Gore Vidal - Empire

“Which means you know exactly what I mean. He is like a school-girl around you.” Caroline rose from her dressing table, armored for the day. “Seduce him.”

“That is definitely French,” said Jim, himself again.

“No. It’s English, actually. Le vice anglais , we call it, and not unknown in these parts, either.”

“Would you really want me to…?” Jim could not say what, after all, was unsayable in American City.

“You might like it. After all, Blaise is much better-looking than me.”

“I don’t think I could, even for you.” Jim held her, carefully, about the waist, as they walked to the door. “But I guess I could sort of flirt with him, maybe.”

“You American boys!” Caroline was now entirely amused.

“Well, it’s the least I could do, for you giving me Emma.”

In the lobby, they found themselves face to face with Mrs. Henry Cabot Lodge, a lady both censorious and serene.

“Caroline,” said Mrs. Lodge, looking at Jim.

“Sister Anne. You know Congressman Day, don’t you? And Mrs. Day,” Caroline was inspired to add. Then Caroline turned to Jim, and said, “Where’s Kitty? She was here just a minute ago.”

“She left her purse upstairs.”

Sister Anne was duly taken in. “Are you going to hear Mr. Hay?” she asked.

“Hear-and record it all, for the Tribune .”

“Theodore is wicked, forcing him to come here like this. He should be home in bed at Sunapee.” Sister Anne bade them farewell; and moved on.

“You would also make a good politician,” said Jim, as they crossed over to Olive Street, where a special car would take them to the Exposition.

“Because I lie so easily?” Caroline frowned. “It’s odd, though. I never used to lie, ever. But then-you.”

“The apple in the Garden of Eden?”

“Yes. Since the serpent tempted me, I’ve not been the same. I have sinned…”

Caroline was not prepared for the astonishing beauty of the Exposition at night. Great airy palaces were lit by a million electrical candles whose light turned the prosaic Missouri sky into a spectacle like nothing that she had ever seen before. In the course of the evening, partners had been deftly switched. She was now with John, dining at the French restaurant with Henry Adams and his niece, Abigail. Representative and Mrs. James Burden Day were dining at the German restaurant in the company of the two senators from Jim’s state, of whom one was very elderly indeed, and might do the proper thing and retire or die, leaving the place to Kitty’s husband, as Caroline tended to think of Jim in his official capacity. He was entirely the creation, so people thought, of the legendary Judge, his father-in-law. Caroline suspected that the truth might prove to be otherwise, but no one was about to put the matter to the test.

“I have never seen anything so beautiful…” Adams was ecstatic; Abigail was bored. Caroline was sexually satisfied. John was in despair-his clients had been of no use to him.

“Surely, Mont-St.-Michel and Chartres…” Caroline began.

“They are different. They evolved over centuries. But this is like the Arabian nights. Someone rubbed a lantern and said, a city of light on the banks of the Mississippi. And here it is, all round us.” Actually, all around them were huge contented-looking Americans of the heartland, gorging on French cuisine. Each contributing country had its own restaurant, with France, as always, in the lead.

“The question is, are we looking at the future, all this power, humming away, or is this a last celebration of the American past?” Adams was, for him, aglow.

“The future,” said John, a subject that Caroline knew put him in a dark mood. “We’ve never achieved anything like this.”

“We’ve imagined it, which is almost the same. But will our cities in 1950 be like this one?”

“Don’t cities-like cathedrals-evolve?” Caroline nodded to Marguerite Cassini, who had just made what was intended to be-and indeed was-a dazzling entrance, on the arm of an elderly French diplomat. “And if they do, then they are bound to be hideous…”

“Like Chartres?” Adams was uncharacteristically cheerful. “Anyway, I have a mania for expositions. If only real life were constantly on display like this, always at its very best.” Then Henry Adams spoke of dynamos, and Caroline thought of money; and despaired.

BENEATH A REVOLVING FAN, Hay studied the file which Adee had brought him. Adee tried, almost successfully, to look as if he were not in the room. The heat was intolerable, and all that Hay could think of was New Hampshire, which now seemed beyond his reach, forever. He had been ordered to speak at Jackson, Michigan, on July 6. Now June was nearly over, and Washington was more than ever equatorial. But Hay was obliged to stay at his desk, because the President was experiencing a sort of nervous breakdown. Would he really be nominated? If nominated, could he, ever , be elected president in his own right? To the extent that Hay found anyone interesting any more, Theodore’s sudden failure of nerve was fascinating. He wished that he could talk to Adams about this highly pleasurable state of affairs; but the Porcupine had fled to France, stopping off in Washington just long enough to visit the White House-after first making certain that Theodore was not home-in order to urge Mrs. Roosevelt to go to St. Louis, and experience the transcendent beauty of the World’s Fair.

“Well, this is a proper mess,” said Hay; but as he had not remembered to look up, Adee was not able to read his lips. Hay struck the desk with his right hand, a signal to Adee that Hay was about to speak. Adee’s eyes focussed on Hay’s lips. “Plainly,” said Hay, “he’s not an American citizen.”

“Plainly. So what happens to him is none of our business.”

“But the press…”

“And the President.”

Both sighed. In May, a Moroccan bandit named Raisuli had abducted from something called the Palace of the Nightingales one Ion H. Perdicaris, son of a South Carolinian lady and a Greek, who had become an American citizen. The kidnapping was an affront to the entire American press. Hearst was particularly apoplectic: what sort of administration allowed American citizens to be held for ransom, particularly in a part of the world where once, for a moment or two, the proud fleet of Thomas Jefferson had reigned supreme? Already in a state of hysteria over the coming election, Theodore had quite lost his mind. He raged to Hay and to Taft: war, war, war! The fleet was put on alert. Hay was ordered to exert pressure on the Moroccan government. Hay had done so; he had, also, privately ordered an investigation of I. H. Perdicaris. Now the proof was in hand. Mr. Perdicaris was not an American citizen. In order to avoid military service in the Civil War, he had fled to his father’s place of origin, Athens, where he had himself duly registered as a Greek subject; he was no longer an American citizen. The head of the Citizenship Bureau of the State Department, Gaillard Hunt, was now in Hay’s outer office, with further proofs. Meanwhile, the President had, the day before, June 21, ordered Hay to demand the immediate release of Perdicaris; otherwise, war. Since June 21 was the first day of the Republican Convention in Chicago, the frantic President felt a loud trumpet note was in order.

“Send Mr. Hunt over to the White House. Have him explain…” But Hay knew that the mild Mr. Hunt would be no match for Theodore in his most Rexish mood. “Telephone the President’s office. I am on my way.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll drive, I hope.”

“I’d hoped to walk. But not in this heat.” Lately not only had walking become painful in the always uncomfortable lumbar region but any exertion was apt to bring on an attack of angina. He doubted if he would live through this hellish summer; he rather hoped that he would not.