1876 (30 page)

As for Grant himself—well, that is for me a deep mystery to which Belknap added when he said, “I told General Grant when I last saw him, after all this started, I said, ‘What a long strange way we’ve come, you and I, since Shiloh and Vicksburg,’ and he said, ‘The end’s not yet in sight,’ whatever that may mean.”

MIDNIGHT. Emma has gone to bed exhausted, and I must try to make some sense of our evening at the White House. The long-awaited invitation for the “large” dinner arrived, to honour the dean of the diplomatic corps, Baron Jacobi, the minister from Servia. Of a hundred guests perhaps half were diplomats or visiting foreigners, a category to which the social aides at the White House have decided that Emma and I belong.

“It should be interesting.” Nordhoff had joined me for a peach-nectar cream soda in the drugstore beneath the hotel. “Keep a close eyes on Mrs. Grant.”

“Why? Is she apt to take one’s wallet?” Thus do we speak of our masters.

“No. But she’s apt to be a bit shaken today. This afternoon she marched uninvited into a Cabinet meeting and, to the embarrassment of everyone, paid tearful tribute to the goodness of her friend Puss and the probity of General Belknap.”

“I was not aware she was so politically minded.”

“She’s not, as her appeal plainly demonstrates. Anyway, something was ventured but nothing was gained. The trial continues.”

At exactly seven o’clock the rented carriage containing Emma and me joined the long line of carriages in front of the White House portico, or “piazza,” as Mrs. Grant calls it. Emma was again in her Winter-halter Empress Elizabeth gown and the long gauzy train quite filled the back seat. We had both of us to struggle with it to avoid smothering.

“What do I call the President?” Emma asked.

“Mr. President, I should think, or perhaps General Grant.”

“Not Highness, or Excellency?”

“No, no! None of that. Here we are all equal.”

“It is a pretty house,” said Emma as we alighted. A Negro usher showed us into the entrance hall, where most of the guests were already gathered, a somewhat un-Washington assortment, thanks to the preponderance of foreigners.

Baron Jacobi is a fine bright little man more fluent in French than English; and he presented himself to Emma. “With delight! I have been following you day by day in the press as you make your way through the gilded salons of the Capital, and I have been hoping, praying that one day we would meet.”

Emma was charmed. The Baron is a bachelor, and as protocol does not obtain before the President’s arrival, the Baron took Emma in to the East Room.

I followed, looking about for familiar faces (Blaine was there, but not Conkling; I bowed to Zach. Chandler and to General Garfield). I also looked to see what changes had been made since my only other visit to the White House forty years ago. A single glance convinced me that nothing is as it was. The hand of Mrs. Grant can be seen in every room, and it is not a light hand. Where, before, everything was bright and airy (if a bit dusty and run-down), now all is dark, rich, and thickly gilded.

The East Room is unrecognizable in its new Galena, Illinois, Gothic style. Rows of squat wooden columns now break into three small areas what once had been a splendid large room. The wallpaper is dark with dim gold figures. The furniture is of ebony and gold. The effect is deeply sombre, even disturbing. I trust that Tilden will take an axe to the Grant additions.

Of all the guests assembled in the East Room, the diplomats seemed most at home, but then that is their minimal function. I was pleased that since Emma was on Baron Jacobi’s arm, everyone was eager to meet her. She looked most fetching, despite the sombre setting.

“A splendid-looking woman, that child of yours.” Blaine was at my side—face red with wine, black eyes aglitter with reflected candlelight. Side by side, we stood in the doorway, surveying the room.

“Well, French ladies do make the most of themselves.” I cannot think why I was so stupid as to emphasize Emma’s foreignness, which of course can only throw in doubt my own Americanness. But I was distracted by the room, the people, the occasion, trying to absorb the experience in order to turn it into words, the writer’s glum task that forever keeps him at one remove from life.

“Did my daughter call upon Mrs. Blaine?” I had forgotten whether or not the ladies had done their duty.

“Indeed she did. And they had tea, at an hour chosen deliberately so that I would be safely at the Capitol. I hope, on some other occasion, you’ll do us the honour ...” Another invitation.

“You must be most harried, Mr. Blaine. This seems an unusually busy session of the Congress.” I did my duty as a journalist.

“Busy? Not me!” Blaine laughed. “I’ve never been lazier. When we Republicans lost our majority last fall, I said, ‘Now I’m out of jail. I don’t have to be the Speaker.’ ” At some length he told me how much he enjoyed not being Speaker. “You can’t imagine how dull it is up there, listening to all that bad oratory. But what have I said? You won’t quote me, will you? I am at your mercy.”

“Your secret is safe with me, sir.”

Blaine gave me a curiously sly sort of smile. “Well, now. You
might
be able to quote me as saying that I find the oratory on the
other
side of the Capitol not quite so fascinating. Five minutes of Senator Conkling’s glorious voice and I am as one chained to Morpheus’s slow carriage and, like a prisoner, am borne irresistibly to the land of dreams.”

“That will go into my next piece for the
Herald
.”

During all this, Blaine was constantly beaming, shaking hands, greeting one and all, as he talked to me. “I’m glad you’re not as hard on us as Charlie Nordhoff. Now, he’s what I call something fierce.”

“That’s because I’m just the curious man from the outside, while Nordhoff is the furious man on the inside.” Nice, I thought to myself (and duly record here for possible use later).

“Ever since the Democrats won the House away from us, they’ve been smelling blood. They’re on our trail. And November they’ll try their very best to get their hands on this fine old house, too.” Expansively Blaine gestured, striking General Grant a light blow on the shoulder.

Feeling his arm in contact with someone else, Blaine turned to apologize; then his eyes went wide when he realized that it was the President he had struck. The Grants were now at the center of the doorway, preparing to make their entrance.

“My God! I mean, my General. I didn’t see you.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Blaine. This season it is the custom to strike the President on sight.” Grant’s face did not lose its usual hurt puzzled expression, but the drollery was swift and engaging. As I anticipated, he is no fool. I was not prepared, however, for the quality of his voice, which is low and musical and not at all what one would expect in a military man. The late Prince d’Agrigente, marshal of France, had a voice like that of a whooping crane, and easily audible, I should have thought, from Moscow to St. Petersburg (shrieking, “Retreat!”).

Side by side the Grants marched (or, in his case, tottered) toward one end of the East Room. We were then lined up to be presented. Behind the President stood some sort of master of protocol who murmured our names as we were presented. I was gratified that Emma was the first lady to be presented, since little Baron Jacobi had no intention of letting her go and, as guest of honour, he took precedence. Lacking any rank, I was amongst the last to touch hands, for that is about all that either General or Mrs. Grant does.

Close to, one finds that the General’s eyes are still alert, though the sharp clear blue of the early portraits has gone somewhat cloudy with age. The hair must have been a rust colour originally; now it is mostly grey. A prominent wart to one side of the beard is the last part of the face that one can see, for mouth and chin are entirely hidden by the famous neatly cropped beard.

The President, I should mention, wore evening dress. I don’t know why, but I had expected him to be in full uniform, wearing a hundred bright medals. When my name was mentioned, I saw that he knew exactly who I was. He frowned. Perhaps he also smiled as well; it is hard to tell, since the mouth is hidden. He muttered something that I could not hear. I suspect it was “Good evening.”

I moved on to Mrs. Grant. A small stout counterpart of her husband, Julia Dent Grant is uncommonly plain, with eyes that look toward each other, giving her face a slightly crazed expression, as if one eye could not fathom why the other eye was staring into it. The senior James Gordon Bennett’s eyes were equally crossed, but stared only toward Heaven.

“I’ve had the pleasure earlier of meeting your daughter, the Princess, Mr. Schuyler.” The voice was nasal and somewhat Southern (she comes originally from Missouri); the manner was easy.

“You are too kind to invite us here ...” I was polite, even apologetic, feeling something of a traitor in that room.

“I also know that you have both been
more
than kind to my
friends
General and Mrs. Belknap.” This was said firmly and more loudly than was needful. I looked at the President. He had heard, and was not pleased. With the gesture of a rider transferring the reins of a horse to a groom, he handed the guest he had just greeted over to Mrs. Grant, forcing me to move on.

“You remember Colonel Claypoole,” said the President loudly, and I was swiftly succeeded by the Colonel, whom Mrs. Grant did remember.

So much for my first encounter with the world’s most famous general. I must say, right off, that I found Grant less impressive than Andrew Jackson, whose hand I had also shaken in that same room. Yet I do detect some strange quality in Grant that is very deep. (Yes, I recall that Hawthorne said of his old friend President Pierce that he was “deep, deep, deep” when of course Pierce was shallow, shallow, shallow.) But where Jackson was entirely the splendid border aristocrat, visibly pleased with himself and his place in history, Grant is—well, not deep but puzzling. For one thing, the hurt face is perfectly contradicted by the confident voice, by the swift intelligent gaze that simultaneously takes in and dismisses—reflective of a military genius that for some reason has not translated into politics as it ought to have done, for, contrary to legend, generals are almost by definition adept politicians.

Presently we were led in to dinner. The state dining room reflects the taste of Mrs. Grant: nightmarishly rich, complicated, and dark.

We sat at a huge horseshoe table. I was something like a mile below the salt. On my right I had the wife of a French diplomat (an omen?); and on the other side Mrs. James Garfield. She bears the resonant name of Lucretia, and appears to be a woman of strong character; she is pleasant-looking with auburn hair piled high on her head, contrary to the prevailing fashion. “I’ve met the Princess already,” she confided, as the slow procession of huge platters of hammered gold, of worked silver, made the rounds; all told, we were served twenty-five courses and six
good
wines. “She was at poor Puss Belknap’s house.”

“Oh, yes. Emma told me,” I lied. It is curious how secretive Emma is. Although we talk, I think, with perfect frankness about everything and everyone, I am forever startled to discover that, unknown to me, she has dined with the Belmonts, say, or chatted with Lucretia Garfield at the Belknaps’ house. Emma finds it easy to keep a secret. I don’t. But then she is a secret, and I am not.

“Naturally, I asked her if she knew poor Kate Sprague.” It would seem that all ladies are “poor” to proud Lucretia.

“Yes, Emma sees her often at Paris. I’m afraid I hardly know her.”

“What a comedown in the world it must be for her.” Mrs. Garfield could not hide her pleasure, which was increased, as was mine, by the arrival of those Maryland crabs I have developed such a taste for. She, too, is addicted to Maryland crab. “Even though it took me years to get up the nerve to eat one. I mean, they don’t grow them back in Ohio.” She ate a crab—shell, claws and all; and kept on talking. “I used to be so jealous of Kate I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her.”

This confidence was most unusual. Jealousy is one emotion never admitted to by those who live on the political and social heights. “You see, General Garfield was a protégé of her father, Chief Justice Chase. We’re all from Ohio, you know, and of course it’s no secret that before my husband married me, he was out of his head for Kate, so pretty she was in those days, though General Garfield did tell me that he thought her nose a trifle pug. But I think he just said that to keep me quiet. Anyway, she was the absolute queen of Washington from Mr. Lincoln’s time right up to the Panic, when she lost everything and had to move to Europe.” The pleasure in learning that others have lost money is apparently a universal one. Aaron Burr used to brighten visibly when he heard that yet another of the republic’s founders had gone bankrupt.

“Not
everything
.”
I was to the point. “She has acquired Senator Conkling.”

This took some wind from Lucretia’s voluminous sails. But they soon filled again. “True. But I cannot see what earthly good it will do either of them. Rather the contrary, since each is married.”

“Divorce?”

“She has grounds, I’ll say that, poor girl. And no one would mind. I mean Bill Sprague is mad as a hatter, and a drunk, and dangerous. But Mrs. Conkling is a perfect lady.”

“Then come next January Mrs. Conkling will be in this room, doing the honours.” I gestured toward Mrs. Grant, whose eyes managed most diplomatically to fix the attention of each dinner partner simultaneously.

“Oh, I’m not so sure of that.” Lucretia Garfield refused claret, which I drank (too much of, I fear; my tremor has returned, but the low recurring fever of the last few days is gone). “I should say that Mrs. Blaine will be at the head of this table, poor woman. She has such a good mind. But
six
children! I mean she has no peace.”

“But Mr. Blaine is not, as far as I know, a general, and I thought the people only elect generals nowadays.”

“Senator Conkling isn’t a general either, and he’s the President’s personal choice.” This is the first indication, if true, that Grant has a preference.