by Gore Vidal
I have spent the last three days in court and most hard it was to find a seat. Fortunately Old Patroon is welcome everywhere.
The first day in court I knew that I had seen Robinson somewhere before. He is a handsome ruddy youth who dresses in the height of fashion. He is also very popular: half the court-room was filled with young clerks just like himself and they provided him with a sympathetic claque; for that matter so did judge and jury.
Mrs. Townsend charmed no one while her Biblical references inspired laughter. The girls did no better as, one by one, they testified to Robinson’s presence in Thomas Street on the night of the murder. Whenever a girl spoke, the clerks would giggle until the witness was reduced to blushes and stammers.
By the second day of the trial it was apparent to everyone that Robinson had murdered Helen (for reasons never established); it was equally apparent that since he was an attractive, well-spoken youth who had fallen among sinful women, he deserved the court’s compassion. And what, after all, was Helen Jewett to this court but so much debris to be swept out of sight? Certainly no one except me wanted that strong rosy neck stretched and broken on the gallows in the Tombs.
Oh, what I would give for just one hour in which to be Tamerlane loose in the streets of New York. Mrs. Townsend disembowelled. The judge’s head on a pike. Robinson slowly quartered, slowly dismembered!
I was awakened from my day-dream of vengeance by a familiar figure squeezing past me to get to the aisle. It was William de la Touche Clancey who scowled when he saw me. With good reason. I remembered everything.
Clancey and the male prostitute skulking in the shadows of the Vauxhall Gardens; and Helen had mocked the boy, mocked Richard Robinson.
I wanted to shout, “Stop! I have proof!” But I said nothing; have no proof of any kind. Can only guess at what happened.
According to Mrs. Townsend, Helen had liked Robinson while he had “thought her very nice—for that sort of—well, person—in a place to which I was enticed by—well, I could not stay away from, Your Honour, and I wanted to stay away, wanted to save my money so I could—marry.” Tears started in the large blue eyes.
Since motive was never established by the prosecution (and it ought to have been, either real or invented), the incriminating details were one by one explained away by the clever defence. Fresh whitewash is on many a fence and door and therefore on many an innocent trouser leg. The miniature (will I ever get it back? do I want it back?) was given Robinson some weeks before the murder. The shreds of tassle on the hatchet? Well, no one denies that his cloak had rested on the hatchet which had been left in her room by the maid O’Malley.
But if Robinson was innocent, then who was guilty?
The defence’s answer to that obvious question was masterful. “Shortly after Robinson left the house, around midnight, someone else came to Helen Jewett’s room. Now let us pause a moment and consider the various details we know in a new light. For instance, the passage from the house which the prosecution suggests that Robinson took—that is, across the yard and over the picket fence—might well have been the passage to the house that the real murderer took and, may I say, there are excellent possibilities of our finding him, gentlemen of the jury, yes, excellent possibilities.”
I had stopped breathing at this point, aware that the entire court-room was listening to my heart beat.
“For there exists a man in this city with whom the unfortunate Helen Jewett lived. By whom she had a child that did not live, a jealous man, a vindictive man from whom she fled, fled in fear of her life. And because of this monster that satanic house in Thomas Street became not just a den of vice for Helen Jewett but, Heaven help the poor girl, a last safe—she prayed—refuge.”
It was some time before I breathed again, before my heart ceased to flutter. As coldly as I could, I reviewed the law in my head. Considered evidence. Saw little likelihood of an indictment, and no likelihood of a prosecution. After all, I had been with Fitz-Greene Halleck until two in the morning.
After fifteen minutes of “deliberation,” the jury set Robinson free. Because the case is still open, I now wake up in the night after exactly four hours of drugged sleep and lie awake until dawn, wondering if they will arrest me.
I just looked at myself in the mirror and said, “You killed Elma Sands!”
Six
June 30, 1836
THIS MORNING I RECEIVED a letter postmarked Washington City. It contained a thick white card engraved as follows: “The PRESIDENT, Requests the honour of (written in) Mr. Schuyler’s Company at dinner, Monday, the 9th July, at 5 o’clock. The favour of an answer is desired.” That favour was granted in the several minutes it took me to write an acceptance and the twenty minutes it took me to hurry to the temporary post office where I was delighted by the postal clerk’s expression when I slipped the letter to him with its austere address plainly visible: “The President, The White House, Washington City.”
“I guess everybody wants a job!” was the best the poor man could do. I smiled graciously, paid for my stamp, and went to Pine Street.
Mr. Bryant was pleased but not surprised. “Mr. Van Buren is punctilious about these things. But then that is the secret of his success. He never forgets a debt or an injury.”
“I never expected him to act so quickly.”
“Perhaps General Jackson wishes to meet Old Patroon.” I was suddenly nervous at the thought of finding myself face to face with that famous warrior.
“I think it shows Mr. Van Buren’s confidence in you, asking you to the White House before he is elected.”
“Not to mention his confidence in himself,” I was impelled to remark. “But one way or the other, I shall leave New York with or without a government place.”
“Old Patroon will be missed. But then you will write to us from Europe. And of course one ought to go abroad when young.” Mr. Bryant is still distressed by my involvement with Helen Jewett. Although Leggett has tried to convince him that I was an innocent youth led astray, Mr. Bryant has given me up as one who will not be saved. He is right.
He then read with pleasure (or so he said) my description of Old Patroon’s terrifying journey on the recently completed Brooklyn-Jamaica Rail Road. After paying me, he excused himself to write a memorial of James Madison who has just died.
Seven
THE COLONEL IS WEAK; does not leave his room. I found him sitting up in bed, newspapers all over the coverlet, an unlit stump of a seegar in one hand. He had already heard the news. “Well, I am the last, aren’t I? And you’re in time to help me write a letter to Dolley. I understand she has not a penny to her name. Her son ran through everything.” The Colonel seemed moderately pleased. “I can’t think how she will live, poor girl. She dearly likes to spend money.”
The Colonel dictated an agreeable letter which he signed with some difficulty; his hands have developed a tremor. Then he sat back exhausted as I sealed and addressed the letter. “Jemmy was at least five years older than I,” he murmured, looking out toward the dark Atlantic.
“Have you seen much of the Reverend Van Pelt?”
“At every opportunity, he pays me a call. But he is tactful. So far he has not asked to hear my confession. But then he is not young and it would take a decade once I was truly launched. Actually he has been untactful only once. He asked me if I expected to be “saved.” A most impertinent question, don’t you think?”
“What did you tell him?”
“ ‘On that subject,’ I said, ‘I am coy!’ ”
I told the Colonel of the invitation from the White House. He was intrigued. “Now who arranged that, and to what end?”
“Leggett and Mr. Bryant. I … I am to write about General Jackson in the White House.”
The Colonel looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ll find Matty a most agreeable and good man. He will take to you. In fact, I have written him about you.”
I looked at the Colonel as innocently as possible. “Do you think Mr. Van Buren will be at the dinner?”
“Do I mention you?”
“If you don’t, he will.” The Colonel then asked me if I would read aloud to him. “I know it is dull for you but for me being read to is better than laudanum.”
From off the table beside his bed, I picked up Tristram Shandy and read for an hour. We were both amused. The book is better read aloud than to oneself. “I am partial to Sterne,” said the Colonel, “and regret that I came to him so late in life. In fact, when I was young, if I had read more of Sterne and less of Voltaire I might have realized that there was room enough on this earth for both Hamilton and me.”
Before I left, the Colonel gave me advice on how to comport myself in the White House. “It can be most unnerving, particularly when there is no lady of the house.” He smiled at a sudden memory. “Dolley used always to carry a book in one hand so that she and a stranger would immediately have something to talk about. ‘What book is it?’ my daughter once asked her. ‘Don Quixote,’ said Dolley, ‘always Don Quixote.’ When Theodosia asked her what she thought of Cervantes, Dolley said, ‘If I read the book I should have nothing to say. But over the years I’ve learned quite a lot about the plot from nervous guests.’ ”
The Colonel chuckled. “Dolley will do well, with or without money. I am told that Daniel Webster is in love with her and since he takes every bribe offered him, he will have enough money to keep her in style.”
Eight
July 8, 1836. Washington City
IF THIS IS NOT HELL, it will do. I have never been so hot. I can see why Colonel Burr wanted to be president—to revel in the stifling, damp heat of this depressing tropical swamp.
Congress adjourned July 4 and everyone assures me that the town is empty. I don’t see how they can tell since there is no town. In front of the Indian Queen Hotel where I am staying there is a stretch of paved road which soon becomes dirt and vanishes into woods. Washington has no centre, or rather there are several centres. One is the Capitol, an impressive if slightly ridiculous building on its wild overgrown hill. The White House is also impressive at the other end of Pennsylvania “Avenue”; however, the want of much of anything between these two majestic poles tends to diminish the grandeur of each.
I spent the morning at the Capitol. The interior of the Senate chamber is particularly handsome but the carpetting is black and gummy with tobacco juice despite the presence of a hundred large spittoons. Two slaves were scraping at the carpet in a lazy way. Even the black men are vanquished by the heat.
I called upon the Vice-President but he was out. I left my card. There were a number of people Leggett thought I should try to see. I tried and soon gave up. With Congress’s adjournment everyone has fled to the mountains or “gone home.” Apparently no one stays in Washington during the heat of summer except the blacks who are everywhere. They make me uneasy for I have never been south before and so have never, consciously at least, seen a slave. Incidentally, the word “slave” is never used in this part of the world. If nothing else, the Abolitionists have made the southern whites self-conscious. They speak of their servants, their blacks, their people, but never of their slaves.
I spent the evening in the hotel bar, drinking with some westerners. They were filled with anecdotes about Old Hickory. To my astonishment I did not tell them where I was having dinner tomorrow. My character improves. I learned that President and Vice-President both leave the city on the tenth. So tomorrow afternoon will be the last White House dinner of the season.
Nine
July 9, 1836
TEN O’CLOCK. A stifling night. Mosquitoes are humming about the bed and I ought to turn out the light and sleep but cannot. Must describe my evening.
At four-thirty I started toward the White House, moving very slowly in the shimmering heat; afraid the starch in my new collar would melt. It is an odd feeling to be dressed for a palace reception and then be obliged to walk across empty dusty fields with only small black children to note one’s splendid progress along “streets” yet to be built; their future sites marked, however, with rough stones carved optimistically with such legends as “Connecticut Avenue.”
At the White House a single tobacco-chewing guard paid no attention to me as I walked up the path to the main portico where the other guests were arriving by carriage. Apparently I was the only one to come by foot.
I got to the portico just as Edward Livingston and his wife were descending from their new Hansom cab. For someone who is known as Beau Ned, Mr. Livingston is a rather plain-looking man. Mrs. Livingston might have been beautiful in early days but now she is heavy with deep dark circles under her eyes.
I followed the Livingstons into the cool main hall where a Negro porter or usher (must check on what presidential servants are called) wearing curious yellow slippers (in order to move quietly?) bowed deeply to each guest and indicated that we go into an oval room.
Right off, I was struck by the shabbiness of the furnishings. The faded curtains are full of dust, most of the chairs have been broken and are casually repaired; the carpet is splotched with tobacco juice despite a wealth of spittoons disgustingly full. But the room itself is impressively proportioned with a splendid view of the Potomac River and the smoky blue-green hills of Virginia beyond. On the brown lawn below the window I saw the first firefly of the evening.
“A good situation for a palace.” I had been addressed by a young man who turned out to be on some sort of mission for the British government. I never got his name but was duly grateful to have someone to talk to. Washington politicians are no different from the ones who hang about the bar at the Tammany Wigwam. They stick close to one another; talk in low voices, laugh loudly at what has not been said while regarding with suspicion those of other tribes.
“Who are those famous people?” the young Englishman asked.
I confessed that “I’m a stranger, too.” But at least I was able to point out the Livingstons whom I know by sight from New York. Otherwise we were both at sea, staring at the colourful democratic menagerie, at frock-coated statesmen sweating and (may I say what Old Patroon cannot) stinking in the hot room. Several westerners were got up like frontiersmen while their squaws, on the other hand, affected the latest Paris fashions. I note that the westerners are all yellow-faced. Malaria? While the southerners tend to be red-faced. Whiskey.
Quietly the Vice-President slipped into the room, and as if in response to some pre-arranged signal the guests spread out before him like a fan so that he might, starting from right to left, go from first one to another, speaking to each in a quiet voice. He was easily the most elegant figure in the room and even the loud westerners were forced to acknowledge true natural distinction by lowering their voices when they spoke to him. Some of their ladies actually curtsied, as though he were already sovereign.
Van Buren knew immediately who I was. “Mr. Schuyler. You were good to come.”
“I was most honoured, Sir, most …” I was incoherent.
“The honour is ours, if I may speak for the President.” I noticed again that we are exactly the same height.
“I want you to know, Sir, that I … well, was not partisan. I mean in all of this business.”
“Of course. Of course.” The gentle voice firmly prevented me from indiscretic. If the bumps of Diplomacy and Secrecy are inherited, one knows their origin in Van Buren’s case. He is remarkably like the Colonel. “We enjoy your Old Patroon articles. Most pleasurable.” Then he said something to me, rather sharply, in Dutch.
“I’m afraid, Sir …”
Again the charming smile. “You have not our dying language?”
“No, Sir. I speak no Dutch.”
There was a commotion at the opposite end of the room. I heard several voices murmur “the President.” Mr. Van Buren continued, however, to devote his attention entirely to me. “What news of Colonel Burr?”
I confess that as I told him about the Colonel’s removal to Staten Island, my attention (though not my gaze) was on the do
orway through which General Jackson had just entered the room.
“You must tell him I shall go and visit him, if I am able to, before the election.” I did not look as startled as I was. No man who wants to be president can openly visit Colonel Burr. “But,” he continued blandly, “if I do not get to Staten Island, tell him my thoughts are with him.”
Out of the corner of my eye I was aware of a tall thin figure dressed in black, standing at the room’s exact centre.
“You missed a good deal, Mr. Schuyler, not having known Aaron Burr in his prime. He was a god to us.”
“I think him splendid, Sir, and like no one else.”
“He is most fond of you. He has written me recently to that effect.” With a small bow and a whispered “by your leave,” the Vice-President turned from me and approached the old General who stood very straight beneath a dusty broken chandelier.
The fan arrangement occasioned by Mr. Van Buren’s entrance was now replaced by the more utilitarian wheel at whose centre axis was the President, holding in his left hand a black cane like a sceptre.
One by one the guests circled him like so many spokes. Although each was presented by a secretary, the President appeared to know most of the guests and usually made his greetings right through the secretary’s presentation.
Not so with me. “Mr. Schuyler of New York,” said the secretary, consulting a list.
I felt dizzy for a moment as I took the surprisingly soft hand of the victor of New Orleans. I bowed low. The President said, “Good evening, Sir. Mr. Van Buren speaks well of you. We are honoured at your presence.” The stately formula was perfunctory but the eyes were not. They never leave one’s face when he speaks to you. Eyes of a predator, I thought, of a killer, until I recalled that the eyes of Richard Robinson were like spring forget-me-nots. No, Jackson’s eyes are those of some merciless punishing angel or devil presiding over the agonies in Hell. It is the bold alert indifference of his blue gaze that makes for such a disquieting and cruel impression. I have seen such an expression in the eyes of a caged wolf. I have no idea what we said to one another. Fortunately, dinner was announced.