She put a Jew in the White House just as, a half century before, she put one in 10, Downing Street. Another ruled France. A committee of them ruled Germany. Of Spain, we need say nothing. Portugal? Denmark? Who knows? They would say Ver veyst? And the terrible thing is they would probably be right. Oriental fatalism seizes them. They sprawl on the public street, the opium pipes still in their hands. And they call me a fool? They are zombies, drugged by secret masters, then sent in a howling mass against the President. They are not killed. The police are humane. They know what corrupts these shambling, filthy creatures, the sons and daughters of respectable citizens. What can they do?
It was not long before the train began to near Washington and Jimmy led me back to where Lucius Mortimer lay curled in sleep across three seats. He woke up suddenly, glaring at Jimmy as if we had attacked him, then as he recognised us he began to smile. Upon our enquiring after his health, he said he felt much better. We prepared to disembark.
Since our carriages had been cooled by fans, I was not ready for the heat. It struck me the moment I stepped onto the platform. I had thought, since New York had been so warm, I was suitably dressed for Washington, but the humidity here was profound. One waded in it as if eye deep in a lake, constantly struggling for breath. I was aware of nothing else until we had entered the cab taking us to our hotel. I sank back, gasping, while Jimmy and Lucius laughed at my discomfort. They had known what to expect and were used to it. I asked what kind of person would site the centre of government in the middle of what was plainly a tropical swamp. For a moment, through the windows, I saw nothing but confirming greenery, but this gave way to lawns, brick and stone buildings spaced so far apart I felt almost uneasy, for I had become used to the dense concentration of New York. Indeed. I had a desire to pull down the cab’s blinds until we reached our hotel. It was close to dusk, yet the air was still hot and damp, and to me the city seemed virtually deserted; hardly a city at all. ‘You’ll either learn to take it easy here.’ Jimmy explained sympathetically, ‘or the weather’ll kill you.’ Now there were vague glimpses of wide, tree-lined streets, large white buildings, a few illuminated signs. The buildings came closer together and grew a little taller by the time we stopped, but I still felt uncomfortable, physically and psychically, as we entered the dim lobby of the old-fashioned hotel my friends had selected. It was called Wormley’s and was apparently very respectable. We seemed the youngest guests by twenty years. In contrast to the world outside, the hotel seemed unusually cramped and everything in it crowded together. My room was small. Its wallpaper displayed a succession of golden eagles. It had a large fan on the ceiling and this cooled the air enough for me to recover, wash, and dress for dinner. Jimmy and Lucius had already arranged to meet their political friends, so I wished to look my best.
By the time we went out again, the city was dark. The streets were well lit, though unnaturally wide, and the electrics glinted off the thick foliage of oaks, chestnuts and cherries. Washington gave the impression of being half town, half forest. Again I felt extremely uneasy, as if foolishly I had allowed myself to be lured out of an environment where I could trust my judgment and into one where it would be impossible for me to make well calculated decisions. There was something at once artificial and rural about the place. It was even less of a ‘natural’ capital than St Petersburg. Perhaps its only industry was politics? I suggested this to my companions and they were amused. ‘Its main products are hot air and niggers,’ said Jimmy, ‘and you can’t see much of either in the dark.’
Pennsylvania Avenue was as wide and tree-lined as the other streets I had so far seen. Set back from the road was the Colonial (what the English tend to call ‘Georgian’) neo-Graecian structure known as the Restaurant Pocock. Inside was all the atmosphere associated with the best sort of London club. Women were not allowed there and the main rooms were filled with well to do, self-confident men, most of whom evidently knew one another. Again, the three of us were the youngest guests. I assumed most of the restaurant’s clients were in politics. They carried themselves with the amiable assurance of men used to authority. There was a preponderance of grey hair and white whiskers, large cigars and quiet, private humour. I could not remember ever before visiting an establishment which had, down to the pattern on the carpet, such an impervious ambience. One could be certain that every single individual in the place was a true born American. I think this added to my own sense of relaxation. As our trio (‘the Three Musketeers’, Jimmy called us) entered we were greeted by a deferential negro who showed us to a table already occupied by two older men. The table was in an alcove made invisible from the street by lace curtains and heavy drapes. Arranged about the Restaurant Pocock’s walls glass cases contained old books, ornaments, a variety of bric-a-brac. All of these, Jimmy assured me, had historical importance. This was my first real encounter with the American obsession for honouring almost any artefact older than twenty years as an antique. He apologised for arranging the meeting at Pocock’s which he thought stuffy and ‘dry’. It was almost impossible to get a drink in Washington unless you were at someone’s private house. We should have to go through the dinner on grape juice and pop. I am still more amused than upset by this state of affairs, though wine had become commonplace to me, but it was a source of permanent anger to many Americans.
At the table I was introduced to Mr Charles Roffy and Mr Richard Gilpin who received me with exquisite and elaborate manners. They said they were glad to know me. ‘Delighted to welcome such a distinguished visitor to our capital,’ said Mr Roffy. I was to call them Charlie and Dick. I said I also was glad to know them and would be flattered if they would address me as Max. They smiled and laughed and patted my arm saying they were easy-going people down here and not given to a whole lot of formality. They were pleased I found their rough country ways acceptable. This self-deprecating style was, I knew, a feature of genuinely good breeding in America. Charlie Roffy was a tall man whose large, comfortable belly threatened the buttons of his waistcoat. He breathed heavily, as fat men sometimes do, and the redness of his face served to emphasise his slate-coloured eyes, a shock of fading sandy hair and greying moustache. He had heard my mother was English. His own ancestors were from Yorkshire. Did I know Yorkshire? I said I had rarely been North of the Border, save as a boy. This evidently satisfied Jimmy Rembrandt who glanced at Lucius Mortimer with the air of a teacher observing a favourite student. Dick Gilpin, older, with that stern, military face once identified with Victorian generals, a thick white walrus moustache and snow-white hair worn rather long, was the epitome of the distinguished statesman. He looked me over shrewdly even as he joked that his own forefathers had been somewhat more cautious in describing their exact origins. He believed some to have been cattle thieves in Kent. Quite possibly my ancestors had hanged some of his. This was another feature of the American aristocrat, they frequently claimed wild antecedents in a vaguely located past. I was a little confused by the statement. Later I would meet men who boasted romantically of their Indian blood while their grandfathers, who had been settlers, cheerfully described how they had almost single-handedly wiped out an entire aboriginal nation. Moreover nothing had really prepared me for the dry humour, subtlety and breeding of these two Southern diplomats. Russia had always identified Americans as rough, naive characters wearing shaggy buckskins or vulgar checks, eating raw buffalo meat, loudly bullying waiters with demands for ‘pie’. These called me ‘my dear sir’ and discussed with some regret the decline in the cuisine at Delmonico’s.