Gore Vidal - Empire

“So they-Aguinaldo, that is-have really done us a great favor. We can’t bring the troops home if there is an insurrection.” But as Hay began to make the Administration’s case, he was by no means certain to what specific end they were about to commit themselves and the country. After all, the word “insurrection” assumed that the United States government was the legitimate government of the Philippines; but they were not a legitimate government; they were, allegedly, liberators, and the so-called insurrection was actually a war for independence from foreign liberators turned conquerors, with Aguinaldo in the role of Washington and McKinley in that of George III. Hay now began to weave new language: the word “trustee” emerged; “temporary,” also. Suddenly, he stopped, aware that the President was not listening. McKinley’s eyes were shut; and he was breathing deeply. Was he asleep? or in a trance? Could the President, like his wife, be epileptic? Hay wondered, somewhat wildly. But then McKinley cleared his throat; and opened his eyes. “I was praying,” he said, simply. “Do you pray often, Mr. Hay?”

“Not, perhaps, often enough.” Hay recalled the Jesuit injunction that the wise man never lies, as he has already seen to it that he need not tell the whole truth. Hay was truth-full and god-less.

“I think God answered me the other night.” McKinley picked a carnation and held it up to his nose. “I actually got down on my knees-not an easy thing,” he smiled, indicating the broad stomach that had overwhelmed his chest, “and asked for guidance. I was in the oval library. Ida had gone to bed. I was alone. I told God that I had never wanted any of this war, and that I certainly had never wanted those islands. But the war had come, and the Philippines are ours. What am I to do? Well, number one, I said to God, I could give the islands back to Spain. But that would be cruel to the natives, who hate Spain. Number two, I could let France or Germany take them over. But that would be a very bad business for us commercially…”

“I’m sure God saw the wisdom of that.” Hay could not resist the interjection. Fortunately, McKinley was too preoccupied with his divine audience to note Hay’s impiety.

“… and discreditable, too. Number three, we could simply go home and let them govern themselves, which they could never do, as everyone knows. But at least we’d be out of it. That’s the easy way, of course. It was then that I felt-something.” McKinley’s eyes seemed to glow in the light which had transformed the glass panes of the greenhouse into so many onyx mirrors. “There was a presence in that room, and I found myself summing up in a way that I had not planned to. I had simply wanted to put the case to God and hope. But God answered me. I heard myself saying, aloud: Number four, in the light of numbers one through three, as I have just demonstrated, Your Honor-God, that is-we have no choice but to take all of the islands and govern the people to the best of our ability, to educate and civilize them and to Christianize them-and in my sudden certitude, I knew that God was speaking to and through me, and that we would all of us do our best by them, by our fellow men for whom Christ also died. Well, Mr. Hay, I have never been so relieved. I had the first good night’s sleep in a year. Then, the next morning, without telling you or any of the Cabinet I sent for the chief engineer of the War Department, and I gave him an order.” McKinley opened up on his legs a world map. “Here is what I told him to do.”

Hay took the map and held it up. At first he noticed nothing unusual; then his eye strayed to the Pacific Ocean and there, in the same yellow color as the United States, an ocean away, were the Philippines with the legend “U.S. Protectorate.”

“ You annexed them?”

McKinley nodded. “With God’s assurance that I must. And, of course,” he smiled, and took the map from Hay, “some assistance from Admiral Dewey and Colonel Roosevelt. I know I have done the right thing.”

“But if the treaty fails to pass the Senate, there is no protectorate…”

“The treaty will pass. That’s why I took you into my confidence, to show you why I am so certain and so-fatalistic. Because,” McKinley stood up, “I never wanted any of this. But it is God’s plan now, and we are His humble instruments.”

“I hope God will give us some hints on how best to handle Aguinaldo.”

But McKinley was now moving, in his stately way, down the long aisle of carnations to the door. At the President’s request, Hay joined him in the shaky coffin-like elevator to the living quarters, where, upon arrival, McKinley led him into the oval library to show him the exact spot where the interview with God had taken place. But Mrs. McKinley, not God, was now in possession of the hallowed spot. She sat in her invalid’s chair, knitting bedroom slippers. She was slender, pale, surprisingly pretty; she spoke, however, with a nasal sing-song whine that Hay found as disagreeable as Lodge’s British accent. Was there to be no happy American mean? “When they told me the Major was with you, I felt better. You never keep him up to all hours like some of them do.”

Hay bowed, as if to Victoria. “I returned him from the carnation room as quickly as I could and as good as new, I hope.”

Cortelyou appeared in the doorway. “There’s no more news, Mr. President. Secretary Alger says that General Otis’s report will be ready first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cortelyou. You go to bed now.”

Cortelyou withdrew. Hay was about to do the same when Mrs. McKinley delivered herself of an ex cathedra judgment on Washington’s worldly ladies. “Why, they even brag about how they tuck their poor tired husbands into bed and then they go out gallivanting to parties on their own. Imagine! Well, I tell them that when I tuck Mr. McKinley into bed, I get right in with him, which is what we’re going to do now.”

“I, too,” said Hay, adding indecorously, “in my own bed, of course.”

But Mrs. McKinley was staring narrowly at his shoes. “Draw me an outline of your shoe-sole, and I’ll make you slippers next.”

“With pleasure, Mrs. McKinley.“

Then, to Hay’s astonishment, Mrs. McKinley stuck her tongue out at him; gave him a lascivious wink; and became rigid, only the whites of her eyes visible. The President, with an unhurried, practiced gesture, took a huge silk handkerchief from his pocket; and covered her head. “I am troubled by the Teller Amendment in the Senate.” McKinley stared absently at the veiled Ida. “How to interpret it? The amendment is clear that we cannot retain Cuba. But will the Senate try to extend the amendment to cover the Philippines?”

“No, sir. Your Benevolent Assimilation Proclamation has been accepted by all except a few die-hards-and blow-hards like Bryan. If the treaty passes, the archipelago is ours. Paid for in cash to Spain. Twenty million dollars for ten million Filipinos.” Hay found this talk of empire curiously exciting; and even humorous. “That’s two dollars a head,” he added.

“Colonel Hay.” The President was gently reproving. Then he bade Hay good-night. “We’ll discuss the insurrection tomorrow. Before the Senate vote.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” But as Hay walked down the east wing stairs, having just vowed never to use the west wing elevator-too like a coffin-ever again, he was beginning to have his doubts about the Major’s new “protectorate.”

BUT ALL DOUBTS WERE DISPELLED on Monday when at Lodge’s insistence and against Hay’s better judgment, he entered the Marble Room of the Capitol, as a somewhat casual guest of the Senate, which was now, in its chamber next door, busy biting the proverbial bullet. The voting would begin on the treaty in one hour, at three o’clock. From the windows of the gilded, mirrored, marbled chamber, White House and Washington monument were visible against a sky as dark as steel. Only Mr. Eddy accompanied Hay; on principle, Adams refused to set foot in the Capitol-or, for that matter, his family’s one-time home, the White House.