1876 by Gore Vidal Read Free Book Online Page B

Bigelow.”
    Bryant was interested. “I’ve not seen him since the election and his ... uh, elevation.”
    “What does the secretary of state of New York do?” Bigelow was elected to the post last month.
    “Whatever it is, let us say that some do less of it than others. I presume this secretary of state will be very busy trying to elect Governor Tilden president ...”
    “That is my impression. I assume you will support Tilden.”
    The deep-set eyes almost vanished beneath the noble brow as he turned his head away from the window. “The Post is a Republican newspaper. Governor Tilden is a Democrat ...” And so on. But Bryant’s tone was pensive, tentative. This means that he is not decided; must mention this to Bigelow.
    Bryant accompanied me to the office door, from which he had so recently hung. “Tilden is my lawyer, you know. A splendid man. But not perhaps strong enough for the highest place. I speak of his physical health—not mental, of course. And then, of course, he’s not married. This may disturb the electorate.”
    “But Jackson, Van Buren, Buchanan—any number of presidents have been bachelors in the White House.”
    “But they once had wives. Saving the egregious Buchanan, they were widowers, while Samuel Tilden has never married, nor, one gathers, even contemplated matrimony. If elected, he would be our first ... our ... our first ...”
    “Our first virgin president?”
    Bryant was taken aback. Then, almost shyly, he laughed through that enormous waterfall of a beard, in itself a suitable subject for ode-making.
    “Dear Schuyler, you have been too long in Paris! We are simple folk in this republic.”
    On that amiable note we parted.
    I was so exhausted from the morning’s hike that I had more energy than ever: a phenomenon that Emma’s father-in-law used often to remark upon as he would tell us for the thousandth time about the retreat from Moscow.
    I was drawn irresistibly to the Astor House despite its decline—which is relative only to the new grandeur of the uptown hotels.
    I found the lobbies crowded with people; most looked to be businessmen from nearby Wall Street and the various exchanges.
    I stood at the door to the vast dining room and beheld half a thousand men at breakfast. There was hardly a woman in sight as the bearded, frock-coated, stout burghers of the district gorged themselves on plates of ham and eggs, on enormous beefsteaks and cutlets. Hungry as I was after my walk with Bryant, I could not face so many red-faced carnivores so early in the morning.
    Instead I made my way to the tile-floored bar room, a dim congenial place with the longest bar that I have ever seen. Bronze Venuses and Dianas alternated as decorations with innumerable brightly polished spittoons.
    Those given to heavy drink had already taken up their positions at the bar, gulping down their pick-me-ups—more put-me-downs I should think, for I dislike strong drink so early in the day.
    In one corner, shaded by a spiky green plant that looked as if it might devour an entire businessman, I found a small table beside a rack containing all the morning newspapers. Not until I had sat down did I realize how truly exhausted I was: my right leg began uncontrollably to tremble from the tension of no longer having to support my considerable weight.
    “What’ll it be?” was the waiter’s gracious question.
    I said that it would be a bock beer and, perhaps, if it was possible, a cup of coffee. All things were possible, including a most astonishing array of food that I watched being laid upon a long table at a right angle to the bar.
    Waiters hurried in and out, depositing platters of cold meats, lobsters, salads, cheeses, as well as large mysteriously covered dishes. This was the famous “free lunch” one has heard of for so many years, a specialty of certain New York bars. For a single five-cent glass of beer one may eat to one’s heart’s content the free lunch.
    Possible piece for a Paris paper: how much