1876 (53 page)

A number of times during the eighteen hours of the joint session, the two houses separated in order to vote amongst themselves.

At the last session of the House, Speaker Randall read a telegram from Tilden, saying that he would like the roll of the states to be continued—that is, to its foregone conclusion. Thus Tilden surrendered to
force majeure
.
The House then declared Wisconsin for Hayes, and that was that.

At four o’clock, the Senate straggled into the House chamber to renew the joint session. For the last time Senator Ferry sat in the Speaker’s chair.

Nordhoff and I rested side by side, arms on the railing of the press gallery. We were all of us half asleep as the tragedy came to its end.

Senator Ferry got to his feet. He looked up at the sleepy and somewhat drunken people in the public galleries. He spoke firmly. “In announcing the final result of the electoral vote, the chair trusts that all present, whether on the floor or in the galleries, will refrain from all demonstration whatever ...” When he spoke of the necessity for dignity, there was a soft bark from Nordhoff at my side.

In silence the votes of each state were read and tallied. Hayes was elected president by a single vote. Nor was the silence broken as Ferry intoned, “Wherefore, I do declare: that Rutherford B. Hayes, of Ohio, having received a majority of the whole number of electoral votes, is duly elected president of the United States for four years, commencing on the fourth day of March, 1877 ...”

There was no applause. Only a long weary sigh from the embattled Congress. Then a sudden thick sound.

Just beneath us, Abram S. Hewitt had collapsed. Like Hamlet in the last act of Shakespeare’s play he was carried out of the chamber. All in all, Hewitt has about as much understanding of politics as Shakespeare’s prince, and far fewer good speeches.

MARCH 3. By a vote of 137 to 88, a still-rebellious House of Representatives today adopted a resolution declaring Samuel J. Tilden, the duly elected president of the United States, and giving him 196 electoral votes. But no one pays the slightest attention to the House, which, in any case, belongs to the railroads, who never intended for Tilden to be elected. I daresay this meaningless resolution relieved the consciences of these grubby Fausts.

Today, for the first time since Lincoln’s murder, the front page of the New York
Sun
appeared with a band of mourning. There are rumours that General McClellan is raising an army in order to ensure that Tilden will be inaugurated day after tomorrow. If McClellan moves with the same despatch that he did during the Civil War, we can expect to see him arrive in time for the inaugural of 1881.

MARCH 5. This is my last night in Washington City. Travelling cases are packed. Tomorrow morning I take the cars to New York.

Earlier today, Rutherford (now popularly known as “Rutherfraud”) B. Hayes was duly inaugurated at the Capitol before a crowd of what looked to be some thirty thousand potential Republican officeholders. But then who am I to complain of those who seek office? I tried, and my candidate failed. Two members of the Supreme Court refused to attend the ceremony. Fierce-looking troops lined every approach to the Capitol. There is rebellion in the air, but nowhere else. Here on the ground all is peaceful.

The new President looks like a back-country preacher, and sounds rather like one. He was plainly nervous, and when a shot or firecracker went off nearby, he winced noticeably—no doubt aware of all those heavily armed whisky-filled Southern congressmen on the warpath.

Hayes’s speech was conciliatory and designed to appeal to both Southerners and reformers. It would appear that he intends to continue the Administration of Grant with the rhetoric of Tilden.

The outgoing President looked more than ever puzzled, and hurt. Mrs. Grant looked as if she had just peered into a coffin and seen her own remains.
Sic transit gloria Grantium.

Nordhoff and I dined at Welcher’s. Sentimentally, we sat at the same table where we had first made each other’s acquaintance one year ago. One year! It seems a century.

The dining room was crowded as a result of that quadrennial Washington phenomenon, the convergence on the city of would-be officeholders which resembles nothing so much as a blight of locusts. The wealthy locusts come to the tables at Welcher’s.

Despite the company, we dined well, drank far too much, and were in the best of spirits. I cannot think why. I suppose the more harrowing the experience the more delighted one is that it is over. I remember how Emma and I could not stop laughing when we finally realized that we had survived the bloodletting of the Communards.

With the first course (a complicated dish of Maryland crab garnished with creamed mussels), Nordhoff and I toasted one another in hock, which I had ordered in honour of Tilden.

“To the President across the Mason-Dixon line,” I said.

“To good government!” Nordhoff’s bark became a roar. For some reason the phrase “good government” struck us both as so hilarious that we laughed until we wept.

After that we drank “To His Fraudulency,” as Nordhoff calls Mr. Hayes. Nordhoff told me that the new President has been in Washington since March 2, hidden away in Senator Sherman’s house, wondering whether or not he was going to be inaugurated.

“Not that there was ever any real doubt. Over a week ago Grant invited Hayes for dinner on the night of March third. So when Hayes came skulking into the White House, he found that the Chief Justice had also been asked to dinner. Then Grant and his son and the Chief Justice led Hayes into an empty parlour where the Chief Justice administered the oath of office, just in case.”

“So today was simply ...”

“The religious ceremony. The real, the civil wedding was last Saturday night when, with ravishing stride, the republic was bedded. Let’s drink to the future children of that wedding bed. To the dwarf Reform—”

“To the hunchback States’ Rights ...”

“To the idiot Hard Money ...”

“To the twins Texas and Union Pacific ...”

“What a lovely family!”

Whilst we were enjoying ourselves with gallows humour, a familiar figure suddenly appeared at the door to the dining room. For a moment Garfield looked uncertain. But then, when he saw me looking at him, he decided to brazen it out. Smiling, he came to our table and sat down. “I was on my way upstairs ...”

“To a private dining room. To celebrate with the Republican leadership the great victory. And divide the spoils.” Nordhoff was beginning to show the wine he had drunk.

“Nothing so exciting.” Garfield was warm, even affectionate—at least with me. But then I cannot keep myself from beaming fatuously at him, like a senile father with a lovely, lovely son. “Actually, I’m entertaining constituents. Just about everyone I know from Ohio is in town.”

“Looking for jobs?” Nordhoff remembered, to smile.

“Only
pro bono publico
.”
Garfield’s mock-gravity was almost worthy of Blaine himself. “One or two
have
confided to me that they are at liberty to take on, at great personal sacrifice, government labour.”

Nordhoff relaxed somewhat. I preened myself in the light of so splendid a son.

“A terrible time,” Garfield observed. “I know you’re not happy with the result.”

“Are you?” Nordhoff was quick.

“Yes. I also think that the disputed states would have been ours if the Negroes had been allowed to vote ...”

This familiar speech was cut short by Nordhoff. “But surely you’re not happy about a
Democrat
being elected governor of Louisiana.”

Garfield was all blue-eyed innocence. “But we were assured that he was indeed the winner.”

“At Wormley’s Hotel?”

“At Wormley’s Hotel. So we agreed not to dispute his election.”

“But how could a Democrat have won the governorship of Louisiana when, according to the electoral commission, according to
you
as a commissioner, the state voted overwhelmingly for the Republicans?”

Garfield’s face did not for an instant lose its beautiful candid expression. “Mr. Nordhoff, when you are dealt the cards, you play them.” So Caesar must have sounded when he set aside the old republic.

Nordhoff was absolutely silenced. The waiter poured the three of us claret. Garfield raised his glass to drink, blue eyes aglow in the candlelight.

Nordhoff proclaimed the toast. “To good government.”

Garfield nodded. “To good government, yes. And to President Hayes.” Garfield drank; as did I.

But Nordhoff did not drink; he continued the toast. “To President Hayes, yes. And to James G. Blaine. To Roscoe Conkling. To General Grant. To the Returning Boards of Louisiana, South Carolina, and Florida. To Jay Gould. To the Texas Pacific Railroad. To the Federal army. To General Sherman ...”

Garfield laughed, most genially, considering the vastness of the insult. “You will make me quite drunk, Mr. Nordhoff, with so much good government.” He put down his glass and got to his feet. I did the same. He and I shook hands.

“I go tomorrow,” I told him. “You will say goodbye to Mrs. Garfield for me?”

“Only if you will give our very best regards to your daughter.” The crooked arm had slowly turned me toward him, and the fine face looked down into mine.

“I shall, with pleasure.” I have no idea what cupboard of memory was suddenly at that moment sprung, but I not only remembered but said that haunting line:
“Brevis hic est fructus homullis.”

Garfield frowned; let go my arm. “Horace?”

“No. Lucretius.”

“I must answer that, mustn’t I? Well, then ...” Garfield paused; shook his head. “I’m afraid all my Latin is in my library. I can think of nothing except
Gaudeamus igitur
.
Will that do?”

“Why not? It has always done.”

After Garfield left us, Nordhoff and I continued to drink.

Shortly before midnight, I came back to the hotel and in the
vase de nuit
relieved myself of both dinner and wine.

I am now sober, tired, apprehensive. How am I to live? and why?

AGAINST THAT JUDGMENT sometimes dramatized as “better,” I have allowed Emma to stay at the Sanford house in Fifth Avenue, with myself as chaperone.

I suppose it is the right thing to do. Certainly it is the kind thing to do. Sanford was close to weeping when he begged us to move in. He appears to be quite out of control. Suddenly, faced with genuine grief, with true tragedy, he has no convincing performance to give. He vacillates from glum silences to unnatural gaiety; worse, he likes to take me aside at regular intervals to tell me how devoted Denise was to me, how she asked for me when she was dying. This naturally puts me in a terrible state; the heart pounds as the pressure of the blood increases; the tears stream down my face, though I am not actually weeping, a phenomenon of age and illness. Curiously enough, Denise is never mentioned when the three of us are together. But when I am alone with Emma, or with Sanford (not, thank Heaven, often) we talk of nothing else.

The first night at the Sanford house, Emma came into my bedroom, which is separated from hers by a charming small drawing room with grey walls
à
la Pompadour.

Emma looks pale, is listless. Although I want to know nothing, she means for me to know everything.

“I’ve never seen anyone die, Papa.”

“Your father-in-law ...”

Emma gestured impatiently. “He was old. Besides we weren’t there—in the room—the way ...” Emma stopped. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the glass opposite my bed. Abruptly she pushed the hair out of her eyes, and for the first time I saw white hairs in that splendid auburn mass. I felt guilty, disloyal for having noticed.

“Well, at least we were both there. With her. And I don’t think there was much pain. But when there was, near the end, the nurse gave her chloroform. Sanford’s a good man. I do think he loves Denise. I mean, loved. In his way, of course.” Emma spoke disjointedly but resolutely. As if she was in court and obliged to give complete evidence, no matter how terrible.

Deliberately I slipped into French, thinking that this would make it easier for her, but she continued in English—like a penance.

I asked, “How was Denise? I mean before the—before the last part?”

“Marvellous. She had never looked better. Felt better. The day before the pains began we drove into Savannah. She wanted to buy flowers. There’s a conservatory there. Have you ever seen an azalea?”

“I don’t recall an introduction, no.” No. No lightness is possible, ever again.

“She liked azaleas. The pains began in the early morning. She screamed. That woke us all up. The nurse was with her. Denise was overdue. By a week. Maybe two weeks. That was when I started to get uneasy. Sanford too. But Denise ignored it. Except for once, when she said of the baby, ‘I think he’s growing irritable. He’s so old now.’ But that was all. Nothing like Newport. No terror. Thank God. She was unconscious when the doctor came. He cut out the child. And that ... was ... that.”

Emma sat very straight in the chair beside my bed, deliberately
not
looking at herself in the mirror.

“What now?” I broke the stillness.

“Oh ... now.” She shook her head, as if there was to be no more life. “I don’t know. You saw Sanford. You heard him. I must stay to help him. Because of Denise. He has collapsed.”

“Men are not as strong as women.”

Emma gave me a long thoughtful look. Then she nodded. “It is true, Papa. So, for now, we stay here until he is himself again.”

“And John?”

Emma came close to a smile. “There is no John. The funeral service for the Princess d’Agrigente has been indefinitely postponed.”

“So,” I said, without tact, I fear, “what do we do now?”

“It is very bad, isn’t it?”

“It is very bad.” I agreed. “Mr. Tilden is not the president. And I am not American minister to France.”

“The
Herald
...”

“Jamie is deserting America. Forever.”

“Because of the horsewhipping? That was droll.” And Emma, finally, smiled; normal life insists that we pursue it.