Hollywood

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Authors: Gore Vidal
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editorial for the morning’s
Tribune
, to the distress of the editorial writers, who were openly disrespectful of anything either he or Caroline wrote. The
Tribune
was essentially Republican and pro-Allies, thanks to Blaise’s influence, with occasional accommodations to the Democrats, thanks to Caroline’s long-standing friendship with James Burden Day. When half-brother and half-sister disagreed on a policy, both positions were given equal space, to the consternation of those few Washingtonians who took editorials seriously.
    A thin warm rain demonstrated spring’s arrival. Illuminated from below, the Capitol dome resembled a white gibbous moon against the black sky. There was a smell of narcissus and mud in the air, but the usual pervasive smell of horses was absent. The President’s recent carriage drive to the Capitol to make his inaugural address was said to be the last such drive any president would ever make. The world was Henry Ford’s at last. Blaise took refuge beneath the porte-cochere, where tonight neither cars nor carriages were permitted, thus insuring that everyone got equally, democratically, wet.
    Fortunately, the Congress was inside. So no senatorial cabals could block Caesar’s way. Now journalists, diplomats, wives and children were converging on the Capitol, where as each was admitted he was given a small American flag, the gift of an unknown but well-organized patriot.
    In the main rotunda, Blaise was stopped by the editor of the
Atlantic Monthly
, Ellery Sedgwick. “I’m going in to see the President,” he said. “He’s in the Marble Room. Come on, let’s say hello. Tumulty’s made me a temporary member of the Secret Service. That was the only way I could get in.”
    Blaise looked at his watch; it was eight-thirty. The speech was scheduled for eight-thirty. But when it came to Congress, nothing was ever on time. The senators were still entering the chamber of the House of Representatives, where, for lack of chairs, many would be obliged to stand.
    “I’m going to Henry Adams afterward. Are you? Informal supper.
He’s
coming.” Sedgwick indicated Henry Cabot Lodge, who was turned in their direction. White-haired, white-bearded, white-faced Senator Lodge gave them a jaunty wave; the bumblebee nostrils were dilated with excitement. As Theodore Roosevelt’s man in the Senate, he was the head of the war party.
    At the door to the Marble Room, a Secret Service man stood guard. When the two publishers tried to enter, he stopped them. “Mrs. Wilson’s just goneto the gallery, and he’s about ready. You better take your seat, Mr. Sanford.”
    As Blaise started to do as requested, he caught sight of the President. Wilson was standing at the ornate room’s center. He was quite alone, back to the door, eyes downcast. In his left hand he held the cards on which his speech was written. Blaise thought the moment too intimate to watch but, like Sedgwick, he was rooted to the spot as, slowly, like a man in a dream, Wilson walked across the room to a great dusty mirror. Then Blaise saw the President’s reflected face. Everything seemed to have fallen apart. The mouth was cretinously ajar and double chins flowed over the high hard collar. The eyes were round and staring while the muscles of the face were slack. Had this been Paris and the President a French boulevardier, Blaise could have named the drug that he had been taking—opium. But this was the Capitol; and the President was a puritan. Abruptly, Wilson became aware of the image that Blaise could see in the mirror. With both hands, he pushed up his chin, smoothed out his cheeks, blinked his eyes; and the mouth set. In an instant, he was again the lean, dour, hard-faced Woodrow Wilson, whose cold clear eyes were now as watchful as any hunter’s. Metamorphosis duly noted, Blaise slipped away not wanting the President to know that he had been observed.
    In the crowded galleries, great ladies begged for seats while plenipotentiaries threatened

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