1876 by Gore Vidal Page B

secession from the Union.
    I looked at Jamie with some disapproval: not because of the reference to Lincoln but because no one ought to drink absinthe at nine in the morning. But he is not the sort of young man to take seriously anyone’s criticism. He sipped the second deadly concoction. For Jamie the rule has always been, Nothing in moderation. “How would you like to interview General Grant for the Herald ?”
    “I cannot think of anything I would enjoy less.”
    “I know he’s dull but ...”
    “Dull or not, I am your European correspondent.”
    “But it’s going to be awfully interesting the next few weeks, next few days in fact.”
    “But he’s finished, isn’t he? I mean he has only one more year as president ...”
    “Unless he runs for a third time.”
    “Even I, in Paris, have read that he will not be a candidate again.”
    “Even you, in Paris, believe the newspapers?”
    “Only yours!”
    “Well, don’t!” Jamie laughed. Then he looked most grave, like his father about to reduce a journalist’s wage. “That old boy you met with me just now, that’s Abel Corbin.”
    “Am I to be impressed?”
    “You have been away! Abel’s married to Grant’s sister Jenny. He’s the most remarkable old crook. Don’t you recall ...”
    I recalled. In 1869 Abel Corbin had joined with Jay Gould and Jim Fisk in an attempt to corner the gold market. Corbin also involved his brother-in-law the President—or tried to. The subsequent panic of ’73 was, in many ways, a result of that curious swindle which bankrupted a number of people, just as the disaster of ’73 was to finish off the rest of us, except the very rich.
    “Well, Abel Corbin’s got some interesting news from Washington. Scandals are about to break ...”
    “Even if Grant turned out to be the devil himself, I can’t think what I could do with him as a subject.”
    “You do your subjects very well, Mr. Schuyler.” Jamie was beguiling, like a flattering son—which, of course, is the rôle he’s played most of his life. “Frankly, we’ve had too much of the usual writing. Not that Nordhoff isn’t good. He’s our man at the capital. Even so, there’s too much of the same old view from the same old lobby sort of thing. But if you and Emma were to descend on Washington, meet the President, his cronies—and they’re such yokels they will make a great fuss over the two of you—well, your impressions of the last days of Ulysses S. Grant would be quite a coup for the Herald .”
    “And for me?”
    “Do you never tire of Bonapartes and Bismarcks?”
    As Jamie talked I naturally began to think what I might be able to make of Grant. The subject certainly has its charms—or horrors. Delicately I gave Jamie to believe that I might be persuaded for a considerable fee to go down to Washington City in a few weeks’ time and begin my investigation, and as I backed and filled most tentatively I could not help but think that here at last—and most unexpectedly—is a marvellous way for me to be of assistance to Governor Tilden.
    “I am glad!” Jamie was on his feet. “I’ll call on Emma tomorrow. We’ll arrange something. Meanwhile prepare yourself. If that old devil Corbin is right, there will be some news this week!”
    “Of what sort? On the order of the Cr é dit Mobilier ?”
    “Much worse.” Jamie lowered his voice. “There is evidence that the President himself is about to be involved in a Tweed-ish scandal. Corbin says it looks bad, which means that for you and me it looks like purest gold!”
    I am now in the thick of things rather more than I had hoped to be, but considering my dilemma, all this activity is to the good. I cannot say that my heart leaps with joy at the thought of “doing” General Grant, a man as famed for his silences as for his military victories. But Washington City will provide a good setting for Emma: diplomats are to be found there as well as every sort of politician, and so our time should be well spent.