Burr

  On the narrow bed lay the Colonel, a sheet to his chin. A single lamp overhead lit his face. Old people in death are supposed to look wondrously young. The Colonel looked exactly the way he did on my last visit except for bits of what I took to be lather in his side whiskers but proved to be plaster; the death-mask had already been taken. Although the face was as usual (he looked to be napping, with a slight frown), I could not help but notice in death what one was seldom conscious of in life: how very small he was—like a half-grown boy.

  On the table beside the bed the portrait of Theodosia had been turned to the wall. Next to the portrait was an open book. Tristram Shandy? The Colonel’s octagonal glasses marked his place.

  Mr. Davis regarded the Colonel solemnly. “He will be buried at Princeton College on the sixteenth. It was his wish, and theirs.”

  Suddenly a deep voice filled the room. “ ‘The fashion of this world passeth away.’ ” It was the Reverend Van Pelt.

  “Corinthians,” sobbed Mrs. Keese. “Seven.”

  “All is vanity!” observed the holy man vainly.

  “Did he die in the church?” I asked.

  The Reverend Van Pelt shook his head. “No, he did not. I fear that I failed him. At the end he wanted …”

  We were interrupted by Aaron Columbus Burr who burst into tears at the sight of his dead father. Rosary in hand, he dropped to his knees beside the bed. This so affected Mrs. Keese that she began to weep even more loudly than before while for the first time the Reverend Van Pelt looked as if he, too, might weep—at the popish display.

  I ran from the room, hot-eyed, wishing that I had the Colonel to talk to one more time.

  In the parlour, whiskey was being poured. Among the drinkers was Jane McManus, surprisingly calm. “I was with him only yesterday,” she said to me. “The Colonel knew that he was going. ‘It’s like floating,’ he says, ‘on the river, on a barge, getting farther and farther from shore’ That was all he said. He talked very little the last days. There was no pain. At the end he just floated out too far, that’s all, and left us.”

  I thought of a sled descending a snowy hill, cold wind in the face, a sense of falling, flying. All done.

  Predictably, Sam Swartwout was the heart and soul of our wake. “Drink up, Charlie! He’d want us in a good mood, you know.”

  “But I don’t think I am in a good mood.”

  “Well, this will make you laugh!” Swartwout withdrew a legal document from his pocket. “I swear to God it arrived an hour after he died. It’s his divorce. Colonel Burr is no longer married to Liza Bowen. He’s a free man, Charlie!”

  1840

  December 8, 1840, at Amalfi; in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies

  AT SUNDOWN I was on the terrace, wondering how to capture in words the exact way the sea below looks in winter light; the way the gradations of milky blue and green abruptly father darkest sapphire (no, no mention of jewels—that is cheating); give birth to a deep black-blue like … like the deep black-blue of the Mediterranean at the end of a sunny winter day. I have never been able to describe what I see every evening from the villa’s terrace. Must make do with plain statements like the mist that signifies good weather eliminates the line between sea and sky so that they look to be the same element and one has the sense of being at the centre of an opal’s cool fire. Well, one jewel only. Washington Irving would have used a dozen.

  I attempt this description for the hundredth time in order to give my pen something to do as I try to sort out what has happened to me since Pantaleone appeared on the terrace with the alarmed look he always has when an American comes to call and a barbarous name must be announced.

  “Signor Consul, c’è un americano, un colonello.” “Svaduz” was the name I heard. Since it is my job to be at home to American travellers—particularly colonels—I told Pantaleone to show the visitor onto the terrace.

  I straightened my frock-coat. I was formally dressed, for today was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception and I was expected to represent the United States during the festivities in the piazza.

  From the white arch that opens onto the sea terrace, a large slow figure stumbled into view. “Well, Charlie, if you’re not glad to see me—and why should you be?—I’ll turn right around and go down all those stairs I just climbed. I swear to God I’ve never seen so many steps that they call streets. Let me get my breath! Well, you’ve done all right by yourself, I’ll say that. Look at your view!”

  By the time all this had been said, Sam Swartwout had crossed to where I was standing. I stared at him like an idiot. What was I supposed to do? Send him away? Call for the police? As I stood, frozen to the spot, I was aware that I was not representing the glorious republic with much brilliance. What, I wondered desperately, would Washington Irving have done?

  Like a large dog expecting to be hit, Sam tentatively extended a paw. Numbly I took it, to his relief.

  “Haven’t seen you for a long time, Charlie.”

  “A long time,” I echoed stupidly. At least I did not repeat my own name.

  Fortunately a few loud fireworks went off below us in the port of Amalfi, ending the first phase of our conversation. “What’s that?” Sam leapt as though someone had fired at him.

  “Fireworks. It’s the beginning of the festa. There’ll be a procession and …”

  “I figured there was some kind of Fourth of July going on down there.”

  “Sit down.” That was the best I could do. He praised the view. Who does not? The villa I have rented is next to the ruined watch-tower of the old mad queen of Naples. Below us is Amalfi wedged in its rocky ravine: white walls, red roofs, a Saracenic cathedral with a cupola of glazed green and yellow tiles. Above the town narrow terraces are bright with oranges and dark with wild laurel. In this setting Sam Swartwout is like a Fourth Avenue street-car in Arcady.

  “I wasn’t certain it was you who was consul till this American skipper in the port described you to me and I figured there just couldn’t be two of the same name and looks. That’s my boat.” He pointed to a handsome sloop that I had noticed this morning when I made my consular round which consists mostly of visiting American ships and discussing with their captains how best to free the sailors arrested the previous night. I am a combination of justice of the peace and chaplain, obliged to carry about with me a greasy Bible for Americans to take their oath on—by kissing. I call it the perjurer’s book.

  “I’ve been here a year and a half …”

  “I know. And before that you were at Antwerp. And just the other day I saw a copy of the book you wrote while you were there. Something about taking these little trips in the Lowlands.”

  “Something like that, yes.” No one has ever been able to remember the title the publisher with such acumen chose for my first book.

  “Have you been home since you got the job as consul in Antwerp?”

  “Vice-consul. No. I haven’t been back.”

  “Me, I left over a year ago.”

  “Yes. I know you did.”

  A rocket from the harbour slowly crossed the pale sickle of the new moon, and burst into white flames.

  “You know, Charlie, I was caught in the depression of thirty-seven. It was really bad, as I guess you know. You see, I had everything tied up in England in these coal-mines. Good as gold, everyone said, and like always everyone was wrong. Well, I was wiped out. So I had to … I left.”

  In August 1839, Samuel Swartwout, collector of the port of New York, sailed for England. A few weeks later it was discovered that he had stolen from public funds one and a quarter million dollars: the most money ever stolen by an American official if not, very simply, the most money ever stolen by an American. Sam Swartwout will no doubt become a folk hero once the first wave of indignation ceases. Meanwhile, he has damaged the reputation of former President Jackson who was responsible for putting Sam in the way of being a thief on the largest scale. Worse, the scandal of his theft helped the Whig candidate William Henry Harrison defeat President Van Buren in
the election last month. The poignant result of all this history is that there will be a new American consul at Amalfi next spring. As much as I am impressed by the extravagance of Sam’s crime, I cannot say that I like losing my job because of it.

  “There’s been a lot of confusion back in New York.” Sam stared at the smudge of smoke where the rocket had burst above the moon. “And a certain amount of misunderstanding over my … uh, affairs.”

  “I should think so.”

  “I travel a lot. Spain. France. We’ve been sailing down the coast of Italy for weeks now. After that North Africa. They tell me Algiers is a nice place.”

  My wife appeared on the terrace. Sam got to his feet. I made the introductions.

  “An honour, Donna Carolina.” Sam kissed Carolina’s hand with some grace.

  My wife apologized for not being able to speak English which is to say she will not speak it if she thinks she is apt to be bored. Actually, she is accomplished in English, German, French, and of course Italian; her father is the Swiss Baron Jost Josef de Traxler who was a chamberlain at the court of the last King of the Two Sicilies as was her mother’s father (a Neapolitan of Spanish descent). I met the Traxler family when I was first presented to King Ferdinand at Caserta. After a year of bitter wrangling with her family over religion and property (they have a good deal of each while I have neither), we were married six months ago. Our first child will be born in June.

  “Can we serve you coffee?” Carolina used her careful slow English voice.

  “If you have no spirits.”

  After Carolina withdrew, Pantaleone brought Sam a bottle of brandy which he drank like tea. “I must tell you, Charlie, I’m home-sick. Never thought I’d be, what with all this.” He waved toward the sea. As he did, a star fell. My consulship.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll ever be able to go back.” I wanted him to suffer a bit for what he had done to President Van Buren not to mention me.

  “Well, now, I think once the whole story is known …” He mumbled into silence. I was grateful that he did not have an “explanation.” Then he turned to me. “What about you, Charlie? When are you going to take your beautiful wife to live in God’s country?”

  “I think she prefers living in Pope’s country.”

  “What about you?”

  “I don’t know.” I was not about to tell Sam that Carolina has no desire ever to see America, that it is her dream one day to live near Stans in Unterwalden, Switzerland, where the Traxler castle is. Unfortunately, Switzerland is much too placid, too romantic for my present taste. I am no longer interested in roses and Moorish arches. Instead I am fascinated by the political situation at Naples (having found tedious the doings of Tammany!). I wait eagerly for the next round of revolution that is as certain to erupt as smoke-plumed Vesuvius. And when it does … what shall I do? Run out and bark. That is plainly my nature. I am turning into Leggett as he turns to earth.

  Swartwout was talking of Leggett. “You have to say one thing for Matty Van, he never holds a grudge. When that paper of Leggett’s went out of business, Matty Van made him minister to Guatemala without even being asked.”

  “But Leggett always supported the President.”

  “Not always he didn’t.” Sam winked. Then drank deep; struck the maudlin note. “Poor fellow. He never got to Guatemala.”

  A year ago May, when Leggett died, I wrote the widow who answered me at length; unfortunately, the pouch containing her letter was dropped by mistake into the bay of Salerno and all the ink ran. I still do not know the details of Leggett’s death but can guess.

  “You’re welcome to stay here,” I said, realizing from the lights below in the piazza that the procession was beginning to form and I would soon be obliged to represent our nation.

  “No, no. Thank you. I stay aboard the ship. I’ve got a good English crew. A fine captain—English, too, and partial to brandy and whist, like me.”

  “I must report for duty in the piazza,” I said.

  Sam got to his feet. “They seem like a cheerful people.” Sam’s interest in foreigners is slight.

  Since Carolina had already gone down, Sam and I together descended the thousand steps from my villa to the main square of the town. A green sky touched a green sea, sharing the same stars, the sickle moon.

  “What’s become of your book about Colonel Burr?”

  “I’m waiting for Mr. Davis to publish his biography first.”

  Two years ago Mr. Davis published the Colonel’s journals, and though he bowdlerized a number of passages the result was still shocking to the American public and the Colonel’s reputation is now more Satanic than before.

  Swartwout paused. Took a deep breath. He was drunk. “He was most fond of you, the Colonel, most fond.”

  “I was fond of him.” Not wanting to discuss the Colonel with Swartwout, I moved on ahead, said good evening to a family of peasants as they hurried past us, late for the festa.

  “Yes, Sir, he liked you best of the whole lot … or almost best.”

  “I’m glad.” I put my head down and hurried on.

  Swartwout managed to keep up with me. “In fact, the Colonel wrote Matty Van about you … from State Island.”

  “Yes, I know he did.”

  “Asked him to look after you. Fact, he asked him to give you this job.” Swartwout laughed. “Oh, the whole business tickled the Colonel. You know how things that shock most people always made him grin. ‘Why shouldn’t Matty look after young Charlie?’ the Colonel said to me. ‘After all, he’s his big brother.’ ”

  I stopped with a crash at a turn in the stairs. “What did you say?”

  Swartwout came to an unsteady halt: a huge swaying figure in the twilight. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I thought you knew.”

  “I did not know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Swartwout repeated.

  In the piazza, we parted.

  Coloured lights were strung from artificial trees. The crowd was packed in so tight that only with the aid of a carabiniere was I able to get through to the bottom of the cathedral stairs.

  Hardly conscious of where I was, I walked up the steps to the wooden platform that had been built for various dignitaries. Here I was greeted by the Mayor, by the agent of the King, by my wife. In the narthex of the cathedral a uniformed band played marches. Fireworks exploded in the port. I was deafened, dazzled.

  Although I bowed to this one and that, affected interest in the ceremonies, I could think of nothing but Colonel Burr and what we had not said to one another: he through tact and I through ignorance.

  “Ecco la Vergine!” Carolina clapped her hands. A moaning from the crowd as the tall richly-clothed image of the Virgin was borne into the piazza on a high litter. Incense from censers swirled about the idol. A splendid bishop led the way.

  Rockets exploding. Showers of white stars over the dark sea. A dazzle of red, yellow, green lights. Loud music. Cloying incense. The edges of the world suddenly began to recede from me. My eyes went in and out of focus. “Must not faint. Must not die,” I said to myself, holding onto Carolina’s arm and so, through an exercise of will, did not die, did not faint.

  Silver robes flowing in the sea-wind, the crowned figure of the Virgin was now directly opposite us.

  “Ah, chiedi una grazia! Chiedi una grazia!” Carolina spoke into my ear. “Make a wish. Quickly! She will grant it!”

  But there was no wish that I could make that I have not already been granted by my father Aaron Burr.

  Afterword

  WHY A HISTORICAL NOVEL and not a history? To me, the attraction of the historical novel is that one can be as meticulous (or as careless!) as the historian and yet reserve the right not only to rearrange events but, most important, to attribute motive—something the conscientious historian or biographer ought never do.

  I have spent a good many years preparing and writing Burr and I have tried to keep to the known facts. In three instances, I have moved people about. James Wilkinson did not arrive at Cambridge un
til a year after Burr departed. There is a case that Jonathan Dayton was not on the Canadian expedition with Burr. The elegiac conversation between Charlie and Edward Livingston in July 1836 becomes entirely explicable if somewhat supernatural when one recalls that two months earlier Ambassador Livingston died a few miles from my old home in Dutchess County. I revived Edward Livingston because I needed him at that point. Otherwise, the characters are in the right places, on the right dates, doing what they actually did.

  Obviously I have made up conversation, but whenever possible I have used actual phrases of the speaker. Certainly the opinions Jefferson expresses in the book are taken from life, and often represented in his own words. He wrote and talked a great deal about everything. All in all, I think rather more highly of Jefferson than Burr does; on the other hand, Burr’s passion for Jackson is not shared by me. Although the novel’s viewpoint must be Burr’s, the story told is history and not invention. In fact, all of the characters in the novel actually existed (including Helen Jewett and Mrs. Townsend) except Charlie Schuyler, who is based roughly on the obscure novelist Charles Burdett, and William de la Touche Clancey, who could, obviously, be based on no one at all.

  I had thought to give a bibliography but it would be endless, and political. As a subject American history is a battleground today and I would prefer to stay out of range. I will, however, admit to a bias (and hear already the charming sound of bullets, as Washington would say) for a small brilliant work by Leonard W. Levy called Jefferson and Civil Liberties.

  Errors and anachronisms ought to be few. If they do occur, I take full responsibility like Richard Nixon, casting no blame on copy editor Lynn St. C. Strong or on historian-researcher Mary-Jo Kline, who have not allowed me to get away with even the smallest of shortcuts.

  G.V.

  June 7, 1973

  BOOKS BY GORE VIDAL

  BURR

  Alternating the narrative of journalist Charles Schermerhorn Schuyler with the Revolutionary War diaries of Aaron Burr, this novel begins Vidal’s history of the United States on a note of intrigue and scandal.