on the table beside the bed. “How ironic it is!” He shook his head in wonder. “After all the work we’ve done to control big business, guess what will happen now? They will be more firmly in the saddle than ever before. Because who else can arm us? they’ll say. Who else can administer the war?”
“Who else?” Burden had had much the same thought. If ever anyone benefited from an American war it was the trusts, the cartels, the Wall Street speculators. “We shall revert to the age of Grant.”
Wilson nodded bleakly. “Then, if the war should be a long one, and we be weakened, there is the true enemy waiting for us in the West. The yellow races, led by Japan, ready to overwhelm us through sheer numbers.…”
Edith Wilson entered the room and switched on the lights, dispelling the apocalyptic mood. As Burden got to his feet, he noticed a number of Chinese works of art arranged on tables and in bookcases, no doubt an on-going reminder of Asia’s dread hordes. “From my house,” said Edith, aware of Burden’s interest. “This is not the easiest place to make livable.” She gave the President a sheet of paper. “From Colonel House. I’ve decoded it for you.” Then she caught herself. “Oh, dear,” she turned to Burden, “you’re not supposed to know such things.”
“That Colonel House writes in code to the President? I’d be surprised if he didn’t. He’s in Europe now, isn’t he?”
Wilson nodded. Then he glanced at the letter; looked up at Burden. “Well, he thinks we should recognize the new Russian government. The Czarhas abdicated. But Russia is still in the war, and so …” He stopped; and stared at Edith, plainly not seeing her, mind elsewhere.
“We need every ally now, I should think.” Burden was diffident; he was also intrigued at the thought of a president’s wife decoding high secret papers from the President’s unofficial emissary to Europe, the rich and secretive Texas Colonel House.
“Yes. That’s my view. Our ambassador is very enthusiastic about this revolution. So like our own, he tells me. He thinks we should lead the way, and recognize them.”
“Henry Adams predicted all this twenty years ago.” Burden suddenly recalled the joy with which Henry Adams had spoken of wars and revolutions and the certain fall of civilization.
“Is he still alive?” Wilson pressed a buzzer.
“Very much so. But he never goes out, never pays calls. Still lives across the street there.” Burden pointed in the direction of Lafayette Park, as Wilson’s Negro valet, Brooks, entered. Then Burden shook the President’s hand. “You will get,” he said, “whatever you want on April second.”
“How many will vote no?”
“Ten at the most.”
“You encourage me, Senator.”
“You inspire me, Mr. President.”
“That was my aim.” Again the wintry smile. “Now I only wish I could inspire myself.” With the help of Brooks the President got out of bed.
Edith showed Burden to the lift. “He does not sleep well,” she said.
“Neither would I, at a time like this.”
A maid came toward them, carrying a basket of pecans. “They just came, Miss Edith. The silver service brought them.”
“Thank you, Susan. Take them in to Mr. Wilson.” Edith opened the door to the elevator. “There are still things to laugh at,” she said. “Susan’s been with us twenty years, but we lived such a quiet life that she’s still in shock, living here. She’s made up her mind that the Secret Service are really the ‘silver service,’ and there’s no correcting her.” Edith started to say more; then said, “Good-by.”
5
Armed with badge and documents, Blaise Sanford entered the Capitol on the Senate side. In addition to what looked like the whole of the Washingtonpolice force, troops were stationed at every entrance, as if invasion was imminent, or were
they
the invasion? Would there be martial law? he wondered.
Blaise himself had written a highly balanced either- or
“Who else?” Burden had had much the same thought. If ever anyone benefited from an American war it was the trusts, the cartels, the Wall Street speculators. “We shall revert to the age of Grant.”
Wilson nodded bleakly. “Then, if the war should be a long one, and we be weakened, there is the true enemy waiting for us in the West. The yellow races, led by Japan, ready to overwhelm us through sheer numbers.…”
Edith Wilson entered the room and switched on the lights, dispelling the apocalyptic mood. As Burden got to his feet, he noticed a number of Chinese works of art arranged on tables and in bookcases, no doubt an on-going reminder of Asia’s dread hordes. “From my house,” said Edith, aware of Burden’s interest. “This is not the easiest place to make livable.” She gave the President a sheet of paper. “From Colonel House. I’ve decoded it for you.” Then she caught herself. “Oh, dear,” she turned to Burden, “you’re not supposed to know such things.”
“That Colonel House writes in code to the President? I’d be surprised if he didn’t. He’s in Europe now, isn’t he?”
Wilson nodded. Then he glanced at the letter; looked up at Burden. “Well, he thinks we should recognize the new Russian government. The Czarhas abdicated. But Russia is still in the war, and so …” He stopped; and stared at Edith, plainly not seeing her, mind elsewhere.
“We need every ally now, I should think.” Burden was diffident; he was also intrigued at the thought of a president’s wife decoding high secret papers from the President’s unofficial emissary to Europe, the rich and secretive Texas Colonel House.
“Yes. That’s my view. Our ambassador is very enthusiastic about this revolution. So like our own, he tells me. He thinks we should lead the way, and recognize them.”
“Henry Adams predicted all this twenty years ago.” Burden suddenly recalled the joy with which Henry Adams had spoken of wars and revolutions and the certain fall of civilization.
“Is he still alive?” Wilson pressed a buzzer.
“Very much so. But he never goes out, never pays calls. Still lives across the street there.” Burden pointed in the direction of Lafayette Park, as Wilson’s Negro valet, Brooks, entered. Then Burden shook the President’s hand. “You will get,” he said, “whatever you want on April second.”
“How many will vote no?”
“Ten at the most.”
“You encourage me, Senator.”
“You inspire me, Mr. President.”
“That was my aim.” Again the wintry smile. “Now I only wish I could inspire myself.” With the help of Brooks the President got out of bed.
Edith showed Burden to the lift. “He does not sleep well,” she said.
“Neither would I, at a time like this.”
A maid came toward them, carrying a basket of pecans. “They just came, Miss Edith. The silver service brought them.”
“Thank you, Susan. Take them in to Mr. Wilson.” Edith opened the door to the elevator. “There are still things to laugh at,” she said. “Susan’s been with us twenty years, but we lived such a quiet life that she’s still in shock, living here. She’s made up her mind that the Secret Service are really the ‘silver service,’ and there’s no correcting her.” Edith started to say more; then said, “Good-by.”
5
Armed with badge and documents, Blaise Sanford entered the Capitol on the Senate side. In addition to what looked like the whole of the Washingtonpolice force, troops were stationed at every entrance, as if invasion was imminent, or were
they
the invasion? Would there be martial law? he wondered.
Blaise himself had written a highly balanced either- or
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