1
“I WILL NEVER AGAIN be a candidate. But I shall continue to live in New York and educate and support the principles of reform which I have always stood for.” Thus, William Randolph Hearst withdrew from politics, as a candidate. But Blaise knew that the Chief would now be even more formidable than before. Free of the wheeling-and-dealing required of a man canvassing votes, Hearst could not only do as he pleased but, if he chose, transform the republic itself. He now knew more than anyone else about the internal workings (for the most part, corrupt) of the republic; he also knew that, with time and money spent, he could decide, through his Independent League, the outcome of numerous elections.
Bryan, on the other hand, was obliged to shift his position according to the prevailing wind. Where, today, was sixteen-to-one silver? Once the only means whereby the American worker, tacked with three nails to his cross of gold, might one day descend-or ascend?-silver had become a non-subject. Yet, unlike Bryan, Hearst had never wavered in his own program. But now he was finished as a politician. Of course, in the press, he could continue to be the working-man’s full-time tribune. Precisely why the working-man had been selected for this distinction, Blaise could never fathom, but he could not fault Hearst for consistency, unlike Bryan and Roosevelt, who tacked this way and that. What, after all, did Roosevelt think of that solid rock upon which his party was based, the tariff?-which he used to sigh over in private, and refer to as “expediency,” a price he must pay to his supporters for the empire that he was assembling for their descendants. Bryan was at least consistent in his hatred for war and the conquest of far-off places and the mindless acquisition of other races. Hearst was genuinely ambivalent about Roosevelt’s tempting vision of empire. Sometimes he approved; sometimes not.
Blaise put this down to Hearst’s hatred of the British empire; after all, much of his support was Irish. In fact, whenever Hearst could think of nothing to say to an Irish audience, he would announce, as though the thought were new to him, “You know, if I ever get to be president, the first thing I’m going to do is send an Irish-American to the Court of St. James’s. That’ll wake them up.” The cheering would be deafening. He still used the same line, adding, “I offer the suggestion to some future president, and hope ardently he’ll do it.”
For Theodore Roosevelt, Hearst had only contempt. “He sold himself to the devil in order to get elected, and you’ve got to hand it to him-for once, he’s kept his side of the bargain.” Blaise knew that the first part was true. Roosevelt, in his famous pre-election panic, had promised the rich everything. Then, as he would never again run for president, he double-crossed the lot, or as Frick not so dryly put it, “We bought him but he isn’t staying bought.”
Somehow, whenever Blaise thought of Hearst-no longer, remotely, the Chief to him-he thought of unopened crates. He had acquired everything, tangible and intangible, and then never got around to unpacking what was his; and making sense of it. Currently, literally, unopened crates provided the only furniture in Hearst’s new home, the Clarendon Apartment Building at the corner of Riverside Drive and Eighty-sixth Street. Hearst had taken over the top three floors, some thirty rooms.
At the very top-the twelfth floor-Hearst and Blaise went over the Archbold letters, spread across the width of a huge refectory table from Spain, pitted with newly drilled wormholes, as guarantee of antiquity. Over the years, at Saint-Cloud-le-Duc, Blaise had learned a good deal about furniture. Over the years, Hearst had learned almost nothing. But the law of averages was, eventually, on his side. If one bought everything, sooner or later one might really buy something, and the lost Giorgione would be his. Blaise wondered if the something might not also apply to politics. If one kept on long enough, spending money, organizing voters, one might end up with the lost-what? Crown, no doubt, in Hearst’s case.
“What happens if Archbold brings charges against you, for theft?”
“I didn’t steal anything. I just copied some letters offered me pro bona publica.”
“Pro bono publico.”
“That’s what I said. I wish I could make more out of Theodore’s letters.” Hearst looked wistfully at the short enigmatic letters from the White House to Archbold. Within the “right” context, they could send the President to jail. But there was no context at all to these anodyne texts. “Of course, one could cook something up.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Blaise firmly.
“I won’t. Until I have something to go on. I have detectives at work, going over his bank accounts. Also, the Republican Party’s accounts, which are almost as bad…”
“… as the Democrats’.”
Hearst looked at Blaise gloomily. From the floor beneath them, they could hear Millicent’s voice, loud and harsh enough to be heard at the back of the third balcony of the Palace Theater. She was at work with her designer, creating if not a pleasure dome, the largest apartment in New York, filled with what was, by now, the largest collection of old and new antiques in the Western world. “I’m going to start off with Hanna and Quay, They’re dead. I’m going to show how much they collected for Roosevelt’s campaign. Then I’m going to show what TR has done for Standard Oil…”
“He hasn’t done a thing. We ran that story. Of course, the real story is hard to write. The fact that he’s actually done nothing at all is the only thing against him.”
“I can work that one out,” said Hearst. “And still stay with the facts. He’s done nothing because they helped finance him. At least in 1904. Oh, I’ve got him. He’s terrified. Next Sunday, I’m dropping some hints in all the papers that we have his letters to Archbold, compromising letters.”
Blaise was beginning to feel that the impossible was about to happen; Hearst was actually going to go too far. Unless the detectives turned up something new, Hearst was about to find himself in the dangerous position of one who has accused of corruption a popular president in office. This was not quite like going after Murphy of Tammany Hall. Blaise said as much. Hearst was offhand.
“All I’ve got to do is smoke him out. I do think he’s corrupt, by the way. I mean, everyone in this business is-to raise money to run-but because he’s a hypocrite, he’s worse than the others. That’s why I want to keep him guessing. My ace is this, he doesn’t know how much or what we know, and he’d give anything to find out.”
Hearst wandered over to the French window that opened onto a terrace, with a view of the Hudson, and the high Palisades. “When I quote from his two cronies Hanna and Quay-and Foraker, too-everyone knows I mean Roosevelt, too. So we may as well throw him to the wolves right now. Otherwise, people will say we only mention dead people who can’t fight back, or dead ducks like Foraker. Then we say, next week we’ll publish the Roosevelt letters. Oh, there’ll be a hot time in the old town that night.”
Hearst had agreed that Blaise might use certain letters that he himself had no immediate use for. The powerful Senator Penrose was given to Blaise; and a half-dozen members of the House. In exchange, Blaise would use the Tribune files to back up the Hearst “investigation,” if that was not too lofty a word for what Hearst was doing. Since most of the country’s politicians were paid for by the rich and since most of the electorate knew this and did not care, Blaise kept urging Hearst to make some useful point instead, simply, of listing names, with prices attached. Hearst disagreed. Yes, he admitted to a desire for revenge. Roosevelt had accused him, yet again, of McKinley’s murder and for that low blow Hearst was whetting his journalistic ax. But as for true reform, Hearst looked, mournfully, at Blaise. “I guess,” he said at last, “if you don’t like it here you can go back to France.” All in all, Hearst took for granted his country; and Blaise did not.