Hollywood

  Blaise remained until midnight, listening to the great men discuss the various nominees. By one o’clock in the morning, he realized not only that they had no common plan, but that despite Lodge’s airy assurance the delegates would do as they were told, the convention was out of anyone’s control and if Wood and Lowden both remained in the race, there would be no way of breaking the deadlock until fatigue caused the delegates to turn to Johnson or to Harding.

  At two o’clock, Blaise, unnoticed, left the suite, as did Senator Smoot. “Who’s it going to be?” asked Blaise.

  “Well, it’s going to be the one with the fewest enemies. So that rules out Johnson.” The elevator door opened. Inside was a reporter from the New York Telegram, a man Blaise knew by sight and Senator Smoot by name. When asked the inevitable question, Smoot said, in a low voice, “We’ve all decided on Harding. He’s the man.”

  “Can I print that?”

  Smoot smiled. “But no attribution. Yet. Tomorrow we’re going to let Lowden run for a few ballots, then, in the afternoon, we’ll nominate Harding.”

  The reporter ran from the elevator across the lobby to a pay telephone. Blaise looked at Smoot with wonder. “But there was no agreement to back Harding, or anyone else.”

  “Well, Mr. Sanford, in politics you don’t always say what you mean. Fact, the smart politician seems to go along with events. My band of brothers up there were eliminating not designating, and though they don’t come right out and say ‘Harding’s our man,’ that’s what they were doing when they shook their heads over Johnson and Coolidge.”

  Blaise suddenly remembered that he, too, was a newspaper publisher. “The New York Telegram’s going to put that story on page one.”

  “That why I told the lad what I did. Then the AP will pick it up and by noon every delegate will be reading how we picked Harding for them.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?” Blaise was impressed by Smoot’s confident mastery of politics at its most arcane.

  “Yes, I do.”

  The two men parted and Blaise went to the telephone and rang Trimble in Washington, with a somewhat more plausible-sounding story in which he predicted, one way or another, a victory for the Senate’s reigning oligarchy.

  Harding, accompanied only by Jess, entered Hiram Johnson’s suite, where W.G. was warmly greeted by Johnson and a dozen men, unknown to Jess except for the advertising man Albert Lasker, who had so famously changed the inedible Puffed Berries to the popular Puffed Wheat by simply changing its name; he had also invented the phrase “schoolgirl complexion,” a state of being that could only be maintained by a constant use of Palmolive soap.

  Hair neatly parted in the middle, Johnson looked as stalwart and stern as ever. “Can I have a word with you?” Harding was very much master of the situation; and Jess wondered why. Johnson led Harding into the bedroom, with Jess beside him. Jess carefully shut the door, expecting W.G. to tell him to wait outside. But W.G. had not even noticed him.

  “It’s been decided at last,” said W.G., with his most charming smile.

  “Who’s decided what?”

  “Our fellow senators. Wood’s out of the picture. Lowden can’t make it, as we’ll see on the first four or five ballots tomorrow—today, that is. Anyway, I want you on my ticket.”

  Johnson’s scowl was horrendous. “You … ?”

  “Ohio and California, that’s hard to beat.”

  “You … for president?”

  “Hiram, I know I’m not in the big leagues like you. Never have been. That’s why I need you. You’re one of the finest and most popular men in public life …”

  “Not popular enough for Lodge and Brandegee and Wadsworth …”

  “Well, you know how they are. You scare the fellas a lot of the time. Anyway, please don’t go and close the door on me. Just wait a bit and sort of mull it over. All right, now?” Harding shook Johnson’s hand while embracing the smaller man’s shoulders with his left arm. Then Harding, followed by Jess, left the room, leaving Hiram Johnson in what was plain to Jess a perfect rage.

  4

  Blaise had breakfast at the Blackstone with Alice Longworth and the noticeably hung-over Harvey. To Blaise’s amazement Harvey said, “We decided on Harding. It was really the only thing we could do.”

  “Harding!” Alice was appalled. “But he’s so … so …”

  “Second-rate.” Harvey agreed. “But he has the fewest enemies. He’s also what the delegates want now that Wood and Lowden have cancelled each other out.”

  “When was this decided?” asked Blaise. “I was there till one, and nothing had been decided.”

  “It was around two-thirty, I guess. We even asked Harding to come over to the suite so we could tell him. Then we asked him if there was anything in his private life that might disqualify him, and he said no …”

  “Other than Negro blood,” said Alice.

  Harvey laughed. “Somebody brought that up to Penrose on the phone and Penrose said, ‘Considering the trouble we’ve been having with the Negro vote that could be a big help.’ ”

  While Alice delivered herself of a number of home truths about W.G. and the Duchess, Blaise was confident that Harvey was lying. He had lied about Wilson in the past; and now he was lying again in order to make himself seem integral to the process of king-making. Blaise was confident that no choice had been made and he very much doubted that Harding had been sent for and questioned like a candidate for a bank teller’s job. For reasons of Harvey’s own, he wanted to make himself central to Daugherty’s now-famous predictions of four months earlier—that around eleven minutes after two in the morning, fifteen or twenty weary men would turn to Harding.

  “Why not Knox?” asked Alice plaintively.

  But Harvey was called away to the telephone. He returned, looking most owlish and wise.

  “The first ballot’s being taken. Lowden’s having his run. Wood’s slipping, Harding’s picking up the odd vote here and there. Johnson’s falling.”

  “Was Senator Borah in 404?” asked Alice.

  “Uh … no, no, he wasn’t, but we kept him informed, and he … he has acquiesced …”

  “Acquiescence isn’t really his style, is it?” Alice was sharp. Blaise wondered if she believed Harvey. “Anyway, why don’t my old boys just jump on the bandwagon now and put Harding over on the next ballot? Why drag it out?”

  “Logistics.” Harvey was plausible. “There was no time to get to all the delegations before the convention started. But the word’s being spread now.”

  “Surely Cabot doesn’t want Harding.” Alice was ill-pleased by democracy’s vagaries.

  “Cabot only wants to destroy Woodrow Wilson and the League of Nations.” For once, Harvey was precise. “He doesn’t care who is nominated as long as he doesn’t live in a two-family house. Back home, that is.”

  “Cabot’s standards are so high,” said Alice, unable to eat her egg.

  Blaise wondered why no one had considered her husband as a potential candidate. After all, Nicholas Longworth was now a floor leader of the House of Representatives, which made him a very important man. But no one ever thought of charming easy bibulous Nick for anything at all.

  5

  If the senatorial cabal had pre-ordained the convention, the delegates themselves had not been instructed. Blaise found the first five ballots to be reminiscent of Friday. Wood and Lowden see-sawed. Johnson slipped and Harding rose imperceptibly.

  Blaise made his way through the equatorial heat to the stage, carrying his coat over one arm, trying not to breathe the fetid air. At the stage, he found Brandegee looking rather ill. “What’s going on?” was Blaise’s less than brilliant question.

  Brandegee shook his head. “Nothing’s going on. That’s what’s going on.”

  “I thought you senators made up your mind last night to go for Harding.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My newspaper.”

  “George Harvey’s more like it. He’s the ultimate horse’s ass.
We made no decision except we’d all like to see Hays nominated, and I have so instructed the Connecticut delegation, to support Will Hays on the next ballot.”

  “If Connecticut goes for Hays …”

  “Connecticut won’t.”

  “But you’re the senator.”

  “But I’m not the state. The delegates want Harding. They told me to go to hell. The thing is a complete mess.”

  “So much for the senatorial cabal.”

  “So much for the newspapers that invented us,” said Brandegee. “Our only hope now is a recess. Then we get Lowden to pull out, and Hays will win.”

  Blaise wanted to ask why, of all people, Hays? But at such a moment it was pointless to ask. Why anybody?

  Lodge announced a recess. There were a few cheers; many boos. The president-makers now had three hours to make Will Hays president. Meanwhile the rumor was being spread that Harding not Hays was the choice of the Senate. To what end so much cleverness? Blaise wondered. Was it to make Harding’s nomination possible or impossible?

  As the delegates began to file from the hall, Blaise saw Daugherty fiercely remonstrating with Lodge on the flying bridge. “You cannot defeat this man this way,” Blaise heard Daugherty shout to the icy Lodge, who murmured something about “party unity” and turned away.

  Jess joined Daugherty in a room at the back of the stage where W.G. was already secretly installed. Daugherty was sweating; and nervous. Harding was entirely at ease. “Where’s the Duchess sitting?” he asked.

  “To the left of the flying bridge,” said Jess.

  “The next ballot should do it.” Harding combed his hair in a mirror, and Jess wondered if he would make an appearance before the convention when he was nominated. It would certainly be dramatic, but then perhaps it wasn’t allowed. Jess couldn’t remember what the procedure was from earlier conventions.

  There was a rap at the door. Jess opened it a crack. It was Toby Hert of Kentucky, Lowden’s floor manager. Behind him was Governor Lowden himself.

  “Come in!” Jess sprayed himself.

  Harding and Lowden shook hands most warmly. “I expect,” said the Governor, “you know why I’m here.”

  “You were always my own personal choice.” W.G. was gracious in victory.

  Toby was to the point. “We’ve released all our delegates, and most of them are going to you. But a lot of votes out there are being bought up for Hays.”

  “How much?” asked the practical Daugherty.

  “Anywhere from one to ten thousand dollars.”

  Daugherty whistled.

  “It’s too late for Hays,” said Lowden. “You’re the next in line, and no one will ever be able to say a group of senators forced you on the delegates …”

  “Oh, they’ll say it.” Harding smiled. “But we know it isn’t so. My friends in the Senate actually tried to stop me. But I shall forgive them, as they know not what they do.”

  “You can say that again,” said the exhausted Daugherty.

  Blaise sat back of Mrs. Harding as the ninth ballot was called at four-fifty. Hays showed no strength at all. So much for the bosses in the smoke-filled room. There was no significant change from the previous ballot until Kentucky stood up and gave Kentucky’s votes not to Lowden but to Harding. This was the signal that Lowden was no longer in the race. A great shout went up.

  Dourly, Lodge pounded his gavel. The Duchess removed her hat and put it on her knees. In her right hand she held two long hat pins, as if ready to fight to the death for the stars’ choice for president. Then Daugherty was in the seat next to her. “He’ll be nominated on the next ballot. Pennsylvania’s come our way.” The Duchess made a convulsive gesture and plunged the needles into Daugherty’s leg, or so it looked to Blaise, and must have felt to Daugherty, who turned very pale but rallied. “W.G.’s in the back right now. With Lowden. After he’s nominated, we’re taking him over to the La Salle. We’ve already hired a bigger suite with its own elevator.”

  The Duchess nodded, too overcome for words.

  Jess sat with Nan Britton high up in the galleries. Together they shared a brown paper bag of peanuts. The heat was stifling, but neither cared as the tenth ballot began. Apparently, W.G. had seen Nan three times in the past week, and there was even a plan to meet her the next day in the park, where she’d be perambulating the child. Jess wondered what Daugherty would say if he knew; wondered if he should tell Daugherty or not. So far, W.G. had taken the elevated train all by himself to Sixty-first Street three times, un-recognized. Nan said that he had said he was “crazy to do it,” but he couldn’t help himself. Love.

  The great moment came when Pennsylvania was called, and the chairman of its delegation, aware of his historic mission, gravely intoned, “Pennsylvania casts sixty-one votes for Warren G. Harding.” An exhausted cheer from delegates and onlookers acknowledged Harding’s victory.

  Lodge announced that the vote was unanimous for Lowden; and was roared down. Then he got the name right, but the boos continued. Wisconsin would not support anyone but its own La Follette, while Wood still had more than a hundred votes.

  With a sneer, Lodge brought down his gavel hard; and in his hoarse patrician voice shouted, “Warren G. Harding is unanimously nominated by this convention as the Republican candidate for president of the United States!”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Nan.

  “I can,” said Jess. “Daugherty and me, we always knew we’d pull it off one day and now we have.”

  6

  The Democratic nominees for president and vice president sat in Tumulty’s office overlooking the south lawn of the White House. Burden kept them company while Tumulty was organizing the president. The presidential nominee, Governor James Cox of Ohio, was a small, thin-haired, apple-faced man; he wore a three-button suit with all three buttons neatly in their holes; he seemed both self-important and awed. The vice presidential nominee was the thirty-eight-year-old Franklin D. Roosevelt; though incapable of awe for anyone except, perhaps, a fellow Roosevelt, he was very nervous. “Will we see her, do you think?” he asked Burden at one point.

  “Who knows?” Burden was less than helpful. If ever a political party had selected a pair of exquisitely balanced losers, it was the supercilious Roosevelt, whose imitation of T.R. was rather less convincing than that of most vaudevillians, and the worthy but lifeless Cox, who had only won the nomination after forty-four ballots during which the two leading contenders, Bolshevism’s foe A. Mitchell Palmer and William G. McAdoo, had destroyed each other. Burden had done what he could for McAdoo, but the party’s natural leader had been undercut by his father-in-law, the President, who had let the word seep out that he himself would like a third term to fight for the League. As Wilson was currently incapable of conducting the office of president, it seemed most unlikely that such an invalid would be granted another four years. In any case, even had Wilson been in excellent health, the country, if not his party, would have rejected him.

  When Harding’s tongue had slipped during a recent speech, transforming “a return to normality” to “normalcy,” the nation, as one, heaved a great sigh of relief—no more great men for them!—and Harding’s odd word was greeted with absolute satisfaction as a summing-up of the national mood.

  Burden gazed at Roosevelt with only mild dislike. If ever a politician had been born with a set of loaded dice, it was this tall, elegant creature in his white trousers, dark jacket and white shoes, more suitable for a vigorous game of croquet than a race for the vice presidency. Happily, he would soon be defeated and no more heard of on the national scene, as there was now every sign that the Republicans, once back in power, might occupy the White House for as long as they had the first time, from Lincoln to Cleveland.

  In a sense, Burden was glad that McAdoo and he had not been nominated. Though they were stronger figures than the two edgy men sitting opposite him in Tumulty’s sun-flooded office, the country was in a mood for normalcy and sleep and money-making. Burden’s own race for the Senate was
proving more difficult than usual, and Kitty was already in American City, directing the campaign. On a trip east to raise money in New York, he had found Franklin doing the same thing; at Roosevelt’s request, he had agreed to help him and Cox through a difficult meeting with the President, whose endorsement could do them almost as little good as his enmity, because, in the end, Wilson was the only campaign issue. Was the country for or against the League? for or against larger-than-life presidents? for or against a leading role in a world as mysterious as the Kingdom of Heaven to the simple majority?

  “I’ve not been forgiven for Christmas.” Roosevelt lit a cigarette. Cox stared glumly at the south lawn of the house that he would never live in. “Poor Lord Grey was at a loose end. The President wouldn’t see him because of—you know, that joke one of the embassy boys made about Mrs. Wilson. So Eleanor and I asked him to join us, and Mrs. Wilson’s been raising hell ever since.”

  “I wonder why he fired Lansing?” Cox turned away from the window. “I mean, what was the real reason? It couldn’t have been because he was holding Cabinet meetings while the President was sick.”

  “She never liked Lansing.” Franklin had, to Burden’s view, an exaggerated view of the role of women in the public lives of their husbands, even a woman who was generally considered to be the acting president in what had been for over a year a kind of regency.

  “It was a number of things,” said Burden. “First, the President never liked him. Second, Lansing did talk to the Vice President about the possibility of removing the President from office …”

  “Lansing was in on that?” Cox was intrigued.

  Burden was happy to know something that the titular head of his party—until the first Tuesday in November—did not. “Yes. So was Marshall. So was I. So, I’m afraid, was Cabot Lodge. That’s when we sent Senators Hitchcock and Fall over here to see how the President really was.” Wilson had put on a splendid show. As the senators were departing, Fall had said, unctuously, “We’re praying for you, Mr. President”; and Wilson had responded with his vaudevillian timing, “Which way?”