Empire

politically, to a socialist or Populist among the national possibilities. Certainly, he appealed to Watson; but then Watson appealed to Watson even more.

Jim Day was seated on a sofa facing Hearst; he greeted Blaise with a smile; and continued to listen to the tiny fiery Watson, who stood at the room’s center, declaiming. Blaise’s entrance was made little of. Hearst waved him to a chair. Watson ignored him as a preacher would a late-comer to a revival meeting.

“I dedicated my book on Thomas Jefferson to you, Mr. Hearst, because I see you as Jefferson’s heir, politically, that is.”

“Lucky for me.” Lately, Hearst had begun, tentatively, to tell jokes. “He didn’t leave a cent when he died.”

“That’s to his eternal credit.” Watson’s blue eyes flashed, unamused. “I’m writing biographies of my-and your- heroes, Jackson and Napoleon, and I’ll dedicate them all to you if you continue to fight the good fight for the people, just as they did, against the trusts, the Jew bankers, the idolatrous papists, and all the rest of the foreign element that keeps down our people, the original people of this republic.” There was more in this vein. Hearst listened patiently. At the Democratic Convention in July, Watson could swing the Southern delegates to Hearst, and the nomination; at election time, Watson was worth five million votes to the nominee. But would Watson himself be a Democrat in July? or would he be the candidate of the Populists? Blaise did not envy the Chief. From what Blaise could tell of the American people-glimpsed, admittedly somewhat askew, through their tribunes-they tended to sectarian madness. Religion ran like poison through their veins, followed by-or mingled with-racism of a sort undreamed of in wicked old Europe. There was always a “they” at whom a pejorative verb could be launched, automatically transitiving “they” to the ominous all-evil “them” who must be destroyed so that Eden could be regained. Blaise would rather be a humble worker in his father’s encaustic-tile plant at Lowell, Massachusetts, than president of so strenuously mad a country as the United States. He could not fathom it; did not want to; marvelled that Caroline had got the range of the place, and all without in any way becoming one of-yes, them.

Watson spoke for another half-hour; then, with a peroration on the absolute necessity, if the United States were ever to know greatness, of a rural free mail delivery service, he stopped. “Mr. Watson,” Hearst rose; he towered over the tiny orator, “I have admired-even simulated you…”

“Emulated,” Blaise murmured automatically to himself. The Chief was still having his problems with English. “Now I know we can do great things together this summer, fall, forever. But where I need you-really need you-is your working for me. No, that’s wrong, I’d be working for you, for your ideas, if you’d only take over as editor of the New York American. You’re a natural.”

This was exceptionally well done, thought Blaise. The Chief was learning. Watson expressed gratitude for confidence placed; but did not, quite, take the bait. After more compliments exchanged, Watson left. Hearst sighed.

“Hard work,” said Blaise.

“He’s a wonderful orator,” said Jim. “But if you’re not a crowd, he’s pretty tiring.”

“What do you think, Jim?” Hearst turned to Day. Blaise was, suddenly, completely jealous. They were on a first-name basis, something rare for Hearst to be with anyone. Of course, Jim was Hearst’s senior in the House of Representatives; even so, it had taken a year before Hearst had called Blaise by his first name.

“I think Colonel Bryan’s going to try again, and I’ll be with him, as always, and he’ll fail to be nominated, so I guess you’ll be the candidate-or Cleveland, if he’s in a Lazarus mood.”

“Cleveland’s really dead.” Hearst turned to Blaise. “You know, I got on the Labor Committee, over Williams’s dead body.” To Jim: “How do you get a bill passed in the House?”

“First,” said Jim, “you get somebody to write it for you. Then… Well, Congress isn’t at all like a newspaper.”

“I figured that one out. But,” Hearst pointed toward the White House, “that place is. Roosevelt’s just like me, storming around, making news…” Hearst turned to Blaise. “Sorry about the fire. I guess you’ll start up again, won’t you?”

“Next week. There’s a chance that Caroline might sell me the Tribune.” Caroline had been, even for her, unusually intricate on the subject. He knew that she needed money to pay John Apgar Sanford’s debts. On the other hand, if she could hold out for a year, she would have her share of an estate that kept growing, despite the money he was pouring into his Connecticut Avenue Italianate palazzo. Blaise had put Houghteling to work, increasing the pressure on Sanford’s edgy creditors. If a crisis could be provoked…

“I’d love to get my hands on that paper.” Hearst was wistful. “She’s made a go of it. Amazing. A woman.”

“Galling! My own sister.”

“She even understands politics.” Jim made his contribution. “Kitty really likes her,” he added. “Kitty’s the politician in our family,” he added to his addition.

“I want to investigate the coal-railroad monopoly,” Hearst announced, more or less at Jim. “I’ve spent sixty thousand dollars of my own money, investigating how six railroads own eleven coal mines, secretly, and get this cheap coal, and then water their stock and sell it to the public, and the Attorney General, and that noisy fraud across the road, know all about it and they won’t do a thing.”

Blaise rather liked Hearst’s editorial approach to politics. He rooted about for scandal; found it; publicized it. But now instead of just selling newspapers, Hearst might be able, with a scandal of this nature, to destroy the Administration. That was direct power.

“You take this one to the House Judiciary Committee. I’ll show you how to go about it. But I don’t think you’ll be able to smoke out the Attorney General.”

“Wait and see. You know, if I’m nominated, I’m going to give the Democratic National Committee one and a half million dollars for the campaign.”

Jim whistled; then smiled. “Why after you’re nominated? Spread it around before and you will be nominated.” Hearst let that one go; he continued, “The idea is, the party, to raise money, won’t have to go to the railroads, to the trusts, the way they do when the candidate’s a conservative, with his hand out…”

“And only five fingers.” Jim smiled at Blaise, who realized that he had never had a man-friend before, except the son of his now-retired mistress.

“What?” Hearst was baffled.

“A joke. Of ours.” Blaise was delighted by Jim’s “ours.”

“Roosevelt,” declared Hearst, somberly, “has all sorts of luck.”

“Except bad,” noted Jim. “There’s never been anything like him.”

“I hate him, I think.” But Hearst’s thin voice sounded more wistful than passionate. “He calls me McKinley’s murderer.”

“Why don’t you suggest that he hired that anarchist to kill McKinley so that he could become president?” Blaise improvised, for Jim’s amusement.

“We were never able to find a connection,” said Hearst sadly, startling Blaise, who put nothing beyond the Chief, but this seemed to be, even for Hearst, a singularly grotesque caper.

“Well, when in doubt, make something up.” Jim was cheerful.

Blaise recalled, word for word, the latest Henry Adams characterization of William McKinley: “a very supple and highly paid agent of the crudest capitalism.” He decided not to repeat this to Hearst, who had accepted with his usual equanimity the fact that he would never be received at the other side of Lafayette Square.

But Hearst was now discussing the joys of parenthood with James Burden Day. Since Millicent would give birth in two months, she refused to leave New York City for fear that any child born in the District of Columbia would grow up to be a politician. “Or Negro,” said Jim. “Law of averages.”

George announced, “Miss Frederika Bingham,” to Hearst’s surprise. Blaise rose. “I asked her to meet me here. We’re going to look at my new house. She’s got ambition, as a decorator of houses. She’s read Mrs. Wharton’s book.”

Frederika was cool. Hearst was courtly. Jim was friendly; he had met her a number of times. Blaise shook her hand.

“My mother wants to know, Mr. Hearst, why you refuse to come to her congressional at-homes.” Frederika spoke to Hearst but kept her eyes on Blaise, who admired the ease with which she could handle any social situation. In this, she resembled Caroline, no recommendation, of course. Did he hate his sister? envy her? love her? He could never make up his mind. Certainly if he were the publisher of the Tribune,