The American Chronicle 1 - Burr (69 page)

Congress adjourned July 4 and everyone assures me that the town is empty. I don’t see how they can tell since there is no town. In front of the Indian Queen Hotel where I am staying there is a stretch of paved road which soon becomes dirt and vanishes into woods. Washington has no centre, or rather there are several centres. One is the Capitol, an impressive if slightly ridiculous building on its wild overgrown hill. The White House is also impressive at the other end of Pennsylvania “Avenue”; however, the want of much of anything between these two majestic poles tends to diminish the grandeur of each.

I spent the morning at the Capitol. The interior of the Senate chamber is particularly handsome but the carpetting is black and gummy with tobacco juice despite the presence of a hundred large spittoons. Two slaves were scraping at the carpet in a lazy way. Even the black men are vanquished by the heat.

I called upon the Vice-President but he was out. I left my card. There were a number of people Leggett thought I should try to see. I tried and soon gave up. With Congress’s adjournment everyone has fled to the mountains or “gone home.” Apparently no one stays in Washington during the heat of summer except the blacks who are everywhere. They make me uneasy for I have never been south before and so have never, consciously at least, seen a slave. Incidentally, the word “slave” is never used in this part of the world. If nothing else, the Abolitionists have made the southern whites self-conscious. They speak of their servants, their blacks, their people, but never of their slaves.

I spent the evening in the hotel bar, drinking with some westerners. They were filled with anecdotes about Old Hickory. To my astonishment I did not tell them where I was having dinner tomorrow. My character improves. I learned that President and Vice-President both leave the city on the tenth. So tomorrow afternoon will be the last White House dinner of the season.

TEN O’CLOCK. A stifling night. Mosquitoes are humming about the bed and I ought to turn out the light and sleep but cannot. Must describe my evening.

At four-thirty I started toward the White House, moving very slowly in the shimmering heat; afraid the starch in my new collar would melt. It is an odd feeling to be dressed for a palace reception and then be obliged to walk across empty dusty fields with only small black children to note one’s splendid progress along “streets” yet to be built; their future sites marked, however, with rough stones carved optimistically with such legends as “Connecticut Avenue.”

At the White House a single tobacco-chewing guard paid no attention to me as I walked up the path to the main portico where the other guests were arriving by carriage. Apparently I was the only one to come by foot.

I got to the portico just as Edward Livingston and his wife were descending from their new Hansom cab. For someone who is known as Beau Ned, Mr. Livingston is a rather plain-looking man. Mrs. Livingston might have been beautiful in early days but now she is heavy with deep dark circles under her eyes.

I followed the Livingstons into the cool main hall where a Negro porter or usher (must check on what presidential servants are called) wearing curious yellow slippers (in order to move quietly?) bowed deeply to each guest and indicated that we go into an oval room.

Right off, I was struck by the shabbiness of the furnishings. The faded curtains are full of dust, most of the chairs have been broken and are casually repaired; the carpet is splotched with tobacco juice despite a wealth of spittoons disgustingly full. But the room itself is impressively proportioned with a splendid view of the Potomac River and the smoky blue-green hills of Virginia beyond. On the brown lawn below the window I saw the first firefly of the evening.

“A good
situation
for a palace.” I had been addressed by a young man who turned out to be on some sort of mission for the British government. I never got his name but was duly grateful to have someone to talk to. Washington politicians are no different from the ones who hang about the bar at the Tammany Wigwam. They stick close to one another; talk in low voices, laugh loudly at what has
not
been said while regarding with suspicion those of other tribes.

“Who are those famous people?” the young Englishman asked.

I confessed that “I’m a stranger, too.” But at least I was able to point out the Livingstons whom I know by sight from New York. Otherwise we were both at sea, staring at the colourful democratic menagerie, at frock-coated statesmen sweating and (may I say what Old Patroon cannot) stinking in the hot room. Several westerners were got up like frontiersmen while their squaws, on the other hand, affected the latest Paris fashions. I note that the westerners are all yellow-faced. Malaria? While the southerners tend to be red-faced. Whiskey.

Quietly the Vice-President slipped into the room, and as if in response to some pre-arranged signal the guests spread out before him like a fan so that he might, starting from right to left, go from first one to another, speaking to each in a quiet voice. He was easily the most elegant figure in the room and even the loud westerners were forced to acknowledge true natural distinction by lowering their voices when they spoke to him. Some of their ladies actually curtsied, as though he were already sovereign.

Van Buren knew immediately who I was. “Mr. Schuyler. You were good to come.”

“I was most honoured, Sir, most ...” I was incoherent.

“The honour is ours, if I may speak for the President.” I noticed again that we are exactly the same height.

“I want you to know, Sir, that I ... well, was not partisan. I mean in all of this business.”

“Of course. Of course.” The gentle voice firmly prevented me from indiscretion. If the bumps of Diplomacy and Secrecy are inherited, one knows their origin in Van Buren’s case. He is remarkably like the Colonel. “We enjoy your Old Patroon articles. Most pleasurable.” Then he said something to me, rather sharply, in Dutch.

“I’m afraid, Sir ...”

Again the charming smile. “You have not our dying language?”

“No, Sir. I speak no Dutch.”

There was a commotion at the opposite end of the room. I heard several voices murmur “the President.” Mr. Van Buren continued, however, to devote his attention entirely to me. “What news of Colonel Burr?”

I confess that as I told him about the Colonel’s removal to Staten Island, my attention (though not my gaze) was on the doorway through which General Jackson had just entered the room.

“You must tell him I shall go and visit him, if I am able to, before the election.” I did not look as startled as I was. No man who wants to be president can openly visit Colonel Burr. “But,” he continued blandly, “if I do not get to Staten Island, tell him my thoughts are with him.”

Out of the corner of my eye I was aware of a tall thin figure dressed in black, standing at the room’s exact centre.

“You missed a good deal, Mr. Schuyler, not having known Aaron Burr in his prime. He was a god to us.”

“I think him splendid, Sir, and like no one else.”

“He is most fond of you. He has written me recently to that effect.” With a small bow and a whispered “by your leave,” the Vice-President turned from me and approached the old General who stood very straight beneath a dusty broken chandelier.

The fan arrangement occasioned by Mr. Van Buren’s entrance was now replaced by the more utilitarian wheel at whose centre axis was the President, holding in his left hand a black cane like a sceptre.

One by one the guests circled him like so many spokes. Although each was presented by a secretary, the President appeared to know most of the guests and usually made his greetings right through the secretary’s presentation.

Not so with me. “Mr. Schuyler of New York,” said the secretary, consulting a list.

I felt dizzy for a moment as I took the surprisingly soft hand of the victor of New Orleans. I bowed low. The President said, “Good evening, Sir. Mr. Van Buren speaks well of you. We are honoured at your presence.” The stately formula was perfunctory but the eyes were not. They never leave one’s face when he speaks to you. Eyes of a predator, I thought, of a killer, until I recalled that the eyes of Richard Robinson were like spring forget-me-nots. No, Jackson’s eyes are those of some merciless punishing angel or devil presiding over the agonies in Hell. It is the bold alert indifference of his blue gaze that makes for such a disquieting and cruel impression. I have seen such an expression in the eyes of a caged wolf. I have no idea what we said to one another. Fortunately, dinner was announced.

The President gave his arm to Mrs. Livingston and led the company into the dining-room. I noticed that he moves slowly, as if in pain. The dead-white face combined with the white plume-like hair gives him the look of an attenuated snow-man, diminishing in summer sun. It is a miracle he has lived this long into his second term.

At table the President ate only rice, and touched no wine. The rest of us gorged ourselves. How avoid it? I have never dined so well or eaten so much.

The lady on my left was so engrossed with the senator on her left that I talked to her not at all, but the wife of a western congressman (who told me her name twice and I have twice forgot it) was more than kind. “I think the General does wonderfully well with no wife to help him. Of course his girl was sweet when she was here but it’s not the same thing as a wife, is it? But he does know about food. Why, I have never had such good meals in this house as since he’s been here. The Adamses gave you boiled beef and a very frosty time.”

Everywhere in Washington it is whispered that the President is ruined financially; and goes home tomorrow to try to save his estate. If he is bankrupt, I can see why. He is much too generous with his guests.

We sat at a long table with tall lamps at regular intervals. We were attended by some twenty waiters in livery. At each place was a napkin, folded to resemble a four-leaf clover. In the centre of the napkin was a slice of light bread, a relief from the corn-bread that is usually served in the south. To the right of each plate was a forest of crystal glasses of different sizes for the different wines. I counted nine glasses.

Parallel to the table where we sat was a second table of equal length covered with elaborate dishes hot and cold. From this table the waiters selected the courses and passed them from guest to guest, murmuring in one’s ear, “Beef, Sir? Pheasant, Sir?”

The first course was a fish chowder served with a plate of boned fish. Sherry was poured.

My companion praised the chowder. “Maryland crab!” she exclaimed, dipping her spoon happily into the steaming contents. “Crab is one of the few pleasures of this place.” I found that to a man (and woman) those whose lives have been spent trying to get to Washington City in order to live at the public’s expense spend the days of their glory in lamenting their lot. To hear them tell it Detroit, Cincinnati, Memphis are far more brilliant than the capital.

After the fish course (the crab was the best I’ve ever tasted), canvas-back duck and pheasants were brought round. I watched with wonder as my companion seized upon a drumstick of duck and a quarter-pheasant. “You know, my husband—he’s so full of fun!—he shoots these ducks from our hotel window. You see, we’re at the other end of K Street where the marshes begin. So there’s such excitement when he takes to picking off the birds, even if some of your mean old Yankees in the hotel do complain about the racket.”

I don’t care for duck; could learn to like pheasant if it is not tough. Mine was. Just as well. The next course was an entire ham and an entire turkey on the same vast platter; they rose like twin mountains from alternating foot-hills of mutton chops, sweetbreads and partridges.

My companion smacked her lips. Yes, she was very fat. I’m afraid Old Patroon is not doing his duty. This description is coming out in bits and pieces, the way the President’s dinner finally came up. I am ill. “Oh, that’s one of the hams from the other side of the river, close by Alexandria. What a smoke-house this old Negro man has! We all go to him.” She took ham and turkey (but not a drumstick); she took a chop (her fork hesitated over a second chop then fell upon the sweetbreads). I did my best to keep pace with her.

“You write about politics, Mr. Schuyler?” My connection with the radical,
disgraceful
(she giggled to show that she was serious)
Evening Post
had been established early.

“Not very often. I describe things. Like old New York and the theatre and ...” What
does
Old Patroon do? Denounce all things modern in order to please those elderly readers who are—or were—displeased by Leggett.

The side-dishes were now being passed about. My companion tried each one. I tried every other one. There was macaroni and oyster pie (which I can still taste), spinach, sassafras, cauliflower, braised celery ... and all the while our glasses were filled with nine different foreign wines.

We were two and a half hours at table; I saw the President’s wisdom in eating only rice. Was he bored with us? It is hard to say. Mrs. Livingston on his left looked to be vivacious company while a foreign lady on his right was very handsome. Occasionally he would speak across the ladies to this man or that but I could not hear a word he said. His voice is high-pitched but not unpleasant; certainly it is not loud. The imitation everyone does of him shrieking “by the Eternal!” like some demented old rooster seems far from the fact. He is the soul of dignity and elaborately courteous, rather like Colonel Burr and the other relics of the Revolution. If Van Buren is elected in November, he will be the first of our presidents not born a subject of the English king.

I stare at Andrew Jackson, thinking Old Patroonish thoughts but despite he splendour of the setting I am mostly aware that the pale old man at the head of the table is in physical pain and that his false teeth do not fit; one can see them shifting about in his mouth as he purses his thin lips trying vainly to make himself comfortable.

“Gracious!” My companion spit—there is no other verb—a mouthful of bird-shot into her plate. “This poor partridge was in a war, not a hunt!”