“The question is, are we looking at the future, all this power, humming away, or is this a last celebration of the American past?” Adams was, for him, aglow.
“The future,” said John, a subject that Caroline knew put him in a dark mood. “We’ve never achieved anything like this.”
“We’ve imagined it, which is almost the same. But will our cities in 1950 be like this one?”
“Don’t cities-like cathedrals-evolve?” Caroline nodded to Marguerite Cassini, who had just made what was intended to be-and indeed was-a dazzling entrance, on the arm of an elderly French diplomat. “And if they do, then they are bound to be hideous…”
“Like Chartres?” Adams was uncharacteristically cheerful. “Anyway, I have a mania for expositions. If only real life were constantly on display like this, always at its very best.” Then Henry Adams spoke of dynamos, and Caroline thought of money; and despaired.
THIRTEEN
1
BENEATH A REVOLVING FAN, Hay studied the file which Adee had brought him. Adee tried, almost successfully, to look as if he were not in the room. The heat was intolerable, and all that Hay could think of was New Hampshire, which now seemed beyond his reach, forever. He had been ordered to speak at Jackson, Michigan, on July 6. Now June was nearly over, and Washington was more than ever equatorial. But Hay was obliged to stay at his desk, because the President was experiencing a sort of nervous breakdown. Would he really be nominated? If nominated, could he, ever, be elected president in his own right? To the extent that Hay found anyone interesting any more, Theodore’s sudden failure of nerve was fascinating. He wished that he could talk to Adams about this highly pleasurable state of affairs; but the Porcupine had fled to France, stopping off in Washington just long enough to visit the White House-after first making certain that Theodore was not home-in order to urge Mrs. Roosevelt to go to St. Louis, and experience the transcendent beauty of the World’s Fair.
“Well, this is a proper mess,” said Hay; but as he had not remembered to look up, Adee was not able to read his lips. Hay struck the desk with his right hand, a signal to Adee that Hay was about to speak. Adee’s eyes focussed on Hay’s lips. “Plainly,” said Hay, “he’s not an American citizen.”
“Plainly. So what happens to him is none of our business.”
“But the press…”
“And the President.”
Both sighed. In May, a Moroccan bandit named Raisuli had abducted from something called the Palace of the Nightingales one Ion H. Perdicaris, son of a South Carolinian lady and a Greek, who had become an American citizen. The kidnapping was an affront to the entire American press. Hearst was particularly apoplectic: what sort of administration allowed American citizens to be held for ransom, particularly in a part of the world where once, for a moment or two, the proud fleet of Thomas Jefferson had reigned supreme? Already in a state of hysteria over the coming election, Theodore had quite lost his mind. He raged to Hay and to Taft: war, war, war! The fleet was put on alert. Hay was ordered to exert pressure on the Moroccan government. Hay had done so; he had, also, privately ordered an investigation of I. H. Perdicaris. Now the proof was in hand. Mr. Perdicaris was not an American citizen. In order to avoid military service in the Civil War, he had fled to his father’s place of origin, Athens, where he had himself duly registered as a Greek subject; he was no longer an American citizen. The head of the Citizenship Bureau of the State Department, Gaillard Hunt, was now in Hay’s outer office, with further proofs. Meanwhile, the President had, the day before, June 21, ordered Hay to demand the immediate release of Perdicaris; otherwise, war. Since June 21 was the first day of the Republican Convention in Chicago, the frantic President felt a loud trumpet note was in order.
“Send Mr. Hunt over to the White House. Have him explain…” But Hay knew that the mild Mr. Hunt would be no match for Theodore in his most Rexish mood. “Telephone the President’s office. I am on my way.”
“Yes, sir. You’ll drive, I hope.”
“I’d hoped to walk. But not in this heat.” Lately not only had walking become painful in the always uncomfortable lumbar region but any exertion was apt to bring on an attack of angina. He doubted if he would live through this hellish summer; he rather hoped that he would not.
Theodore was ominously still as Hay entered the presidential office, unwelcome documents in hand. The vast Secretary of War started to go, but Theodore motioned for him to stay. “You have the telegram ready, John?”
“No, Mr. President.” Hay was formal in address but not in action: he sat down, unbidden, suddenly weary.
“You realize that as we sit here, the convention is going on?” The famous teeth began to snap, nervously. “We’re following it all on the telephone, in the Cabinet room. There’s apt to be real trouble over this Moroccan business. We look weak, indecisive…”
“Mr. President, Perdicaris is not an American citizen. He is a Greek subject. He’s no concern of ours.”
Taft beamed; and chuckled, just the way fat jovial men were supposed to. Actually, whatever Taft was, jovial he was not. He was ambitious, petulant, suspicious. But his glorious fatness made him adorable in the eyes of the nation. “We’re off the hook,” he said. “Tell the press to go after the Greek government, and leave us alone.”
As the President studied the documents that Hunt had assembled, he looked, to Hay’s amazement, furious. “This ruins everything,” he said at last. “Everything! I had counted on a powerful telegram to wake up the convention, the country, the world to the fact that no American citizen anywhere on earth can be harmed without a bloody reprisal, and now some fool clerk in your office comes up with this… this nonsense! No!” The high voice rose to a shriek. “He was born in America. His parents were American. Those are facts. How do we know any of this is true?” The President shoved the papers at Hay. “We don’t. We’ll have to verify. That means our legation in Athens will have to go through the records to see if he really gave up his nationality. That will take time. Too much time. I want a telegram sent today, to the American consul general at Tangier. Is that understood?”
“It’s understood, of course.” Hay got to his feet.
“Legally…” Taft began.
“I’m not a lawyer, Judge Taft. I’m a man of action, and this calls for action. Make it good, John-the telegram.”
“I shall be classically brief, as befits a director of Western Union.”
Hay was at the door when Theodore called out. “Put that whole file under lock and key, while we investigate the truth of the matter.”
“But…” Taft began.
“Take care of yourself, John,” shrieked the President from behind his desk.
“I think I’ve already done that, Theodore,” said Hay; and left the presence. He had already thought up a message which would fit, neatly, into even a Hearst headline.
At the State Department, Hay himself dictated his instructions to the consul general at Tangier: “Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead.” The telegrapher beamed: “Good for you, sir! That’s telling those niggers where to head in.”
“Yes,” said Hay. “It has a nice lilt to it. I can’t think why I gave up poetry.” Then he returned to his office, and locked the Perdicaris file in his desk. From Lincoln to Roosevelt had not been, exactly, an ever-upward spiral.
2
THE JEFFERSON HOTEL IN ST. LOUIS was the headquarters of “The William Randolph Hearst for President Committee.” Hearst himself had a suite on the floor directly above the humble, single room of William Jennings Bryan, a lowly delegate-at-large from Nebraska.