Gore Vidal - Empire

“Perhaps Anglo-Saxons develop later than we do,” said Anne, amused at the sight of so much virginity on the playing fields of Yale; actually, not the playing fields but at a dance for the senior class. Blaise had introduced violet-eyed Anne as his aunt; and she had caused a sensation. “Well, physically, they are all there,” said Blaise; many seniors wore thick moustaches, heavy sideburns. “But something happens-or doesn’t happen-to their brains over here.”

“Their livers, too, I should suspect. They drink too much.”

Theodore Roosevelt was again on the march around the room. Blaise tried to imagine him in a love nest in 102nd Street; and failed. Yet the brother, Elliott, had had a mistress with him when he died-a Mrs. Evans, whom the Roosevelt family had paid off because there was a Mr . Evans, who had threatened to shoot the Roosevelt lawyer if her income was not increased. Elliott had also loved a Mrs. Sherman, who lived in Paris but was not received in the Sanford world.

Blaise decided that Governor Roosevelt was not the sort to enjoy women as he did, say, food. On the other hand, to Blaise’s youthful cynic’s eye, Roosevelt seemed very much the sort of person who would, after much heart-searching and hand-wringing, seduce the wife of his best friend, and then hold his best friend entirely responsible for the tragedy. That seemed to be the Anglo-Saxon style. A secretary brought news of a telephone call from Albany. Thus, the interview was concluded.

“Good luck, my boy. I hope you can make something of my tendency to ramble. So much to talk about. So much to do. Next time I’ll give you a boxing lesson. As for your Mr. Hearst…” The bright eyes narrowed behind the gold-edged lenses. “We disagree on many things. Bryan, free silver. Those plaid suits. He wore,” Roosevelt’s voice moved up half an octave, with scorn, “a chartreuse plaid suit with a purple tie at the Mayor’s reception last month. And he wonders why no club will take him in.” The handclasp was heavy; and Blaise’s departure swift.

The Chief was amused by the Governor’s sartorial disdain. “Well, at least we stopped him from wearing those pink shirts and fancy sashes.” The Chief lay full-length on a sofa in his living room. A bust of Alexander the Great at his head; one of Julius Caesar at his feet. On the floor lay a banjo. The drama critic of the Journal , Ashton Stevens, had vowed that he could teach Hearst to play the banjo in six lessons. But, after fourteen lessons, the longed-for virtuosity was still longed-for. Apparently, the Chief, despite his passion for popular music, was tone-deaf. For two weeks, he had been trying to learn “Maple Leaf Rag,” that essential exemplar of rag-time, with results that could only be regarded as sinister. The Chief was again in plaid; but this time of a subdued gray travertine hue, like a fashionable foyer’s floor, thought Blaise, as he finished his report on Governor Roosevelt.

“Pity about what’s his name, the frog,” was all that Hearst had to say. He had moved on.

“It would have been a great coup.” Blaise was also sorry that their hare-brained but exciting plot to rescue the prisoner of Devil’s Island had been preempted by the French government. Dreyfus was home: a free man. The Journal must look elsewhere for dragons to slay.

“The ‘Man with the Hoe’ thing…” the Chief began; he did not need to finish. Recently, he had published, in the San Francisco Examiner , some verse by an obscure California teacher. Overnight, the poem had become the most popular ever published in the United States, “… and now they say that I’m a socialist! Well, maybe I am. Even so, a poem !” Hearst shook his head; and picked up the banjo. “Whoever thought a poem would increase sales?” Hearst had one more go at “Maple Leaf Rag.” Blaise felt his skin crawl. “I think I’ve got the hang of it,” said the Chief, striking a chord never before heard on earth; and holding it.

George was at the door. “There’s another house-agent, sir.”

“Tomorrow. Tell him nothing above Forty-second Street. I don’t want to be a farmer.”

“Are you moving?”

Hearst nodded. “They’re tearing down the Worth House. This year. Just as I finished fixing it up.” Hearst gestured to show off what looked to be an auction warehouse. Statuary in crates, dozens of paintings turned face to wall, while others that ought to have been face to wall were displayed as in a provincial French museum; chairs piled one on top of the other, reminiscent of the Louis XV Room of the Hoffman House after a dinner. “There’s a possibility in Chicago,” he said, swinging his long legs to the floor.

“For a house, sir?”

“No, a newspaper. To buy.”

“The News !”

“No. They won’t sell. But I could take over another one. Cheap.” Hearst glanced innocently at Blaise. “That is, cheap for you. Expensive for me right now. Next year my mother’s moving back to California.”

“She won’t… help?”

“She’d rather not, she says. She’s already in for, maybe, ten million. Then there’s Washington. The Tribune’s close to shutting down. Of course, there aren’t any votes in the District. But you can always have fun scaring the politicians.”

Blaise was puzzled. “Votes? I thought you wanted readers.”

“Well, I want both. I’ve got New York, San Francisco, and now Chicago-with a bit of luck. The Democratic Party’s up for grabs.”

“You want to grab it?”

“Somebody has to. You see, the press has a power that no one understands, including me. But I know how to make it work…”

“To get readers. Votes are something else.”

“I wonder.” The Chief stretched his arms. “My mother’s met your sister.”

“Oh.” Blaise was guarded. He wanted no one, least of all Hearst, to know about the war between brother and sister. At the moment, they communicated only through lawyers. Caroline had appealed a lower court’s ruling; now they awaited a higher court’s decision on the arcana of the cyphers one and seven. Meanwhile, to Blaise’s surprise Caroline had settled not in New York, where the courts were, but in Washington, where, presumably, Del Hay was. Before Blaise had been able to stop her, she had sold the Poussins for two hundred thousand dollars; she now could afford to buy a vast amount of American law. But Houghteling had chuckled when he heard the news and said that, even so, she might well be twenty-seven by the time the case was settled in her favor. Irritably, Blaise had then pointed out that he was the one in a hurry, not she. At the moment relations with the Chief were good; but the Chief’s moods were volatile, to say the least. Now was the time to help him buy the Chicago newspaper. Later, old Mrs. Hearst might again come to her son’s aid; or he might even start to make more than he spent, a not likely prospect for a man who was in the habit of offering a good journalist double his usual salary, simply to get him away from the competition.

“Your sister came to look at my mother’s house. But it was too big, she said. Your sister said, that is. She’s intelligent, Mother says. Why does she like Washington?”

“I think it’s the Hay family that she likes.”

“He’s practically an Englishman by now.” Hearst’s short attention span had snapped. Mother, sister, John Hay were as one with Captain Dreyfus and “Maple Leaf Rag.” “You go to Washington. Take a look at the Tribune . Don’t let on you have anything to do with me. I’ll scout out Chicago.”

Blaise was delighted with the assignment; less delighted with the thought that he might see Caroline; alarmed when the Chief said, “Pay a call on Mother. Tell her how hard I work. How I don’t smoke or drink or use bad language. And tell her how much you like schools.”