Gore Vidal - Empire

Blaise experienced a moment of almost perfect rage, a highly exciting flush of blood to the head, followed by a sudden weakness. He sat down heavily. Caroline acted as if nothing untoward had been said. “If you would rather not buy, I’ll go to Mr. Hearst, who will be a publisher again tomorrow, or to Mr. McLean.”

This was bluff. Blaise knew that the Chief had no available money (he had spent close to two million dollars in order to secure the nomination), while John R. McLean had already said no to Caroline. “I’ll buy forty-eight percent of the shares, at the agreed-on price.” Blaise heard his own voice as though it were someone else’s, far off, strange. But then this was the most important decision that he had ever made.

“I draw your attention, Mr. Houghteling, to the obligation of your client and my client,” John was dry, correct, “in the event of a future sale of these shares, to offer one another, first, the option to buy…”

“Yes, yes.” Houghteling presented Caroline with a sheet of paper; then he signalled to the steward. “Ask the captain or mate or whoever’s on duty to witness these signatures.”

In silence they waited beneath the bronze lamp, which swayed, ever so slightly, as the river’s current rocked the ship. Two men in uniform joined them. Caroline signed first. Blaise signed second. The ship’s officers signed. Then Houghteling signalled for more champagne; and Caroline said, “Where is my check?”

Houghteling laughed; and gave her Blaise’s check. Blaise studied Sanford’s face; but there was no reaction. The cause of Caroline’s embarrassment appeared at ease.

Trimble raised his glass. “To the Washington Tribune ,” he said.

Solemnly they drank. Then Sanford and Houghteling put away their documents. The ship’s officers excused themselves, and Trimble said, “I don’t know about you publishers, but the editor has to go back to the convention hall.”

“So will this publisher.” Caroline rose; and turned to Blaise. “Will you join us?”

Blaise said, “Yes.”

As it turned out, the only publisher to go to the convention hall was Caroline. Blaise chose to go back to the Jefferson Hotel to confer with the Chief, now in his shirt-sleeves, a telephone receiver close to one ear, as word came from the hall, where Brisbane was reporting what was-and was not-going on. What was going on was the nomination of Alton B. Parker for president. What was not going on was William Jennings Bryan, who had yet to make known his choice. “I’ll get one ninety-four on the first ballot,” was Hearst’s greeting.

Blaise responded in kind. “I bought half the Washington Tribune .”

President-to-be Hearst put down the receiver and became Publisher Hearst. “How much?”

Blaise told him the exact amount. Word always spread; he did not say that he had bought only half of Caroline’s shares. “Too much.” Hearst took off his tie and collar; and looked less presidential by the moment. “I could go in with you. Maybe,” he said, staring at Blaise with the same impersonal intensity with which he would glare at the mock-up of a front page.

“And then,” said Blaise, lightly, “maybe not. I don’t want to be involved with the Tribune American , and you don’t either.”

“I guess not. You and your sister friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Blaise agreed.

At four-thirty on the morning of July 8, after all the nominating speeches had been made, Blaise and Jim Day sat side by side in the press section, shelling and eating peanuts, as they tried to stay awake. Others had succumbed to fatigue or alcohol. Figures were slumped over chairs on the convention floor as well as in the galleries. The smell of stale smoke, whiskey, sweat was now so powerful that Blaise, acclimatized, wondered if he could ever again breathe fresh air. The balloting would soon begin. Hearst still had a chance. But Bryan had not come to his aid. Earlier, Bryan had nominated a nullity in the form of a Missouri senator. He did add that he would be happy to support the people’s friend, William Randolph Hearst, should the convention nominate him. Then Bryan had gone back to his hotel, where, Hearst had gleefully noted, he collapsed with what seemed to be pneumonia.

“Bryan wants us to lose, I’m afraid,” said Jim.

“Do you care?”

“Well, I’m safe back home. But it would be nice to have a strong head to the ticket.”

Suddenly, there was a sound of applause at the back of the hall. The speaker-there was never not someone speaking from the platform-paused as, down the main aisle, William Jennings Bryan made his slow, majestic way.

“This is going to be something.” Jim was now wide awake. He brushed peanut shells from his trousers; and sat very straight. Even Blaise felt something of the general excitement as Bryan, plainly ill, dark of face and sweating heavily, walked up the steps to the platform. The twenty thousand delegates and visitors were now all alert. There was loud applause. There was also excitement of the sort that Blaise had only observed once before, at a bull-fight in Madrid when matador (Bryan?) and bull (the convention? or was it the other way around?) began their final confrontation. For ten minutes, by Blaise’s watch, the crowd cheered Bryan, who plainly drew nourishment from his people. Then he raised both arms, and the hall was silent.

The voice began, and, like everyone else, Blaise was mesmerized by its astonishing power. Illness had made Bryan hoarse; but no less eloquent for that. “Eight years ago at Chicago the Democratic National Convention placed in my hand the standard of the party and commissioned me as its candidate. Four years ago that commission was renewed…”

“He’s going for it!” Jim’s eyes were bright. “He’s going to stampede the convention.”

The tension was now absolute in the hall. The Parker and Hearst delegates looked grim indeed. The galleries were ecstatic, as were perhaps a third of the delegates, Bryan’s men to the end.

“Tonight I came back to this Democratic National Convention to return that commission…”

A chorus of no’s drowned him out. The eyes were glittering now, and not from fever. Again the commanding arms were raised. “… and to say to you that you may dispute over whether I have fought the good fight, you may dispute over whether I have finished my course, but you cannot deny,” and the voice was now as clear as some huge tolling bell, “that I have kept the faith.”

By the time Bryan was done, he was the convention’s hero and the party’s paladin forever. But, contrary to Jim’s hope, he did not stampede the convention. He received his ovation and was carried off, by concerned friends, to the Jefferson Hotel, and the wild nocturnal pleasures of pneumonia.

By dawn’s light, the first ballot gave Parker nine votes less than the two-thirds needed to nominate. Hearst was second with, as he had predicted, one hundred ninety-four votes. As the balloting continued, Hearst’s vote became two hundred sixty-three votes, to Blaise’s astonishment. How could anyone in his right mind want the Chief as president? But delegates need not be in their right mind; and money had been spent, particularly in the Iowa and Indiana delegations. If Bryan had come to Hearst’s aid, the Chief would have been nominated. Actually, a race between Hearst and Roosevelt would have been, if nothing else, a splendid-what was the Greek word? Agon . Blaise had taken to the word in school. Agon . Agony. A contest for a prize; a duel; to the death, presumably.

During the balloting, Jim was with his state’s delegation on the floor while Blaise sat with Brisbane in the press gallery. Caroline and husband had long since retired; only Trimble and Blaise represented the Tribune . Judge Alton B. Parker was duly nominated, after receiving six hundred fifty-eight votes. “We’ll get Bryan,” said Brisbane, furiously. “If it’s the last thing we do.”