Gore Vidal - Empire

Hay had never been much impressed by Theodore’s occasional impassioned denunciations of the “malefactors of great wealth”; after all, as Henry Adams liked to say, they were all of them consenting parties to the status quo. Though the Police Commissioner got himself a reputation for the disciplining of dishonest policemen, when the journalist Stephen Crane-previously admired by Roosevelt-testified in court against two policemen who had falsely arrested a woman for soliciting, Roosevelt had sprung to the defense of the policemen, and denounced Crane, an eyewitness to the arrest. Since Crane was much admired by the Hearts, Roosevelt had been taken to task. But he stood by his men, like a good commander in a war.

In March, 1897, the thirty-eight-year-old Roosevelt met, as it were, his luck. The new president, McKinley, appointed him assistant secretary of the Navy, ordinarily a humble post, but with a weak and amiable secretary, Roosevelt, in thrall to the imperial visions of Captain Mahan and Brooks Adams, was now in a position to build up the fleet without which there could be no future wars, no glory, no empire. The next four years were to wreathe with laurel the stout little man who now stood, if not like a colossus athwart the world, like some tightly wound-up child’s toy, dominating all the other toys in power’s playroom, shrill voice constantly raised. “Germany, John. There’s the coming problem. Coming? No, it’s here. The Kaiser’s on the move everywhere. He’s built a fleet to counter us-or the British, one or the other, but not- not both together-yet. Also, if he makes the bid, he will have to look to his rear, for there is savage Russia, huge and glacial, waiting for the world to fall like a ripe fruit into its paws.” Theodore smote together his own paws. Hay tried to imagine the world smashed in those pudgy hands. “Russia is the giant of the future,” Theodore proclaimed.

Hay felt obliged to intervene. “I don’t know about the future-but at the moment the only kind of giant that Russia is is a giant dwarf.”

Theodore laughed; and clicked his teeth. Bamie was now pouring coffee, with Edith’s assistance. Neither paid much attention to Theodore; but their absent-mindedness was benign. “I’ll use that, John, with your permission.”

“Don’t you dare. I can say such things in private. But you can’t, ever. We have enough trouble here with Cassini, with Russia. You may think such things,” Hay conceded, “but the president must always avoid wit…”

“And truth?”

“Truth above all, the statesman must avoid. Elevated sentiment and cloudy tautologies must now be your style…”

“Oh, you depress me! I had hoped to make a brilliant State of the Union address. Full of epigrams, and giant dwarfs. Well, all right. No dwarfs.”

“We must extend the hand of friendship,” Hay intoned, “through every open door that we can find.”

Roosevelt laughed; or, rather, barked; and started to march about the room. “The thing to remember about the Germans is this. They simply haven’t got the territory to support their population. They’ve got France and England to the west-and us back of them. They’ve got your giant dwarf to the east, and back of it China. There’s really no place, anywhere, for a German empire…”

“Africa,” Hay broke in.

“Africa, yes. But Africa what ? A lot of territory, and no Germans willing to go there. In the last ten years, one million Germans-the best and the pluckiest of them all-moved out of Germany. And who got them? We did-or most of them. No wonder the Kaiser’s eager to set up his own empire in China. But he’ll have to deal with us if he moves into Asia…”

“Suppose he moves into Europe?” Hay’s back pains had returned; and Bamie Cowles’s coffee had created turbulence in a digestive system more than usually fragile.

“Spring-Rice thinks he might, one day. I like Germans. I like the Kaiser, in a way. I mean, if I were in his situation, I’d try for something, too.”

“Well, we did not like them in ’98, when they tried to get England to join them to help Spain against us.”

“No. No. No. But you can see how tempting it must have been for the Kaiser. He wanted the Philippines. Who didn’t? Anyway, the British were with us.” Roosevelt suddenly frowned.

“Canada claims,” Hay began.

“Not now! Not now, dear John. The subject bores me.”

“Bores you? Think of me, hour after hour, day after day, in close communion with Our Lady of the Snows…”

“Boring Lady, in my experience.”

“Now, Thee.” Edith’s warning voice was a bit lower than her normal voice; but no less effective.

“But, Edie. I was just commiserating with John…”

“I suppose,” said young Ted, “that I will be able to endure Groton another term.”

“Is this a cry for attention?” asked the father, balefully clicking his teeth.

“No, no. It was just an observation…”

“Where is Alice?” asked the President, turning to his wife.

“Farmington, isn’t she?” Edith turned to her sister-in-law.

“In my house, yes. Or she was. She’s very social, you know.”

“I don’t know where she gets that from.” Theodore appealed to Hay. “We are not-never have been-fashionable.”

“Perhaps this is an advance, a new hazard for an old fortune-”

“No fortune either!” sighed Edith. “I don’t know how we’ll live now. This black dress,” she slowly turned so that her husband could appreciate her sacrifice, “cost me one hundred and thirty-five dollars at Hollander’s this morning. That’s ready-made, of course, and then I had to buy a truly hideous hat with black crepe veil.”

“One can only hope that there will be numerous similar funerals for you to attend,” said Hay, “of elderly diplomats, of course, and senators of any age.”

Theodore was staring at himself in a round mirror; he seemed as fascinated by himself as others were. Then he confided, “I have to go to Canton after the services here.” Then he spun around, and sat in a chair, and was suddenly still. It was as if the toy had finally run down. He even sat like a doll, thought Hay; legs outstretched, arms loose at his side.

“Shall I go?” asked Hay.

“No. No. We can never travel together again, you and I. If something should happen to me, you’re the only president we’ve got.”

“Poor country,” said Hay, getting to his feet. “Poor me.”

“Stop sounding old.” The doll, rewound, was on its feet. “I’ll meet with the Cabinet Friday, after Canton; the usual time.”

“We shall be ready for you. As for Alice, if she does decide to visit Washington, Helen says that she can stay with us.”

“Alice worships your girls,” said Edith, without noticeable pleasure. “They dress so beautifully, she keeps reminding me.”

“Alice doesn’t like having poor parents,” said the President, as he led Hay to the door.

“Give her to us. There’s plenty of room.”

“We might. Pray for me, John.”

“I have done that, Theodore. And will, again.”

BLAISE FOUND THE CHIEF IN, of all places, his office at the Journal . As a rule, he preferred to work at home when he was in New York, which was seldom these days. In Hearst’s capacity as presiding genius of the Democratic clubs, he travelled the nation, rallying the faithful, preparing for his own election four years hence. He had been in Chicago when McKinley was shot.

Brisbane was seated on a sofa while the Chief sat feet on his desk, and eyes on the window, through which nothing could be seen except falling, melting snow. Neither man greeted Blaise; he was a member of the family. But when Blaise asked, “How bad is it?” Hearst answered, “Bad and getting worse.” Hearst gave him a copy of the World . Ambrose Bierce’s quatrain was printed in bold type. Hearst’s deliberate incitement to murder was the theme of the accompanying story. As Blaise read, he could hear the steady drumming of Hearst’s fingers on his desk, always a sign of nervousness in that generally phlegmatic man. “They’re trying to make out that the murderer had a copy of the Journal in his pocket at Buffalo. He didn’t, of course.”