"Left to my own devices, I spent a bemused hour observing the Senate and the House of Representatives. The two chambers have recently been renovated, and the old red hangings and tobacco-stained rugs have been replaced by a delicate grey decor with hints here and there of imperial gilt ... Those few who had come to observe the democratic process seemed mostly to be simple country people who behaved—quite rightly—as if they were at the circus; they chewed tobacco, shelled peanuts, ate popped corn, a newly contrived delicacy with the consistency and, I should think, the flavor of new paper currency."
The quotation is from 1876 (Random House, 364 pages, $10), Gore Vidal's new novel. In any other year but the Bicentennial, 1876 would merely be a bestseller. It was, after all, prompted by two earlier Vidal bestsellers: Washington, D.C. (1967), a study of mid-20th century political scrambling; and Burr (1973), a revisionist appraisal of the foundering fathers. "With 1876" says Vidal, "I've examined the dead center of the country, the year of the Centennial, and there's a nice symmetry, obviously, that it's coming out the year of the Bicentennial."
This "nice symmetry" is even nicer calculation. For the historical fervor fostered by the Bicentennial promises to turn 1876 into a quasi-official happening. Prepublication signs have been uniformly bullish. Random House and Ballantine Books jointly paid Vidal an advance approaching $1 million for hardback and paperback rights. The Book-of-the-Month Club, which has made 1876 its main selection for March, shelled out more than twice its normal fee of $85,000. A first printing of 75,000 copies has virtually disappeared under a flood of orders, and a second printing of 25,000 is on the way. Yet while Vidal, 50, is quite willing to ride the Bicentennial wave, he is in no mood to join in the celebration: "I should think a year of mourning would be highly salutary—for our lost innocence, our eroding liberties, our vanishing resources, our ruined environment."
In fact, 1876 undercuts Vidal's post-Watergate gloom. For his novel demonstrates that the nation was no Eden a hundred years ago. 7576 accurately and comically recounts the sins of the fathers. Maimed Civil War veterans beg on the streets. The odor of the recently destroyed Tweed Ring still hovers over New York City. In Washington, the corruption of the Grant Administration grows more garish by the day. Everything and everybody has a price. An appointment to West Point costs the applicant's parents $5,000, while a seat in the U.S. Senate can be obtained for $200,000. U.S. Senators, as a rule, can be had for much less. Moral indignation, that main current of contemporary American thought, seems nonexistent. Yet Vidal's travelogue through this dark time is as funny as it is unsettling. With malicious wit, irresistible gossip and sturdy research, he turns 1876 into an ornate 200th birthday card inscribed with a poison pen.