Washington, D.C., page 37
Burden was soothing. “There’s nothing here to worry you. In two years McCarthy will be gone.”
“I’m not so sure. And just look what he did to Tydings and Benton and Lucas. Why, he chewed ‘em blood raw.” Momberger’s frontier phrases had been acquired, Burden knew, not on the frontier but from a thousand Western novels read during a Pawtucket, Rhode Island, childhood. Now of course Jesse was so venerable that people assumed that he had indeed traveled with Davy Crockett, known Pat Garrett, and dealt as an equal with the brothers James. Of the Senators, Burden alone knew Momberger’s secret.
“You would have made a better race, you old fool! Why in hell didn’t you run?” Momberger looked at him narrowly, head slightly cocked, eyes half shut against the desert’s glare.
“Oh, Jesse…” Burden sighed. He had given out so many stories now that he had forgotten which one he had confided to Momberger. Officially, of course, he was leaving the Senate because he felt that the time had come for him to cease to be an actor and join the audience. Unfortunately, the suspicious probings of others had encouraged him to elaborate. There were, he intimated, books to be written, universities to be taught at, a Federal judgeship to be filled, and of course money to be made for the first time in his life. In the last few months he had hinted at everything from a fatal illness to a lifelong desire to be Ambassador to Ireland (this madness he had confided to an intimate of the Secretary of State, and he writhed at the thought of what that worthy must think of his pretensions, for he was not loved by the Administration).
“Thirty-six years is long enough in this place,” he said to Momberger, who replied, “Like hell it is!”
A page approached Burden. “Your office just called, Senator. They said Mr. Sanford’s arrived.”
Momberger looked at Burden, somewhat puzzled. “Now what are you up to with Blaise Sanford? You’re not fixin’ to be one of those lousy columnists, are you?”
“Not Blaise, his son.”
“That rich little Commie…”
“A friend of Diana, remember?”
“You don’t have much luck with sons-in-law, do you?”
In the corridor outside the Senate Chamber, Irene Bloch embraced him. “Cher ami!” The voice rang out. Tourists paused to stare.
“What an election!” She held him by his wrists, as though he might, like St. Theresa, levitate.
“Cicero said that life is like a place in the theatre…” But Burden was not allowed to finish.
“So many dear friends defeated! Poor Senator Lucas, a saint, gone!”
“We all must go, Irene. I’m late for an appointment.”
“But you will never go. I mean you’ll stay on in Washington, won’t you?”
“What else? Where else can I earn a living?” But the attempt at pathos failed, too. She was not listening.
“To know that you are still here makes it all so much better. Now where is Senator Taft?”
Burden said that he had not the slightest idea.
“According to his office, he is on the floor. You’ve seen the poll of course?” She stared past him, searching for Taft.
Burden shook his head. Stealthily he got one wrist free of her.
“Taft is the practically unanimous choice of the Republican leaders, which means he’s absolutely certain to be nominated.”
She frowned as Senator McCarthy, squat and smiling, crossed the hall, attended by Irish.
“What about General Eisenhower?”
“Not a chance.” Irene was flat. “They don’t like him and neither do I. Did you see what Harold Griffiths wrote about him yesterday? Even he has given up on Eisenhower, and you know his passion for the military.”
“Peter Sanford is waiting for me.” Burden got the other wrist free.
“Comme il est méchant!” But she said it gaily. “You must come and have tea with me soon, à deux.” She smiled significantly and tapped his face with an elegant claw. “After January, anyway; I’m booked until then.”
* * *
—
Peter sat alone in the outer office, reading a paperback book which he thrust guiltily in his pocket but not before Burden had seen that it was The Federalist Papers. Burden had noticed that since the war interest in the American past had waned, at least outside the academic world. For the majority, history began with the New Deal, and any contemplation of the old Republic was downright antipathetic to those who wanted reform in the present and perfection in the future, a category to which Peter so notoriously belonged.
“Where’s Mrs. Blaine?”
“Gone out for lunch, she said.”
“I am deserted. You see me among the ruins of Carthage. Ponder my fate and count no day happy unless it be your last.”
“You are in melancholy form!” Peter laughed appreciatively and followed Burden into the inner office. In the center of the room stood a large packing case, half filled with books.
“But you are still here for another three months…”
“Even so…” Burden stretched out on the leather sofa. “I want to depart stealthily, a bit at a time, unobserved. So that by the time my term ends, I shall have vanished without anyone noticing it.”
“You fear pity?”
“Who does not?”
“Women do not. Some men.” Peter showed Burden a newspaper folded open to an inside page. “There he is, being told about the election.”
Burden gazed at the photograph without emotion. In the uniform of a colonel, Clay shook the hand of General MacArthur, who was gravely “congratulating the Senatorelect. Since his nomination in June, Colonel Overbury has been on active duty in Korea. As a front line officer with the U.S. First Cavalry Division, Colonel Overbury refused to campaign for public office, saying, ‘The people of my state know by now what I stand for. As a fighting soldier, I am not at liberty to say anything except that this dirty business has got to be done, and I am doing what I can, in my small way.’ ”
Burden let the paper drop. “He’s won!” That seemed the least as well as the most that could be said.
Peter nodded; his wide body barely fitted into the rocking chair. “It was genius, going back in the Army.”
“It would be ironic if now he were to become a true hero just to disprove your story.” Burden found himself, perversely, wanting to attack Peter, to support Clay.
“Luckily he hasn’t gone that far. He’s been at headquarters most of the time, but who will ever know that? Particularly after all those photographs of him in action. Apparently he plans to stay in Korea until January. Then he’ll return in glory to take his seat in the Senate.”
“He’ll make a good Senator.” Burden almost meant what he said.
“Good?” Peter’s expression of disbelief annoyed Burden.
“Yes, good. He is ambitious, therefore he must be good.”
“Or at least not be notoriously bad.”
“He will certainly be diligent…”
“Or give the impression.”
“That takes diligence.” Burden chuckled, despite his own agony. “You must be compassionate. There’s nothing more difficult for the modern politician with his eye on the White House than to seem to be busy without actually doing anything for which he might later be held accountable. He’ll work hard, don’t worry.”
“For himself.”
“He would be unnatural if he did not.”
“Then I want unnatural men to govern us.”
“To govern? No one governs in this house!” Burden exploded. Truth at last. “The thing’s too big. When I came here, a Senator who wanted to do something could often accomplish it, if he cared sufficiently. But now? We say ‘Yea’ or ‘Nay’ and our yesses and noes are usually perfectly calculable in advance. Yet, believe it or not, there was actually a time when legislation originated in the Congress. I myself, in early days, once wrote a law which became the law of the land. Now of course we receive our legislation already prepared for us, the work of a thousand lawyers in a hundred bureaus, and nobody here bothers to read a fraction of those bills we approve or disapprove.”
“It is too big.”
“It is too big.”
But Peter would not accept Burden’s dark view. “Individual Senators still have power in some things. Clay will have power.”
Burden shook his head. “Not in the Senate, he won’t. He’ll be just another yes or no and the whips will know in advance just how he’ll vote.”
“Perhaps one should abandon the whole system.”
“We have abandoned it,” said Burden. “We now live under a Presidential dictatorship, with periodic referendums which allow us to change the dictator but not the dictatorship.”
“Perhaps that is the only way this sort of society can be governed.”
“It would be a shame to think so. But then I am reactionary, a normal state at my age.”
“We all react to the hateful present, even though there was nothing better in the past.” Peter was bleak. “I’m confident of that.”
“Of course there were better times.” Burden rose to the challenge, thought of Shiloh, tried to speak of Lee and Lincoln, but Peter would have none of it.
He drowned out Burden. “The apes have always governed us, and our complaints are simply monkey chatter…”
“No!” Burden surprised himself by his own passion. “We had our golden age.” He indicated the portrait of Jefferson above the mantelpiece. “I admit it was brief and that like all things human it went wrong, which was no one’s fault. Things do with us, and neither your monkeys nor the apes can be held responsible. The good is rare, that’s all, and not easy for most of us to live with.”
Peter was stubborn. “There was never a golden age. There will never be a golden age and it is sheer romance to think we can ever be other than what we are now.” He was radiant in his despair.
Burden sighed, knowing the mood too well. “Well, if that is so, then let us say that there was a time in our history when a few men of influence wanted things to be better than they are, unlike today when all that matters is money…” He stopped, and smiled. “But no matter how things are or were or will be, you go on as I do—or used to—trying to make things better. After all, if you were really so pessimistic you wouldn’t publish The American Idea or be concerned with anything but pleasure in the moment.”
“Pleasure in the moment varies from person to person.” Peter was cryptic. For a long moment both men were silent while Peter rocked back and forth and Burden contemplated the painting of Jefferson. Then Peter said, “Why do you think that what I wrote about Clay had so little effect? It was the truth, and it was devastating.”
“Apparently not. In any case the public is impressed only by winners.”
“But winners have become losers. They’ve even gone to jail.”
“But to say that Clay was a false hero…”
“And I proved that he was…”
“…only confuses people who have already accepted him as what they think he is, a genuine hero, the subject of an extraordinary amount of publicity. That’s all that matters, the large first impression. You cannot change it, short of a public trial.”
Peter gave a sigh which became a groan. The rocking chair creaked beneath his weight. “I suppose I am naïve.”
“Optimistic is a better word. You think to be right is enough. It never is. Though I must say if it hadn’t been for the war in Korea, I think you would have defeated Clay. Why do you hate him?” Burden was curious to hear the answer.
“Why do you?”
“But I don’t.” Burden told the truth.
“But he forced you out. You should hate him.”
Burden sat back in the chair, suddenly alert, aware of danger. “How do you know that?”
But Peter seemed not to have heard him. “Diana thinks it’s because my father prefers Clay to me. But that’s too simple. I’ve never much liked my father, which means I should be glad he’s got himself involved with Clay because it will end badly.”
“All things do. You say he forced me out…?”
“It’s really Enid.” Peter stopped his rocking and clutched his huge knees; he seemed carved from stone. “Clay killed her, you know.”
“Ah…” Burden gestured to show how impossible it was for him to comment upon the private affairs of a family not his own.
“Oh, I know she might not have survived anyway, but they did edge her out.”
“Now you would like to edge out Clay.”
“It would be satisfying.”
“The way you think he edged me out?” Burden put the question directly.
“Yes.” Peter looked Burden full in the face. “It was that old business about the Indian land sale. Rather than be exposed by Clay, you quit the race.”
On Burden’s desk a brass ruler lay diagonally across a copy of the Congressional Record. Not liking the angle, he readjusted the ruler so that it neatly bisected the document at the center. “How,” he asked, “do you happen to know this?”
“I have a friend at the Tribune who occasionally lets me see things in advance. Harold Griffiths has written a column describing the whole business. It’s already set in type.”
“Why is Harold Griffiths writing this now, when I am no longer in politics?”
“He thinks you had something to do with what I wrote. Since he can’t attack me because of Father…”
Unable to contain himself, Burden asked the question that ought not to be asked. “Do you believe I took a bribe?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” Peter got to his feet, his voice suddenly loud. “Considering what the others are, why should you be different?”
“One must be.” But Burden’s voice was inaudible.
Peter spoke through him. “There is no virtue in any of us, Senator. We are savages and don’t say it was better when he was alive.” Peter struck the painted face of Jefferson. “He lied and cheated and wrote lovely prose and collected recipes and wanted to lord it over this foolish land and did and died and that was the end of him. And don’t say that it matters what opinion the future holds of you, for the human race will stop one day, not a moment too soon, and then it will not have mattered one single damn who was an ape and who was a monkey in this filthy cage.”
Peter was at the door; he paused in his tirade and stared briefly at the framed text from Plato. Then he turned back to Burden, his voice normal. “If I were you, I’d appeal to Blaise. He likes you, as much as he can like anyone outside of Clay, and that’s not really liking but what the Greeks called the ‘unfortunate passion,’ and speaking of Greek your Plato’s wrong.” He pointed to the text on the wall: “ ‘Each of us is not born for himself alone.’ It’s a forgery. Plato never wrote that letter. Perhaps he should have written it but he didn’t. What can I do to help you?”
* * *
—
They crossed Chain Bridge and turned left on the road toward Great Falls. It had been years since Burden had made this journey, and he found the countryside sadly altered. Wooden frameworks of new houses stood, their pale wood raw against dark trees while billboards advertised entire new communities where life could be lived on easy terms with every modern appliance, a mere twenty minutes from downtown Washington. Burden liked nothing that he saw. But he refused to be distressed by anything today. He would think of nothing but the cool woods that smelled of mushrooms and decay.
“That’s the turnoff there, at the gas station.”
“O.K.,” said the chauffeur, a young Negro found for him by Henry who had gone to work for the government with Burden’s reluctant blessing. To lose the somber Henry was like losing a brother but he could not refuse him the chance to become available for a government pension. Solemnly Henry had departed that summer, promising to reappear every Sunday to tend the roses, and in fact he did make an occasional appearance at the house to discuss politics with the Senator and spray a rose or two. He also spoke privately and at length with his replacement but so far he had yet to convince the young man that his employer should be addressed as “Sir.” Passively, Burden disliked the new driver but the effort to find another was beyond him.
Nor was Kitty any help. She had no interests now except the birds, for whom she was currently building an elaborate sanctuary. In their twittering company her days were spent. Wearing a bathrobe and slippers, hair all undone, she seldom spoke to anyone, which was just as well, for with age her mind had filled with fantasies and instead of blurting out embarrassing truths she now revealed eccentric dreams that astonished and repelled even those who knew her best. But she was happy among her birds, and Burden envied her for having so completely escaped the human. There would be no pain for Kitty ever again, other than brief sorrow at a bird’s fall, made instantly pleasurable by a burial service witnessed by trees. Now that he needed her, she was gone, which was fair enough, for in the days when she had needed him he had taken her for granted, had left her behind while he pursued the Presidency, year after year, back and forth across the continent. Now there would be no more journeys; he was home again but the girl he had married half a century before had ceased to exist and in her place an old woman with thin hair crumbled stale bread to feed birds.
“Where do I go now?” The voice combined hostility and petulance. Burden looked out the window. They were on an unfamiliar road with new houses to left and right, each with its high television antenna drawing from the air crude pictures and lying words. Oh, detestable age! he thought, hating all.
“It’s straight ahead. Just keep on.” He had recognized the patch of woods where Henry usually parked. At least the pine trees were unchanged, unspoiled.
“But what do you want me to do?” The black face looked at him, stupid in its self-absorption.
“I want you to wait,” said Burden coldly; then he turned and walked toward the woods where North and South had met in deadly battle and, that day at least, the South, his South, had won.
