  But Nordhoff did not drink; he continued the toast. “To President Hayes, yes. And to James G. Blaine. To Roscoe Conkling. To General Grant. To the Returning Boards of Louisiana, South Carolina, and Florida. To Jay Gould. To the Texas Pacific Railroad. To the Federal army. To General Sherman…”

  Garfield laughed, most genially, considering the vastness of the insult. “You will make me quite drunk, Mr. Nordhoff, with so much good government.” He put down his glass and got to his feet. I did the same. He and I shook hands.

  “I go tomorrow,” I told him. “You will say good-bye to Mrs. Garfield for me?”

  “Only if you will give our very best regards to your daughter.” The crooked arm had slowly turned me toward him, and the fine face looked down into mine.

  “I shall, with pleasure.” I have no idea what cupboard of memory was suddenly at that moment sprung, but I not only remembered but said that haunting line: “Brevis hic est fructus homullis.”

  Garfield frowned; let go my arm. “Horace?”

  “No. Lucretius.”

  “I must answer that, mustn’t I? Well, then…” Garfield paused; shook his head. “I’m afraid all my Latin is in my library. I can think of nothing except Gaudeamus igitur. Will that do?”

  “Why not? It has always done.”

  After Garfield left us, Nordhoff and I continued to drink.

  Shortly before midnight, I came back to the hotel and in the vase de nuit relieved myself of both dinner and wine.

  I am now sober, tired, apprehensive. How am I to live? and why?

  Fifteen

  1

  AGAINST THAT JUDGMENT sometimes dramatized as “better,” I have allowed Emma to stay at the Sanford house in Fifth Avenue, with myself as chaperone.

  I suppose it is the right thing to do. Certainly it is the kind thing to do. Sanford was close to weeping when he begged us to move in. He appears to be quite out of control. Suddenly, faced with genuine grief, with true tragedy, he has no convincing performance to give. He vacillates from glum silences to unnatural gaiety; worse, he likes to take me aside at regular intervals to tell me how devoted Denise was to me, how she asked for me when she was dying. This naturally puts me in a terrible state; the heart pounds as the pressure of the blood increases; the tears stream down my face, though I am not actually weeping, a phenomenon of age and illness. Curiously enough, Denise is never mentioned when the three of us are together. But when I am alone with Emma, or with Sanford (not, thank Heaven, often), we talk of nothing else.

  The first night at the Sanford house, Emma came into my bedroom, which is separated from hers by a charming small drawing room with grey walls à la Pompadour.

  Emma looks pale, is listless. Although I want to know nothing, she means for me to know everything.

  “I’ve never seen anyone die, Papa.”

  “Your father-in-law…”

  Emma gestured impatiently. “He was old. Besides we weren’t there—in the room—the way…” Emma stopped. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the glass opposite my bed. Abruptly she pushed the hair out of her eyes, and for the first time I saw white hairs in that splendid auburn mass. I felt guilty, disloyal for having noticed.

  “Well, at least we were both there. With her. And I don’t think there was much pain. But when there was, near the end, the nurse gave her chloroform. Sanford’s a good man. I do think he loves Denise. I mean, loved. In his way, of course.” Emma spoke disjointedly but resolutely. As if she was in court and obliged to give complete evidence, no matter how terrible.

  Deliberately I slipped into French, thinking that this would make it easier for her, but she continued in English—like a penance.

  I asked, “How was Denise? I mean before the—before the last part?”

  “Marvellous. She had never looked better. Felt better. The day before the pains began we drove into Savannah. She wanted to buy flowers. There’s a conservatory there. Have you ever seen an azalea?”

  “I don’t recall an introduction, no.” No. No lightness is possible, ever again.

  “She liked azaleas. The pains began in the early morning. She screamed. That woke us all up. The nurse was with her. Denise was overdue. By a week. Maybe two weeks. That was when I started to get uneasy. Sanford too. But Denise ignored it. Except for once, when she said of the baby, ‘I think he’s growing irritable. He’s so old now.’ But that was all. Nothing like Newport. No terror. Thank God. She was unconscious when the doctor came. He cut out the child. And that…was…that.”

  Emma sat very straight in the chair beside my bed, deliberately not looking at herself in the mirror.

  “What now?” I broke the stillness.

  “Oh…now.” She shook her head, as if there was to be no more life. “I don’t know. You saw Sanford. You heard him. I must stay to help him. Because of Denise. He has collapsed.”

  “Men are not as strong as women.”

  Emma gave me a long thoughtful look. Then she nodded. “It is true, Papa. So, for now, we stay here until he is himself again.”

  “And John?”

  Emma came close to a smile. “There is no John. The funeral service for the Princess d’Agrigente has been indefinitely postponed.”

  “So,” I said, without tact, I fear, “what do we do now?”

  “It is very bad, isn’t it?”

  “It is very bad.” I agreed. “Mr. Tilden is not the president. And I am not American minister to France.”

  “The Herald…”

  “Jamie is deserting America. Forever.”

  “Because of the horsewhipping? That was droll.” And Emma, finally, smiled; normal life insists that we pursue it.

  Certainly I have been in hot and desperate pursuit of normal life for some weeks now.

  “It’s all over, Charlie. There’s nothing left.” Jamie kept repeating this refrain to me, as we sat at his special table in the bar of the Hoffman House. Not even the elegant appearance of the Collector of the Port could do more than, momentarily, disrupt Jamie’s gloom.

  Arthur complimented me on my election reports. “You made me feel I was right there in the Capitol.”

  “You could’ve been, Chet. Only you were hiding out at Wormley’s.” Jamie was suddenly his old mocking self.

  But Arthur took no offence. “I’m afraid I’m not that important. I was right here the whole time, tending to the port.”

  “Watch out for Hayes, Chet. He’s going to have your scalp.”

  Jamie’s cryptic non sequitur was ignored by Arthur, who said, “There is a rumour that we are in for an austere administration. Mrs. Hayes refuses to serve wine or spirits at the White House.”

  “One more reason for going,” said Jamie darkly, drying with the back of his hand those absinthe drops that forever cling like seed pearls to his moustache.

  “A friend of mine just came from a dinner at the White House and he said that the water flowed like wine.”

  I was grateful to the genial Arthur for praising my articles in front of J
amie. But to no good end. I can write for the Herald from Paris as I do for the Evening Post; but I cannot begin to support myself on what either paper is willing to pay.

  I continue to make the rounds.

  My second day in the city I called on Bryant at the Post. The old man is beginning to look transparent with age but appears to possess all his faculties. I listened to more praise for my election articles. Then: “I suppose that you will be going back to Europe soon?”

  “Yes. If I find nothing to do here.”

  The Jovian head turned toward me with some curiosity. “You want to live amongst us?”

  “I want to live, my dear Bryant. And I must do that by my pen.”

  “But you are, permanently, our valued European contributor.”

  “For which I am grateful. But I have a daughter and two grandsons to provide for.” I rather laid it on.

  “Oh, dear. I see what you mean. If only Mr. Tilden had been elected.”

  “But he was elected. He was simply not inaugurated. Did you vote for him?”

  At the center of that Sinaean bush, a smile began. “I never say. The paper…”

  “Supported Hayes.”

  “A decent man. With the makings of a good Cabinet. Particularly now that he has taken on Carl Schurz…”

  “Not to mention Mr. Key.” Part of the deal at Wormley’s Hotel was that the postmaster-generalship (the most copious source of patronage in the land) go to a Democrat. Hayes’s choice was the Democrat Senator Key of Tennessee.

  “Well…” Bryant looked straight ahead.

  We agreed that I would, from time to time, write on matters of general interest while I am still in New York. Once back in Paris, I shall continue my valued contributions, assuming I do not, meanwhile, starve to death. Despite the general impropriety of staying with Sanford, I must confess that it has saved our lives, for, despite a year’s hard work, I now have exactly the same amount of capital that I had when I arrived here on the Pereire, less all the prospects that I had then.

  I dined last week at Gramercy Park with Tilden. Bigelow and Green and the Peltons were on hand; the other courtiers seem all to have vanished. No longer is the front door importantly guarded by police.

  I was warmly received not by the nineteenth president but by a nice old bachelor-lawyer, happy in the bosom of his family, his books—his numerous dollars.

  “You must have had a most exciting time in Washington.” This was Tilden’s understatement as he ushered Emma and me into the family sitting room, where the last loyalists were gathered. It put me in mind of our poor Emperor and Empress at Chislehurst.

  Bigelow shook my hand. He has taken this defeat hardest of all. Well, not as hard as I have, since, of the lot, I am the only one without a penny or a future. But I did my best to appear as unruffled as the others.

  “What news of your friend the Princess Mathilde?” Like the others, Bigelow avoided any reference to the election.

  “She has just sent me her first book. A biography of Didi, her late dog.”

  “An instructive life?”

  “For a dog, yes. I’ll lend it to you.”

  “I’ll read it to our dogs.”

  We did our best. Emma was subdued but sufficiently herself to excite Mrs. Pelton. Everyone envies us “for going back to Paris.” Green sighed. “Wish I were going. The Governor is.”

  Tilden nodded. “Bigelow has consented to be my cicerone. We sail in July when the Atlantic is, reputedly, calm.” Bigelow told me that the bookings were made the day they learned that the commission had accepted the Hayes electors for Florida.

  We made all sorts of plans to meet in Paris, assuming that I am not in debtors’ prison. Bigelow suggests I write a book about the election. “After all, you’ve already got most of it written, your pieces for the Herald.”

  At first I thought this not a good idea, but since that dinner in Gramercy Park, I have changed my mind. When I proposed the subject to Mr. Dutton, he was enthusiastic. Yesterday at the Lotos Club I mentioned the matter to Gilder, who says that he will present the idea to Scribner’s. I mean to get them all bidding against one another, just as if I were Mark Twain!

  As I was leaving, Tilden said, “I overheard Bigelow. Such a book might be very interesting.”

  “Would you be helpful?”

  “Oh, yes. I have”—the bleakest of smiles arched the upper lip—“a great deal of information. I might even say evidence. For instance, one of the fifteen commissioners was paid one hundred thousand dollars for his vote. This seemed to me odd, since the going price throughout the election has been two hundred thousand dollars. But perhaps he did not know?”

  “I wish you had paid him!” I spoke from the heart.

  “It’s as well I did not. Besides, four years is a short time. And Mr. Hayes insists that he will serve one term and no more.”

  I could not say that for me four years is the equivalent of all eternity. Tilden can look forward to a future election. But I have not that luxury.

  Meanwhile I have decided to write the book. Bigelow promises to tell me all.

  One incident: after the House of Representatives passed its resolution confirming Tilden as president, Hewitt tried to get the Governor to issue a proclamation declaring that he would present himself at the Capitol on March 4 to be inaugurated as the duly elected president. According to Hewitt, armed troops in fifteen states were ready to march. Tilden responded by asking Hewitt to resign as Democratic national chairman, which he has done.

  2

  TODAY HAS BEEN both disturbing and splendid.

  At noon Blaise Delacroix Sanford was baptized in the drawing room of the Sanford mansion by a Roman Catholic bishop with, as they say, the map of all Ireland writ large upon his red face.

  Emma and I stood as godparents for the baby, who roared agreeably. Sanford was in an exuberant mood, made only slightly more distasteful than usual by a newfound religiosity. He has taken to exclaiming in a loud voice and at odd moments, “Praise God.” He has not yet asked us to drop to our knees and pray with him, but I feel it is only a matter of time.

  Some fifty people had been invited for dinner after the ceremony, amongst them Ward McAllister. “She could not come,” he breathed into my ear. “But she has sent a most beautiful cup. So tragic, the loss of the beautiful Mrs. Sanford. He has taken it very hard, hasn’t he?”

  “Very hard. As we all have.”

  “So good of you and the Princess to stay with him. He has no family. She had Family, of course. But they are at the South, don’t you know?”

  Due to my gentle insistence, the Gilders (wife and sister as well as book-man) had been invited to the christening. I fear that I have taken to literary society in the biggest way. One day finds me at the Lotos Club, the next at the Century Club. I fawn relentlessly on publishers.

  I now have, according to Gilder, “a truly princely offer from Scribner’s. They will pay you five thousand dollars for the rights to your election book.” Gilder was as pleased for me as I am for me. “Naturally, you’ll let me publish as much as I can in Scribner’s Monthly.”

  “We are thrilled,” said Jeanette Gilder, but whether by my sudden good fortune or by the Gilders’ finding themselves in the same drawing room as the August Belmonts, I could not tell.

  I now work every day on the book. Bigelow provides me with all sorts of information, and Tilden himself promises to give the final manuscript a careful reading.

  I was well on my way to survival, until this afternoon, when my life was most unexpectedly changed.

  After the guests had departed, I sat with Sanford and Emma in the pseudo-Renaissance library with its view of Fifth Avenue, bright and new-looking in the early April light. Sanford and I continued to drink champagne while Emma poured herself cup after cup of coffee from a massive Georgian silver pot.

  “A good party!” San
ford lit a long cigar. “Praise God!” This last was addressed to the ceiling that, presumably, separates Sanford from his much-lauded Deity.

  “I hope my literary confrères did not lower too much the ‘tong.’ ”

  “They give variety. Say, it sure was nice of Lina to send us that cup.” Sanford has lately taken to referring to the Mystic Rose by her family nickname—no doubt, on the ground that the less he sees of her the greater the intimacy.

  Then Emma put down her coffee cup and said, “Papa, William and I were married this morning.”

  “Praise God in Heaven!” Sanford addressed this prayer not to the ceiling but to me.

  “My God!” I said, contaminated by so many celestial references.

  “The Bishop married us, before anyone came.” Emma was nervous…from too much coffee, I decided dumbly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I heard my own voice, as if from far away; and noted that it was the querulous voice of an old man.

  “Because—” Emma stopped.

  “Because,” said Sanford, “you might have objected. I mean it is…so soon…after—”

  “Yes. It is too soon after.” I was sharp. On the one hand (why deny it?), I am delighted that Emma has not only saved herself but released me from a burden that has been threatening to crush me entirely; yet, on the other hand, I cannot stop thinking of Denise, only three months dead. “Why couldn’t you have waited a few more months?”

  “The child,” said Sanford. “He needs a mother. And I”—Sanford’s small pretty mouth suddenly delivered a spontaneous if somewhat girlish, even coquettish smile—“I need Emma.”

  “The orchids,” I said, not meaning to. But neither one of them was listening to me. They were looking at each other.

  “We thought it the right thing to do, Papa.” Emma shifted to rapid French, and I don’t think Sanford was able to understand us. “William wants to get away. To go to Paris. As soon as possible. With the child. With me. Obviously, I can’t travel with him unmarried. So last week we asked the Bishop, and he was most agreeable. He arranged it all.”