1876 (54 page)

Certainly I have been in hot and desperate pursuit of normal life for some weeks now.

“It’s all over, Charlie. There’s nothing left.” Jamie kept repeating this refrain to me, as we sat at his special table in the bar of the Hoffman House. Not even the elegant appearance of the Collector of the Port could do more than, momentarily, disrupt Jamie’s gloom.

Arthur complimented me on my election reports. “You made me feel I was right there in the Capitol.”

“You could’ve been, Chet. Only you were hiding out at Wormley’s.” Jamie was suddenly his old mocking self.

But Arthur took no offense. “I’m afraid I’m not that important. I was right here the whole time, tending to the port.”

“Watch out for Hayes, Chet. He’s going to have your scalp.”

Jamie’s cryptic
non sequitur
was ignored by Arthur, who said, “There is a rumour that we are in for an austere administration. Mrs. Hayes refuses to serve wine or spirits at the White House.”

“One more reason for going,” said Jamie darkly, drying with the back of his hand those absinthe drops that forever cling like seed pearls to his moustache.

“A friend of mine just came from a dinner at the White House and he said that the water flowed like wine.”

I was grateful to the genial Arthur for praising my articles in front of Jamie. But to no good end. I can write for the
Herald
from Paris as I do for the
Evening Post
;
but I cannot begin to support myself on what either paper is willing to pay.

I continue to make the rounds.

My second day in the city I called on Bryant at the
Post
.
The old man is beginning to look transparent with age but appears to possess all his faculties. I listened to more praise for my election articles. Then: “I suppose that you will be going back to Europe soon?”

“Yes. If I find nothing to do here.”

The Jovian head turned toward me with some curiosity. “You
want
to live amongst us?”

“I want to live, my dear Bryant. And I must do that by my pen.”

“But you are, permanently, our valued European contributor.”

“For which I am grateful. But I have a daughter and two grandsons to provide for.” I rather laid it on.

“Oh, dear. I see what you mean. If only Mr. Tilden had been elected.”

“But he was elected. He was simply not inaugurated. Did you vote for him?”

At the center of that Sinaean bush, a smile began. “I never say. The paper ...”

“Supported Hayes.”

“A decent man. With the makings of a good Cabinet. Particularly now that he has taken on Carl Schurz ...”

“Not to mention Mr. Key.” Part of the deal at Wormley’s Hotel was that the postmaster-generalship (the most copious source of patronage in the land) go to a Democrat. Hayes’s choice was the Democrat Senator Key of Tennessee.

“Well ...” Bryant looked straight ahead.

We agreed that I would, from time to time, write on matters of general interest while I am still in New York. Once back in Paris, I shall continue my valued contributions, assuming I do not, meanwhile, starve to death. Despite the general impropriety of staying with Sanford, I must confess that it has saved our lives, for, despite a year’s hard work, I now have exactly the same amount of capital that I had when I arrived here on the
Pereire
, less all the prospects that I had then.

I dined last week at Gramercy Park with Tilden. Bigelow and Green and the Peltons were on hand; the other courtiers seem all to have vanished. No longer is the front door importantly guarded by police.

I was warmly received not by the nineteenth president but by a nice old bachelor-lawyer, happy in the bosom of his family, his books—his numerous dollars.

“You must have had a most exciting time in Washington.” This was Tilden’s understatement as he ushered Emma and me into the family sitting room, where the last loyalists were gathered. It put me in mind of our poor Emperor and Empress at Chislehurst.

Bigelow shook my hand. He has taken this defeat hardest of all. Well, not as hard as I have, since, of the lot, I am the only one without a penny or a future. But I did my best to appear as unruffled as the others.

“What news of your friend the Princess Mathilde?” Like the others, Bigelow avoided any reference to the election.

“She has just sent me her first book. A biography of Didi, her late dog.”

“An instructive life?”

“For a dog, yes. I’ll lend it to you.”

“I’ll read it to our dogs.”

We did our best. Emma was subdued but sufficiently herself to excite Mrs. Pelton. Everyone envies us “for going back to Paris.” Green sighed. “Wish I were going. The Governor is.”

Tilden nodded. “Bigelow has consented to be my cicerone. We sail in July when the Atlantic is, reputedly, calm.” Bigelow told me that the bookings were made the day they learned that the commission had accepted the Hayes electors for Florida.

We made all sorts of plans to meet in Paris, assuming that I am not in debtors’ prison. Bigelow suggests I write a book about the election. “After all, you’ve already got most of it written, your pieces for the
Herald
.”

At first I thought this not a good idea, but since that dinner in Gramercy Park, I have changed my mind. When I proposed the subject to Mr. Dutton, he was enthusiastic. Yesterday at the Lotos Club I mentioned the matter to Gilder, who says that he will present the idea to Scribner’s. I mean to get them all bidding against one another, just as if I were Mark Twain!

As I was leaving, Tilden said, “I overheard Bigelow. Such a book might be very interesting.”

“Would you be helpful?”

“Oh, yes. I have”—the bleakest of smiles arched the upper lip—“a great deal of information. I might even say evidence. For instance, one of the fifteen commissioners was paid one hundred thousand dollars for his vote. This seemed to me odd, since the going price throughout the election has been two hundred thousand dollars. But perhaps he did not know?”

“I wish
you
had paid him!” I spoke from the heart.

“It’s as well I did not. Besides, four years is a short time. And Mr. Hayes insists that he will serve one term and no more.”

I could not say that for me four years is the equivalent of all eternity. Tilden can look forward to a future election. But I have not that luxury.

Meanwhile I have decided to write the book. Bigelow promises to tell me
all
.

One incident: after the House of Representatives passed its resolution confirming Tilden as president, Hewitt tried to get the Governor to issue a proclamation declaring that he would present himself at the Capitol on March 4 to be inaugurated as the duly elected president. According to Hewitt, armed troops in fifteen states were ready to march. Tilden responded by asking Hewitt to resign as Democratic national chairman, which he has done.

TODAY HAS BEEN both disturbing and splendid.

At noon Blaise Delacroix Sanford was baptized in the drawing room of the Sanford mansion by a Roman Catholic bishop with, as they say, the map of all Ireland writ large upon his red face.

Emma and I stood as godparents for the baby, who roared agreeably. Sanford was in an exuberant mood, made only slightly more distasteful than usual by a newfound religiosity. He has taken to exclaiming in a loud voice and at odd moments, “Praise God.” He has not yet asked us to drop to our knees and pray with him, but I feel it is only a matter of time.

Some fifty people had been invited for dinner after the ceremony, amongst them Ward McAllister. “
She
could not come,” he breathed into my ear. “But
she
has sent a most beautiful cup. So tragic, the loss of the beautiful Mrs. Sanford. He has taken it very hard, hasn’t he?”

“Very hard. As we all have.”

“So good of you and the Princess to stay with him. He has no family. She had Family, of course. But they are at the South, don’t you know?”

Due to my gentle insistence, the Gilders (wife and sister as well as book-man) had been invited to the christening. I fear that I have taken to literary society in the biggest way. One day finds me at the Lotos Club, the next at the Century Club. I fawn relentlessly on publishers.

I now have, according to Gilder, “a truly princely offer from Scribner’s. They will pay you five thousand dollars for the rights to your election book.” Gilder was as pleased for me as I am for me. “Naturally, you’ll let me publish as much as I can in
Scribner’s Monthly
.”

“We
are
thrilled,” said Jeanette Gilder, but whether by my sudden good fortune or by the Gilders’ finding themselves in the same drawing room as the August Belmonts, I could not tell.

I now work every day on the book. Bigelow provides me with all sorts of information, and Tilden himself promises to give the final manuscript a careful reading.

I was well on my way to survival, until this afternoon, when my life was most unexpectedly changed.

After the guests had departed, I sat with Sanford and Emma in the pseudo-Renaissance library with its view of Fifth Avenue, bright and new-looking in the early April light. Sanford and I continued to drink champagne while Emma poured herself cup after cup of coffee from a massive Georgian silver pot.

“A good party!” Sanford lit a long cigar. “Praise God!” This last was addressed to the ceiling that, presumably, separates Sanford from his much-lauded Deity.

“I hope my literary
confr
è
res
did not lower too much the ‘tong.’ ”

“They give variety. Say, it sure was nice of Lina to send us that cup.” Sanford has lately taken to referring to the Mystic Rose by her family nickname—no doubt, on the ground that the less he sees of her the greater the intimacy.

Then Emma put down her coffee cup and said, “Papa, William and I were married this morning.”

“Praise God in Heaven!” Sanford addressed this prayer not to the ceiling but to me.

“My God!” I said, contaminated by so many celestial references.

“The Bishop married us, before anyone came.” Emma was nervous ... from too much coffee, I decided dumbly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I heard my own voice, as if from far away; and noted that it was the querulous voice of an old man.

“Because—” Emma stopped.

“Because,” said Sanford, “you might have objected. I mean it is ... so soon ... after—”

“Yes. It is
too
soon after.” I was sharp. On the one hand (why deny it?), I am delighted that Emma has not only saved herself but released me from a burden that has been threatening to crush me entirely; yet, on the other hand, I cannot stop thinking of Denise, only three months dead. “Why couldn’t you have waited a few more months?”

“The child,” said Sanford. “He needs a mother. And I”—Sanford’s small pretty mouth suddenly delivered a spontaneous if somewhat girlish, even coquettish smile—“
I
need Emma.”

“The orchids,” I said, not meaning to. But neither one of them was listening to me. They were looking at each other.

“We thought it the right thing to do, Papa.” Emma shifted to rapid French, and I don’t think Sanford was able to understand us. “William wants to get away. To go to Paris. As soon as possible. With the child. With me. Obviously, I can’t travel with him unmarried. So last week we asked the Bishop, and he was most agreeable. He arranged it all.”

“But it seems to me to be—and I’m not exactly punctilious in these matters—much too swift. Too ... insulting to Denise.”

“You will make me weep.” Emma’s eyes were indeed filled with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“
I
think Denise would have approved. She loved us both. William
and
me. And you, too, Papa. If you had been there, with us, you’d understand better what I’ve just done.”

“No matter.” I spoke again in English. “Well, congratulations, Sanford.”

My son-in-law was on his feet. “Praise”—I fear he shouted—“God!” as he lunged forward to shake my hand.

I kissed Emma. She burst into tears. And so, on this lovely April day we at last buried the celebrated Princess d’Agrigente and attended the
accouchement
of the second Mrs. William Sanford, who will depart next week for France with her husband aboard his yacht.

I stay behind in the mansion, writing my book and living a life of perfect luxury. For the first time in years I am free. I feel the way a life-prisoner must when his heavy chains are suddenly, inexplicably, struck from him.

WE PARTED THIS MORNING. My son-in-law shook my hand firmly; he looked surprised when Emma and I did not embrace. Emma gave me a long look; started to speak, and then thought better of it. She got into the waiting carriage. Two wagons were needed for the Sanfords’ trunks.

“You’ll join us soon. That’s all agreed, isn’t it?” At least Sanford does not call me Father.

“Yes. I’ll join you soon. When the book is done.”

“The Lord be praised.”

Then they were gone, leaving the butler and me standing in the grey light of what promises to be a rainy day.

I have not a curious nature; do not read other people’s letters; do not eavesdrop. Since I can usually imagine with the greatest ease the worst, I need not know it. In fact, I avoid confidences and hate all secrets. I assume that there are things even in the lives of those one loves that are dark, and I for one would rather not have them brought to light.

The greater the ascent, the longer the fall. Yes. All platitude is truth; all truth platitude. Unfortunately, it takes a long life to learn this, at the end.

I spent last night with Jamie, at his insistence. “I need company, Charlie. Because I hate everybody.”

“That’s normal.”

“I can’t wait to leave this city. It’s bad luck for me.”

We dined together at an obscure French restaurant back of Steinway Hall. Jamie will not go to any place where he might be recognized by the gentry. I had rather hoped that he would want to go on to the Chinese Pagoda, but like most people who hate everyone, he desperately needs company.

Although Jamie won’t go to the new Delmonico’s, he will go to shady places where the people are lively, and if he should meet any of the gentry there—well, they are fallen, too. He thinks of himself as Lucifer, and all because of a schoolboy tussle in the snow with young Mr. May.