Gore Vidal - Empire

“First,” said Jim, “you get somebody to write it for you. Then… Well, Congress isn’t at all like a newspaper.”

“I figured that one out. But,” Hearst pointed toward the White House, “ that place is. Roosevelt’s just like me, storming around, making news…” Hearst turned to Blaise. “Sorry about the fire. I guess you’ll start up again, won’t you?”

“Next week. There’s a chance that Caroline might sell me the Tribune .” Caroline had been, even for her, unusually intricate on the subject. He knew that she needed money to pay John Apgar Sanford’s debts. On the other hand, if she could hold out for a year, she would have her share of an estate that kept growing, despite the money he was pouring into his Connecticut Avenue Italianate palazzo. Blaise had put Houghteling to work, increasing the pressure on Sanford’s edgy creditors. If a crisis could be provoked…

“I’d love to get my hands on that paper.” Hearst was wistful. “She’s made a go of it. Amazing. A woman.”

“Galling! My own sister.”

“She even understands politics.” Jim made his contribution. “Kitty really likes her,” he added. “Kitty’s the politician in our family,” he added to his addition.

“I want to investigate the coal-railroad monopoly,” Hearst announced, more or less at Jim. “I’ve spent sixty thousand dollars of my own money, investigating how six railroads own eleven coal mines, secretly, and get this cheap coal, and then water their stock and sell it to the public, and the Attorney General, and that noisy fraud across the road, know all about it and they won’t do a thing.”

Blaise rather liked Hearst’s editorial approach to politics. He rooted about for scandal; found it; publicized it. But now instead of just selling newspapers, Hearst might be able, with a scandal of this nature, to destroy the Administration. That was direct power.

“You take this one to the House Judiciary Committee. I’ll show you how to go about it. But I don’t think you’ll be able to smoke out the Attorney General.”

“Wait and see. You know, if I’m nominated, I’m going to give the Democratic National Committee one and a half million dollars for the campaign.”

Jim whistled; then smiled. “Why after you’re nominated? Spread it around before and you will be nominated.” Hearst let that one go; he continued, “The idea is, the party, to raise money, won’t have to go to the railroads, to the trusts, the way they do when the candidate’s a conservative, with his hand out…”

“And only five fingers.” Jim smiled at Blaise, who realized that he had never had a man-friend before, except the son of his now-retired mistress.

“What?” Hearst was baffled.

“A joke. Of ours.” Blaise was delighted by Jim’s “ours.”

“Roosevelt,” declared Hearst, somberly, “has all sorts of luck.”

“Except bad,” noted Jim. “There’s never been anything like him.”

“I hate him, I think.” But Hearst’s thin voice sounded more wistful than passionate. “He calls me McKinley’s murderer.”

“Why don’t you suggest that he hired that anarchist to kill McKinley so that he could become president?” Blaise improvised, for Jim’s amusement.

“We were never able to find a connection,” said Hearst sadly, startling Blaise, who put nothing beyond the Chief, but this seemed to be, even for Hearst, a singularly grotesque caper.

“Well, when in doubt, make something up.” Jim was cheerful.

Blaise recalled, word for word, the latest Henry Adams characterization of William McKinley: “a very supple and highly paid agent of the crudest capitalism.” He decided not to repeat this to Hearst, who had accepted with his usual equanimity the fact that he would never be received at the other side of Lafayette Square.

But Hearst was now discussing the joys of parenthood with James Burden Day. Since Millicent would give birth in two months, she refused to leave New York City for fear that any child born in the District of Columbia would grow up to be a politician. “Or Negro,” said Jim. “Law of averages.”

George announced, “Miss Frederika Bingham,” to Hearst’s surprise. Blaise rose. “I asked her to meet me here. We’re going to look at my new house. She’s got ambition, as a decorator of houses. She’s read Mrs. Wharton’s book.”

Frederika was cool. Hearst was courtly. Jim was friendly; he had met her a number of times. Blaise shook her hand.

“My mother wants to know, Mr. Hearst, why you refuse to come to her congressional at-homes.” Frederika spoke to Hearst but kept her eyes on Blaise, who admired the ease with which she could handle any social situation. In this, she resembled Caroline, no recommendation, of course. Did he hate his sister? envy her? love her? He could never make up his mind. Certainly if he were the publisher of the Tribune , and she a mere society lady, they would probably get on. As it was, the primal emotion was, no doubt, envy.

“I don’t know any congressmen,” said Hearst meekly. “Except Mr. Day and Mr. Williams…”

“The Speaker,” said Jim, “swears he doesn’t know you by sight.”

“So you see, I wouldn’t be at home, would I?”

“All the more reason for coming to our house. Mother will introduce you to the right people. Mr. Sanford, I have only an hour…”

They said their farewells; and got into the Binghams’ chauffeured motor car. “Did you hear about Cissy Patterson?”

Blaise confessed that he did not know who she was; he was told; then: “Last week, after the wedding, the groom didn’t show up at the wedding breakfast in the Patterson house.” The Patterson palace was now directly in front of them as they entered Dupont Circle. “So Cissy was in tears, and a friend of the groom, this Austrian, went looking for him, and found him at the railroad station, buying a ticket for New York. Apparently, he had gone to his bank right after the service, and they had told him that the million dollars that he had been promised hadn’t been deposited.”

“Did he go?”

“He stayed. The check was still being cleared. I don’t think Cissy’s going to be very happy, do you?”

Blaise said no.

“I’d like to be like Caroline. Independent. With something to do.”

“Having children’s quite enough to do.” Blaise was patriarchal; French.

The Connecticut Avenue house was a vast and, to Blaise’s eye, most beautiful rendering in a modern way of Saint-Cloud-le-Duc, which he more and more missed. Neither he nor Caroline had returned, according to their post-Poussin treaty, and he was more than ever homesick while she was less; yet of the two, it was she who had loved the place more, and stayed on and on, while he had turned himself eagerly into a full-time American. Now they had reversed roles.

A caretaker in a heavy overcoat let them in. The interior of the house was even colder than outside. Together they explored the double drawing room, adapted from Saint-Cloud; and the ballroom, copied from a castle of Ludwig of Bavaria. There was even a lift, which Frederika thought a mistake. “The poor Walshes thought they were so clever in putting their ballroom on the top floor. But the elevator could only hold four people at a time, so when the guests all arrive at once, the party takes forever to begin.” She laughed; he found her easy, something that most American girls were not. They tended to take command.

But then, as if to prove that she, too, was American and managerial by nature, Frederika told Blaise exactly how to decorate the various rooms; and he was pleasantly surprised to discover that he did not in the least mind so much advice. As they talked, their mingled breaths like smoke in the icy air, Blaise thought seriously of marriage, not to Frederika, but to someone suitable, someone who would be able to look after the house, not to mention Saint-Cloud-le-Duc. Both Alice Roosevelt and Marguerite Cassini had appealed to him. But the first was far too self-important and the second far too Slavicly sly. Alice Hay had charmed him; but he had not charmed her, and she was now married to a New York Wadsworth. Millicent Smith, the Countess Glenellen, was not without a certain appeal. She had grown up in Washington; gone to school with Caroline; married the Earl Glenellen, from whom she was now separated after what was thought to have been the most exciting fist-fight in the history of the American embassy at London. Lord Glenellen had been knocked unconscious by the fragile Millicent, who later explained to the appalled ambassador that she had cheated, holding in her right fist, not the traditional street-fighter’s roll of coins, but a metal cigar container (cigar inside), which had added exceptional, if unfair, force to her blow. Millicent was also much admired for the strength of her character. Nevertheless, the more Blaise studied the field the less any one person appealed to him. He had considered going back to Paris; but that would have been an acknowledgment of defeat for him, and a victory for Caroline.