The Golden Age

by Gore Vidal

  “Not the mid-Pacific? Not Wake Island?”

  “Unlikely. They’re close to home in the South Pacific. They’re too close to us at Wake or Midway, too close to San Diego. We should have their answer to Hull by the weekend.”

  “How is the President?”

  “He is well, thank you.”

  Caroline laughed. “I expected no more, in the way of information.”

  “You are asked to lunch on Sunday. Judge for yourself.”

  “Is Eleanor back?”

  “Oh yes. And the Crown Princess of Norway has gone into purdah at her Bethesda, Maryland, castle.”

  “Young love will find a way,” said Caroline and left Hopkins to his papers.

  James Burden Day rang Caroline in her office at the Tribune. “For your private information, Admiral Stark cabled, on November twenty-eighth, all the Pacific Coast naval commanders, from Alaska down to Panama and over to Hawaii. Here’s his message: ‘If hostilities cannot repeat cannot be avoided the United States desires that Japan commit the first overt act.’ My friend tells me that otherwise no information is getting through from the War Department to the Pacific.” With that, Burden hung up.

  Caroline went into Blaise’s office. The ticker tape was clattering beside his desk: United Press—after November 26—was currently the news provider of choice. “All the Japanese embassies around the world are destroying their codes.”

  Caroline told Blaise what Burden had told her. “On the other hand, I think Harry really believes the danger to us is in the Philippines.”

  Blaise shuffled papers on his desk. “A garbled report’s come in from Singapore. They are expecting a Jap attack at any moment. There is also a reference to some sort of secret mutual defense deal between the U.S. and England …”

  “You mean between Roosevelt and Churchill?”

  “Which isn’t exactly the same thing, is it? I can’t find the damned thing.”

  He rang for his secretary, an excited young man who said, “It’s started coming through.”

  “That’s very interesting. But what I want from you is that copy of …”

  “What is coming through?” Caroline spoke now as the true founder-publisher of the modern Tribune.

  “The answer to Mr. Hull’s ten points. The Japanese Embassy is busy decoding it. There are fourteen parts. Thirteen are coming through now. The fourteenth, for some reason, won’t come until tomorrow, just after noon.”

  Blaise dismissed his secretary. “So now we’ll know.”

  “If we don’t already,” said Caroline. “I suspect that the war is already under way.” She picked up the latest poll from Dr. Gallup. “I hope for Franklin’s sake—well, for the war’s sake—that the blow when it falls is decisive, because,” she held up the latest poll, “over eighty percent of the unconsulted people of this model democratic republic are still against any foreign war.”

  “Unless,” Blaise was uncharacteristically sardonic, “we suffer a surprise attack from a foreign power.”

  Eleanor Roosevelt embraced Caroline in a spontaneous outburst of affection. “I’m so glad you could come! We need cheering up.” The lines about her eyes were deeper than ever, and though she smiled her great toothy Rooseveltian grin she kept frowning at the same time, an unnerving effect.

  They were in the Red Room. The guest of honor at lunch was a British naval officer along with a number of Roosevelt cousins.

  “You must be exhausted!” Caroline suddenly realized how fond she had become of Eleanor over the many years that they had known each other. “Since we can’t get your column, we print your schedule. It’s like the Court Circular. Her Majesty, accompanied by His Honor Mayor La Guardia of New York, inspected the nation’s civil defense.”

  “Her Majesty also discovered that there is no civil defense of any kind on the West Coast.” Eleanor completed the Circular. “Her Majesty disguised her ill pleasure as best she could while His Honor screamed epithets at every official in the state, including the heads of the fire departments. They are, he says, crucial. And, oh, how Fiorello can scream!”

  “You are unlikely partners to be in charge of Civilian Defense.”

  “Perhaps too unlikely.” Eleanor moved away as Hopkins came limping in from the adjacent Blue Room. He came straight up to Caroline.

  “The President’s not coming down to lunch, so I’m going up to lunch with him.”

  “The news is that bad?”

  Hopkins nodded. “They have broken off all relations.”

  “Part fourteen?”

  “Yes. It won’t arrive officially until one p.m.” He looked at his watch. “Now. But we got an advance look at it. Come upstairs. After lunch.”

  The lunch was no different from any other. Eleanor made dutiful conversation; and betrayed no anxiety. Caroline knew that she ought not to go upstairs on such a day, but as the invitation had been made, she also knew that nothing short of the Marine Guard could stop her. In the east-west corridor several military aides were hurrying in and out of the oval study. No one paid the slightest attention to her. The White House staff recognized her while the aides knew that, at any given moment, all sorts of ladies were apt to be staying with the Roosevelts. She did her best to look like a cousin, preferably Laura Delano; fiercely, she concentrated on turning her hair blue, in sculptured waves. She also concentrated on invisibility as she passed the study where Hopkins was slowly pacing up and down, papers in one hand. The President was at his desk, bent over the telephone, an untouched lunch in front of him. On another telephone an admiral was giving orders. Without permission or acknowledgment, military aides came and went, depositing cables on the President’s desk.

  Caroline slipped, unobserved, she thought, past the door en route to Hopkins’ sitting room. But he had seen her. He led her to the Lincoln study. “Stay here in my room. Read this.” He handed her what was the entire Japanese response, including the fourteenth part.

  “Why did they delay sending it?”

  Hopkins showed her into his study. “They delayed because, at one o’clock our time, just as we were enjoying their prose, they bombed our fleet at Pearl Harbor.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “That was my reaction. But the Boss has taken it all like a glacier. I was with him last night. He read the fourteenth part first. He gave it to me and he said, ‘This means war.’ Oh, we had a busy night.”

  “But where was naval intelligence in all this? The Japanese must have had an enormous fleet. Why no warning?”

  Hopkins turned away. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “But you knew last night they would attack …”

  “Attack, yes. But not Pearl Harbor. Somewhere. In the southwestern Pacific was my theory. But I did change my tune last night. I said, ‘We ought to hit them first,’ but the Boss said, ‘No, we can’t do that. We’re a democracy.’ This means that Congress would blame a first strike on him. ‘We’re a peaceful people,’ he said. ‘But we have a good record.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  Caroline knew that every word her friend was telling her was being said for the record, for history—for the defense?

  “A good record of winning virtuous wars, I suppose. Anyway, we tried to get Admiral Stark but he was at the National Theatre, at a performance of, God help us, The Student Prince. The Boss knew it would cause a panic if he were paged so he talked to him later.”

  A military aide appeared in the doorway. “Sir …”

  “I’m coming.” Hopkins vanished into the busy corridor.

  “May I?” Mrs. Roosevelt looked into the room. Caroline rose to her feet. “Please.” Eleanor half-shut the door behind her. She looked exhausted. “I’ve come for a moment’s peace, if you don’t mind.”

  “It is your house.”

  “No. It is the nation’s house.” She sat down in a heavy wood mission rocking chair. “One tends to forget that until … something happens.” She shut her eyes and rocked back and forth. From the corridor, many hushed v
oices could be heard. Military aides, secretaries, cabinet members were assembling—like ants when their hill has been kicked over.

  Caroline had a thousand questions that she wanted to ask and so asked none. “I have four sons.” Eleanor spoke with a degree of wonder. “They are all in the military or will be. What are the odds, with four?”

  “I should think good.”

  “The last time there were all of Uncle T’s boys, and one was killed. Franklin was eager to go, too, until Mr. Wilson ordered him to stay at the Navy Department. But one’s own sons are different, aren’t they?” Eleanor’s eyes were moist. Caroline wished for Eleanor’s sake that she would weep, let go. But instead she simply shut her eyes, as if she wanted, suddenly, in the midst of so much disaster to sleep her way out of it. “You have no son, do you?” This was Eleanor’s spontaneous politeness. To include the other.

  “Only a daughter.”

  “I remember—she must be married by now.”

  “Married. Divorced.”

  “The usual story these days.” Eleanor opened her eyes; they were as usual. “I saw Mr. Farrell’s film about England. We liked it very much. Mr. Churchill was delighted, of course. But then Mr. Farrell let him overact outrageously. What is Mr. Farrell doing now?”

  Eleanor was obviously determined to put out of her mind the ships, sunken and aflame in Pearl Harbor.

  “Tim will probably want to cover the war in the Pacific.” Thus, Caroline mentioned the unmentionable. Quickly, she created a diversion. Chose drama. “Only I haven’t heard from Tim in some time. You see, Emma, my daughter, is with him now.”

  “Wasn’t she working in his film?”

  “Yes. But they are also … they are now a couple, I am told. I suppose there are precedents for a mother to be replaced by her daughter but I’ve never actually known of one. But then, to be precise, Tim and I parted for good twenty years ago, in the most friendly way, and so I am no longer a part of the story.”

  “This,” said Eleanor, “is rather the sort of thing that happens along the River.” The River Families were, mostly, all related to each other and so given to complicated marital and extramarital arrangements. “I am sorry.”

  “No. No. Please. I am well out of it. I am only sorry for poor Tim. He is stuck with Emma, a fate one would not wish on an enemy much less an old friend.”

  Mrs. Roosevelt was now thoroughly distracted, the object of Caroline’s exercise. In general, Eleanor seemed immune to gossip, but now, rather like a great psychoanalyst or whatever witch doctors were currently called, she wanted more and more details about Emma’s general character, details which her mother was happy to provide, including her work with Fortress America, which brought a frown to Eleanor’s pale brow. Then Caroline concluded with a revelation. “To my surprise, I think I am something that I have never been before—jealous.”

  “Never before? Oh, you are lucky! I’m afraid that I’ve always been jealous of those I care about, and since they are so very few, one’s apt to become ridiculously jealous. Sooner or later, I always blame myself. I always try to forgive. And I think I do. Only …” The mouth was suddenly compressed to a straight line. “I never forget.” She took a deep breath. “It is sad we never know where we have gone wrong as parents until it is far too late. My late mother-in-law felt that I had made every mistake one could make as a mother while I knew that she had made, deliberately, every mistake a grandmother can make, spoiling the children when I was away and undoing all my efforts to bring them up as they should be brought up or so I, perhaps wrongly, thought. This house has been no help.” She went over to the window where Lincoln’s desk had been so placed that he might get the southern—Confederate?—light. She stared a moment at the monument to Washington. “It is a terrible place to bring up children. With everyone flattering them because they want something from Franklin. There are times when I think there must be some sort of curse on this house.”

  “There is a curse on power.”

  “Not when used for others, or so I like to think.”

  “Where does one’s own self leave off and that of others begin?”

  “There are …” Suddenly, the great grin. “… markers, I believe, like no-trespassing signs. I keep running up against them all the time.” She rose. “Now I must go write my radio broadcast. You’ve done me a world of good, Caroline.”

  “You do us all good.”

  “Now. Now. I am just an old politician of the wrong sex or the right sex but born at the wrong time.” She was gone.

  A moment later Hopkins limped into the room and stretched out on the sofa. “Eleanor …” He stopped.

  “We talked about sons and daughters.”

  “She’s ringing all her children now.”

  “How much damage did the Japanese do?”

  “No one knows. But just about every ship in the harbor was hit. They’ve also attacked Hong Kong, Malaya, Guam, the Philippines, Wake, Midway. He’ll address Congress tomorrow.” Hopkins sighed. “It’s an awful thing to say but this is a terrible weight off all of us. No more waiting. No more stalling. Everything plain.”

  “Did you expect so many shoes to fall at once?”

  “Shoes? Oh, yes. Well, now, we’re a bit worried about the West Coast. Without Pearl Harbor, we’re vulnerable to air attack. Even invasion. The Boss thinks we can certainly turn them back by the time they get to Chicago.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “He’s only thinking ahead, which is what he is paid to do.”

  Caroline restrained herself from remarking that if the President had been seriously thinking ahead in the last year the United States might still possess its Pacific Fleet.

  Hopkins was on another tack. “I think we should find a job for Wendell Willkie. He’s eager. The Boss likes him. They’ve become sort of pen pals.” Hopkins appeared to be talking to himself rather than to Caroline. “What a ticket that would be in ’44. Roosevelt and Willkie.”

  “A fourth term?”

  “Why not? Unless the war is won by then. In which case, we can all go home.”

  “Politics never stops, does it?”

  Hopkins made no answer.

  Caroline rose. “I’ll be covering the Capitol tomorrow. For the paper.” Hopkins nodded; his eyes were shut again. “Oh?” She stopped at the door. “What ever happened to Hitler?”

  Hopkins chuckled. “Don’t worry. We never lose track of him. He went into winter quarters yesterday. He’s been bluffing the Japanese. He had them convinced that Moscow and Leningrad were about to surrender any day now, which meant that this was the best time for them to hit us. Now Adolf’s taking a well-deserved rest. Moscow and Leningrad are safe, and the Japanese are busy committing suicide. In a few days, Hitler will do something very unusual for him, he’ll actually honor a treaty. The one with Japan. He’ll declare war on us. Is Mrs. Woodrow Wilson still alive?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I think history requires for Eleanor to sit with her tomorrow when the Boss makes his speech.”

  Eleanor did sit with Mrs. Woodrow Wilson while Caroline was squeezed into a corner of the press gallery. The President struck all the right notes. The face that had yesterday been gaunt and gray was now its usual ruddy color. The voice was resonant and firm as he looked out over the combined houses of Congress, Cabinet, Supreme Court. He spoke of the “surprise” attack as a day that would “live in infamy,” yet, thought Caroline, it came as no surprise to anyone except the American people, as always kept in the dark. Nevertheless, he made his case; then, almost graciously, he said, “We may acknowledge that our enemies have performed a brilliant feat of deception, perfectly timed and executed with great skill.” Thus, most eloquently, he described his own tactics that had got him the war that he had so dearly wanted for reasons which Caroline hoped were virtuous because if they were not …

  In the crowd, after the official declaration of war, Caroline found James Burden Day and Arthur Vandenberg standing in front of the glass swing doors that led
into the Senate chamber. Vandenberg was owl-solemn; Burden was grim.

  Caroline congratulated Vandenberg on his blessedly brief speech to the Senate before the vote was taken.

  “Unity is all-important.” Vandenberg shook his jowls menacingly. “When the war’s been won, we can argue about how the Administration might have avoided it.”

  “Or, worse, might have provoked the attack,” said Burden.

  “All that’s for later. We mustn’t seem to be playing politics, particularly not now with all the dead and the dying in Hawaii.”

  Caroline asked if any figures had come through.

  Burden nodded. “Something like three thousand men are thought to be lost aboard the ships.”

  Vandenberg slipped away. Burden was bitter. “We were all set to investigate this whole matter but now Arthur is too busy playing at being statesman to be one.”

  “Were you at the White House yesterday, with the other congressional leaders?”

  “No. I was the one leader not asked. Roosevelt knows that I am on to his game. He also knows that now, with all the panic building, he’s home free.”

  As if on cue, a reporter from the Tribune hurried over to Caroline to tell her that San Francisco had just been bombed.

  Caroline turned to James Burden Day. “How long a war will it be?”

  “The last one was only a year for us. Four years for the Europeans.”

  Caroline was suddenly struck with what was, for her, an entirely new thought. “Why, if this war should be profitable for us, shouldn’t it go on forever? Particularly if,” she thought of Hopkins’ line, “we gain the world.”

  “Countries wear out.”

  “Countries also change. Like people. In fact, most of us tend to become what we have always hated.”

  “What have you always hated?”

  Caroline remembered to smile. “Old age. And the weakening of the mind.”

  “You are in no immediate danger of either.” Then, gallantly, he led her across the rotunda with its numerous crude statues of forgotten American statesmen. As they walked, admirers shook Burden’s hand. “Little do they know that I have now become what I have always hated.”