Gore Vidal - Empire

The ladies asked to see the baby, who was brought down to the drawing room, a solemn wide-eyed child. Cissy promptly burst into tears at the thought of marriage and babies and money and a title, and Caroline gave her a tumbler of brandy, which she drank in a single gulp, to everyone’s amazement.

As the impromptu “at-home” broke up, Marguerite Cassini took Caroline aside to announce, “Nick has asked me to marry him. Tell nobody.”

Except the public, thought Caroline, who asked, “Will you?”

Marguerite nodded.

“Come on, Maggie,” Alice commanded. “Nick’s taking us in his carriage. I hope that father of yours fixes those brakes. We ,” she said dramatically, “could have been killed.”

“Maybe,” said Cissy, darkly, to no one, “it would be for the best.”

“Do be still,” said Princess Alice; and they were gone.

Glumly, Caroline sat at her desk and began, yet again, to study her husband’s debts. Slowly, she was coming to the realization that if his creditors refused to wait, she might have to sell the Tribune . She did her best not to blame John. After all, she had married him, and not the other way round. Even so, men were supposed to know about business, and she felt, obscurely, cheated. The wages of sin, she thought; and laughed aloud: she was beginning to think like a newspaper. Nevertheless, where, she wondered, could money be found?

BLAISE STARED A MOMENT at the door to the house in Lafayette Square, exactly opposite the White House. All in all, he decided, it was a tribute to the energy and colorfulness of Theodore Roosevelt that this less than splendid house, formerly rented by Elihu Root, was now occupied by Representative William Randolph Hearst. Plainly, it was Roosevelt’s powerful magnetism that drew to sleepy backward Washington Hearst and himself, not to. mention the likes of Elihu Root, now gone back to New York to practice law, his place as secretary of war more than amply filled by that human mastodon William Howard Taft, the President’s most trusted adviser on the Philippines, where he had reigned in vice-regal splendor during the… whatever it was: no one had yet come up with the right word for the violent resistance of so many Filipinos to Yankee rule. As of February 1, 1904, a week ago, Taft had become secretary of war, complaining bitterly to everyone that he would not be able to live on his salary; yet while every officeholder made the same complaint, everyone accepted office and, somehow, got by, thought Blaise, cynically.

The familiar corpulent George opened the door, just as if they were still in a real city instead of this curious Southern village. “Mr. Blaise, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Over the years, George had come to regard Blaise as the Chief’s young brother, or even son, a role Blaise had never once had any desire to play. But play-act both men must, the omnipotent Hearst, publisher now of eight papers (Boston had surrendered), and the wealthy Blaise, who had still to make his mark at anything, particularly since yesterday’s disastrous fire had destroyed his Baltimore printing press. Although Hapgood had made arrangements with a new press, the Examiner would not appear for several weeks.

Hearst sat, enthroned, in the wood-panelled study, listening to a small and-to Blaise-perfectly appalling Georgian named Thomas E. Watson, who had served a term in the House, as member of the Farmers’ Alliance; been vice-presidential candidate of the Populist Party; might now be the Populist candidate for president in 1904. Currently, Hearst was desperately wooing him to support the Democratic Party-and Hearst, who was weak in the Godly South, thanks to the aura of scandal about his name; yet, practically speaking, Hearst was the closest thing, politically, to a socialist or Populist among the national possibilities. Certainly, he appealed to Watson; but then Watson appealed to Watson even more.

Jim Day was seated on a sofa facing Hearst; he greeted Blaise with a smile; and continued to listen to the tiny fiery Watson, who stood at the room’s center, declaiming. Blaise’s entrance was made little of. Hearst waved him to a chair. Watson ignored him as a preacher would a late-comer to a revival meeting.

“I dedicated my book on Thomas Jefferson to you, Mr. Hearst, because I see you as Jefferson’s heir, politically, that is.”

“Lucky for me.” Lately, Hearst had begun, tentatively, to tell jokes. “He didn’t leave a cent when he died.”

“That’s to his eternal credit.” Watson’s blue eyes flashed, unamused. “I’m writing biographies of my-and your-heroes, Jackson and Napoleon, and I’ll dedicate them all to you if you continue to fight the good fight for the people, just as they did, against the trusts, the Jew bankers, the idolatrous papists, and all the rest of the foreign element that keeps down our people, the original people of this republic.” There was more in this vein. Hearst listened patiently. At the Democratic Convention in July, Watson could swing the Southern delegates to Hearst, and the nomination; at election time, Watson was worth five million votes to the nominee. But would Watson himself be a Democrat in July? or would he be the candidate of the Populists? Blaise did not envy the Chief. From what Blaise could tell of the American people-glimpsed, admittedly somewhat askew, through their tribunes-they tended to sectarian madness. Religion ran like poison through their veins, followed by-or mingled with-racism of a sort undreamed of in wicked old Europe. There was always a “they” at whom a pejorative verb could be launched, automatically transitiving “they” to the ominous all-evil “them” who must be destroyed so that Eden could be regained. Blaise would rather be a humble worker in his father’s encaustic-tile plant at Lowell, Massachusetts, than president of so strenuously mad a country as the United States. He could not fathom it; did not want to; marvelled that Caroline had got the range of the place, and all without in any way becoming one of-yes, them .

Watson spoke for another half-hour; then, with a peroration on the absolute necessity, if the United States were ever to know greatness, of a rural free mail delivery service, he stopped. “Mr. Watson,” Hearst rose; he towered over the tiny orator, “I have admired-even simulated you…”

“Emulated,” Blaise murmured automatically to himself. The Chief was still having his problems with English. “Now I know we can do great things together this summer, fall, forever. But where I need you-really need you-is your working for me. No, that’s wrong, I’d be working for you, for your ideas, if you’d only take over as editor of the New York American . You’re a natural.”

This was exceptionally well done, thought Blaise. The Chief was learning. Watson expressed gratitude for confidence placed; but did not, quite, take the bait. After more compliments exchanged, Watson left. Hearst sighed.

“Hard work,” said Blaise.

“He’s a wonderful orator,” said Jim. “But if you’re not a crowd, he’s pretty tiring.”

“What do you think, Jim?” Hearst turned to Day. Blaise was, suddenly, completely jealous. They were on a first-name basis, something rare for Hearst to be with anyone. Of course, Jim was Hearst’s senior in the House of Representatives; even so, it had taken a year before Hearst had called Blaise by his first name.

“I think Colonel Bryan’s going to try again, and I’ll be with him, as always, and he’ll fail to be nominated, so I guess you’ll be the candidate-or Cleveland, if he’s in a Lazarus mood.”

“Cleveland’s really dead.” Hearst turned to Blaise. “You know, I got on the Labor Committee, over Williams’s dead body.” To Jim: “How do you get a bill passed in the House?”