Hollywood by Gore Vidal

savages beneath who gave the wizard not only their beliefbut their fury as well, which, in turn, fueled the warlock’s own. Thus, magic begets magic. “… with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood …” There it was, at last, the exercise’s object, blood. They were sinking now into pre-history, around the blazing fire. Blood. Now for the sky-god’s blessing upon the tribe. It came, in the last line. “God helping her, she can do no other.” So there it was: Protestant Martin Luther at the end. Never had Blaise felt more Catholic.
    Wilson looked up at the gallery. The eyes were wide and bright, and—was he now all alone to himself or was he as one with the hunters all round him? Blaise could not tell, for everyone was on his feet, including Blaise, and the drooping Ned, arms knotted loosely about Evalyn’s neck.
    Blaise leaned over to watch the President’s progress down the aisle to the door. Lodge stepped forward—the face was definitely, satisfyingly swollen—to shake Wilson’s hand; and murmur something that made the President smile. Just behind Lodge, the great La Follette sat, arms crossed to show that
he
was not applauding the witch-doctor, as he chewed, slowly, rhythmically, gum.
    “Who would have thought,” said Blaise to Frederika, as they pushed their way through the crowded corridor, “that only yesterday there was a majority for peace?”
    “Do you think they really know what they’re doing? I mean, it’s such fun—for men, and I suppose there’ll be money in it.”
    “A lot, I should think, for those who are …” Who are what? wondered Blaise. After all, he was son and grandson of the rich. Because he had not the urge to increase his wealth—as opposed to the circulation of the
Tribune
—did not mean that he was any different from Mr. Baruch, the New York speculator who had bought himself a high place in the Democratic Party as money-giver to the President himself, in order to benefit from the exchange. But Mr. Baruch was no more to be censured for his straightforward desire to make money than all the paid-up millionaire members of the Senate club who differed only in their approach to transitivity from the paid-for members.
    Caroline intercepted them in the painted corridor, which smelled of damp wool and whisky. Ned McLean’s had not been the only flask. “I promised Uncle Henry that I would report to him. He will feed us, he says.”
    Blaise said no; Frederika said yes; and so they all embarked in Caroline’s Pierce-Arrow.
    “How did you end up with the Wilsons?” Frederika often asked Blaise’s questions for him.
    “I am cultivating Mr. McAdoo because he means to be president, too, and I always like my moths better before they break out of the cocoon.”
    “How do you go about cultivating someone like Eleanor McAdoo?” Frederika had old Washington’s sense of unreality when it came to the Federal theater that changed its program every four or eight years—sometimes sooner if a player happened to be, excitingly, assassinated.
    “I begin by being inordinately kind to her very plain sister Margaret. This gains me points with everyone in the family.”
    “How sly you are.” Frederika was equable. Blaise was constantly disappointed by the lack of friction between the sisters-in-law. He had hoped for more drama between the two Mistresses Sanford, particularly in so small a city. But each kept to her own set; and when the grand Frederika Sanford held court at Blaise’s Connecticut Avenue palace, Caroline often appeared, most graciously, to smile upon old Washington, Frederika’s world, and those Republican magnificoes who courted Blaise, who feted them. Caroline’s court in Georgetown was smaller and more selective. Dinner was never for more than ten. Caroline’s guests were notable for their conversation; this meant rather more foreigners than Americans and of the Americans more New Yorkers than Old Washington