| was persuaded of it when I was in England, and saw what prosperity—and civilization—empire had given them. Now they begin to falter. So we must take up the burden.” Nico looked at Hay directly. “Mr. Lincoln would never have wanted us to be anyone’s master.” “Perhaps not.” Hay had long since given up trying to imagine how Lincoln would have responded to the modern world. “Anyway, it’s done. We are committed.” “When does Del move into the White House?” “In the fall. For now, he’ll be working with Mr. Adee at the State Department while I’m gone… He plans to marry the Sanford girl.” “The Hays have a dowsing rod for money.” “Del is also a Stone …” “A golden Stone. Well, are you pleased?” Hay said that he was; and he was. “They will marry in the fall. Helen, too, I think, to the Whitney boy …” “We’ve come a long way from Illinois.” “I wonder.” With age, Hay was more than ever conscious of what might have been; yet could not conceive of any ladder that might have been better than the one that he had climbed, almost without effort, almost to the top. “I don’t think I ever wanted to be president.” Hay addressed the coal in the grate. “Of course you did. Have you forgotten you?” Nico addressed Hay. “I must have.” “I haven’t. You were ambitious. You tried, twice, to go to Congress. Surely it was not for the company you’d find there.” “Perhaps you’re |
stood in the doorway, large and serene, eyes glowing with—was it opium he was supposed to take? In his left silk lapel he wore a pink carnation, to set off Ida’s pink roses. Caroline got up from her chair and curtseyed. The President crossed to her; he took her hand and, gently, seated her again. The low and beautiful voice was as rustic as Ida’s but without the canting nasality. “I’m glad you could come, Miss Sanford. Sit down, Mr. Hay. Ida …” Fondly, he touched his wife’s face; fondly, she kissed his hand. Caroline noted how pale each was. But then he had nearly died of pneumonia after the New Year’s reception, and she had had a nervous collapse the previous summer. Caroline tried to imagine what it was like to be at the head of such a vigorous, loud nation; and failed. Lunch was as simple and as enormous as the President’s dove-gray waistcoated paunch, which began very high indeed on his frame and curved outward, keeping him from ever sitting close to table, which accounted, no doubt, for the single shamrock-shaped gravy stain on the black frock-coat that hung in perpendicular folds to left and right of the huge autonomous belly, like theater curtains drawn to reveal the spectacle. Quail was followed by porterhouse steak which preceded broiled chicken, each course accompanied by a variety of hot bread—wheat muffins, corn sticks, toast, and butter. Butter flowed over everything, and the Major ate everything while Ida picked |
