Gore Vidal - Empire

“I believe, Mr. Dawes,” Hay looked straight at the little man across the table, “that I must be given full credit for being a dupe of England, while the President is above the battle, working hard for American interests.” The Buddha’s smile was more than ever sublime during this. “As well as German and Irish interests,” Hay added; and the smile did not lessen.

“We must be wary,” said McKinley. “Did you know that Judge Taft weighs three hundred pounds?” He looked thoughtful. “While, according to the Sun , his fellow commissioners each weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“Does this create a good impression, Major?” Dawes-small and lean-frowned.

Absently, McKinley patted his own fawn waistcoated belly. “In Asia, it seems that, inadvertently, I am regarded as a political genius. Fat men are held in the highest esteem, and the Filipinos have never before seen so many truly large white Americans as I have sent them. I am sure that it is now only a matter of weeks before Aguinaldo surrenders to… to…”

“American weight?” Hay provided the image.

“I must,” said McKinley, sadly, “exercise more.”

Dawes reported on Bryan’s mood. He would attack the Republican management of the new empire but not the empire itself. Silver would be soft-peddled, as a result of Congress’s acceptance, in March, of the gold standard for American currency.

Mr. Cortelyou announced General Sternberg, the surgeon general of the Army. Hay and Dawes rose to leave. McKinley sighed. “Imperialism may cease to be an issue,” he said, “if we don’t stop the yellow fever in Cuba.”

“It’s just the result of all that filth, isn’t it?” asked Dawes.

General Sternberg overheard Dawes, as he entered the Cabinet room. “We think it’s something else.”

“But what?” asked the President, giving the small general his largest warmest handclasp.

“I’m sending out a commission of four medical men to investigate, sir. With your permission, of course.”

“Of course. There is nothing, in my experience, quite so efficacious as a commission.” Thus, McKinley made one of his rare excursions into the on-going humor of government’s essential inertia, in itself the law of energy in reverse, thought Hay. If nothing could possibly be done, nothing would most certainly be, vigorously, done.

Hay returned, alone, to the State Department. Already there were signs that the government was shutting down for the hot months. Except for important-seeming naval officers, the steps to the colonnaded masterwork were empty.

Adee hissed a warm welcome. “I am writing some more open doors for you, Mr. Hay. I do love writing open doors.”

“Don’t let me stop you. Any word from Peking?”

“The diplomats have vanished, as far as we can tell. They are, probably,” Adee giggled, inadvertently, Hay hoped, “all dead.”

As Hay entered his office, he glanced at a stack of newspapers to see which ones contained stories about him-marked in red by Adee, with an occasional marginal epithet. Except for the Journal , which maintained that he was England’s secret agent in the Cabinet and a sworn enemy to the freedom-loving Boers, the press was not concerned with the Secretary of State. The vice-presidential candidate governed the headlines.

Wearily, Hay took up his “tactful” silver pen, the gift of Helen. For some reason this particular pen, once set to work upon the page, could, in a most silvery way, celebrate whomever he was writing to, in a tone of perfect panegyric, with no wrong notes struck. This letter was, of course, to “Dear Theodore.”

Without thought or pause, Hay’s hand guided the pen across his official stationery: “June 21, 1900. As it is all over but the shouting, I take a moment of this cool morning of the longest day in the year to offer you my cordial congratulations.” With any other pen Hay might have been tempted to add, “and my congratulations to Platt and Quay who have given us you , a precious gift,” but the silver pen lacked iron as well as irony. “You have received the greatest compliment the country could pay you…” This brought a tear to Hay’s own eye: he must have his blood pressure taken; such tears were often a sign of elevated pressure. “… and although it was not precisely what you and your friends desire,” Hay had a glimpse of the sweating Roosevelt slapping mosquitoes as governor-general of the Philippines while sly Malays shot at him from behind jungle trees, “I have no doubt it is all for the best.” Here, Hay and his silver pen were as one. There was no mischief that a vice-president could make under a president as powerful as McKinley. More gracious phrases filled up the page. What small liking that Hay had ever had for Roosevelt was currently in abeyance, thanks to his sabre-rattling over the canal treaty, abetted by the treacherous Lodge. Henry had promised to bring Lodge around; and Henry had failed. Hay’s pen signed the letter, warmly. Hay himself sealed it. As he did, Adee entered. “I sent around the copy of Del’s letter to Miss Sanford. But she is gone.”

“Where to?”

But Adee was looking out the window; and heard nothing. Hay shouted, “Where has she gone?”

“No answer to your letter to the Mikado.” Adee liked to pretend that his hearing was acute at all times. “You know how long Tokyo takes to answer anything.”

“Miss Sanford’s gone where?”

“There is no news from Port Arthur either. We should be thankful that Cassini is abroad. The Tsar is supposed to be ready to recognize his daughter.”

“As the Tsar’s?” Hay was momentarily diverted by the usual Adee confusion.

Adee opened a box of Havana cigars; and offered one to Hay, who took it, in defeat. As Adee lit the Havana cigar he said, as if he’d heard all along, “Miss Sanford’s gone to Newport, Rhode Island. She left us her address. She stays with Mrs. Delacroix. Her half-brother’s grandmother.”

“How do you know such details?” Hay was curious; and impressed.

“In the absence of a court and a Saint-Simon, someone must keep track.”

“We have so many courts in this country.”

“There is only one Newport, Rhode Island.” Adee, without a by-your-leave, helped himself to a cigar. Then the two old friends methodically filled the office with fragrant smoke, successfully eliminating the cloying odor of summer roses, arranged in every vase. “She left me a note, saying that anything that she hears from Del she will let you know, and hopes that you will do the same.”

“Yes.” The pains in the lower back had, ominously, ceased. For some reason, Hay had always felt that a degree of pain was not only reasonable but a sign that the body was correcting itself, as new things went awry in the furnace, the plumbing and the electrical arrangements. But now there was only a general weakness in every limb; and a sensitivity to heat, which made him constantly sleepy, a condition that sleep itself did not improve. He must soon withdraw to New Hampshire or die; or both, he thought, without fear, glad that he could at least enjoy, in the present instant, Adee’s inspired misunderstanding of the word “Tsar.”

The appearance in the doorway, unannounced, of the Secretary of War caused Adee, graciously, like Saint-Simon indeed, to withdraw, never turning his back on the great ones while never ceasing to puff at his cigar.

Root sat on the edge of Hay’s desk. “The Major wants all Americans out of China.”

“How are we to do that, with the Boxers surrounding them in Peking?”

“I’ve told him I thought it was a bad idea, unless the Russians were to go, too, which they won’t. He’s worried about the effect on the election.”

Hay sighed. “I now leave Asia in your hands. I leave the State Department in your hands. I leave…”