Gore Vidal (22 page)

A major gift from Edward S. Harkness had resulted in an educational innovation in 1931 that typified Exeter's dedication to intellectual excellence. The Harkness plan required and paid for low teacher-student ratios and a large number of small classrooms. Every class, composed of no more than twelve students, was to be taught at an oval seminar table, often in a room with a small subject-focused library. Relevant books and reference works were immediately available. Academic standards were high, the work ethic intense. Determined to match intellect to privilege and responsibility, Exeter created, with some of the Harkness money, a scholarship program, sending representatives around the country to identify and recruit the brightest, hardest-working boys. From the large academy building, on its rise above the campus, the lawns sloped toward residence and dining halls in two directions, additional classroom buildings, the chapel close by (daily attendance compulsory). Across Main Street stood the library, the student center, more residence halls, various administrative buildings, some faculty housing, the playing fields in the distance to the east. To the northeast, abutting the campus, was the old New England town through which ran the narrow, swift-flowing Exeter River, then marshes and a lake, with more Exeter
property, then countryside. The school itself was mostly a self-contained world, sufficient unto itself, a total community. Town was there. But only gown counted. Whereas Los Alamos Ranch School had created unity by isolation, Exeter created it by intensity, by critical mass, by privilege, competition, and challenge.

Gene's venue was the debating hall and the library. At the academy building he had been handed his program for the year, the same subjects he had always hated—math, Latin, and the only slightly less distasteful French. English with Mr. Crosbie was genial, gentlemanly, dull, another exemplification of correct Exeter prose. Crosbie, a fellow student in the class remarked, “
looks 80
, stresses spelling and punctuation, and simple, straight sentences with an absolute fixed order of things.” That Gene wrote poetry was fine, even good, but that was not what this was about. After starting with decent grades in Latin, he quickly descended to a D. “We pull Caesar apart,” Otis Pease recorded, “noun from noun, verb from verb, and explain why and why not. You must ‘know your grammar or get out.'” Gene barely ever rose above an E in math. In French he oscillated between a C and D the first term, mostly D's thereafter. Once he saw that the only way to do better in English was to give Mr. Crosbie what he wanted, he produced enough to rise to a C, though he did not conceal that this was a concession. Quick, alert, sometimes condescending in class, he made it all too easy for teachers to recognize that they had someone bright on their hands. Only fulfilling the required work tasks, though, earned good grades. That he read frequently, avidly, made no difference. Mostly he was reading the wrong books, especially histories and novels rather than required assignments. Even his English-class compositions usually fell short, especially during his first two years. But he sensed, quite rightly, they would not expel him, except for something egregious, an infraction that related to the character issue, to mother Exeter, “stern but tender.” Short of that, he could neglect the classroom and still scrape by academically, though there would inevitably be tensions between himself and the faculty, between himself and his nightmares. “If you missed two chapels, you were out. You couldn't cut chapel. I still have nightmares about that…. I've done all that I have done. I am who I am now but I'm still at Exeter…. I have a list of the classes I should go to, and I haven't been to any of them. And we're doing the final
exams. What should I do? And I wake up in a sweat.” One teacher wrote on his department report that Gene might well become a credit to the school if they could stand him for another two years.

His best public performances were in the Daniel Webster Debating Hall, at the top of Phillips Hall, where the venerable Golden Branch and G. L. Soule debating societies and the Phillips Exeter Academy Senate met regularly. The competitive intensity rose to the intellectual and rhetorical equivalent of the controlled battles on the athletic fields. Any student could join either of the two societies. Members in the Academy Senate were elected. Debating was both a participatory and a spectator sport. At each debate four to six students got to speak. The rest served as audience, extended by other students and faculty who were attracted to the topic or the speakers. Boys who imagined themselves one day arguing important cases before the highest judges of the land or of reaching nationally renowned oratorical heights in the highest legislative arenas flocked to the debating hall, where the spiritual presence of one of the great original Exonians might inspire them. Accounts of the debates appeared prominently in the student newspaper, published twice a week, headlined with bold print as large and as well placed as any other campus event, other than football games. In autumn 1940, when Gene made his first appearance on the platform, debating had taken on a new urgency. Membership in the societies had increased. Whereas before debates had covered a wide range of topics, now the war in Europe, the prospect of America's entry, the policies of the Roosevelt administration, and the heated Roosevelt-Willkie election campaign dominated the interest and the passions of many. And war was on the horizon: Exeter boys knew that on graduation day they might indeed move from a debating society to a combat zone. Suddenly almost all the debates touched, directly or indirectly, on this subject. The national debate between those who wanted to avoid American involvement in this foreign war and those who had embraced the internationalist ideal of America as the arsenal of democracy had its microcosmic representation in this schoolboy world. Anger, anxiety, desperation were as much in the air as idealism, patriotism, and youthful courage.

Like his grandfather, Gene too wanted to be a senator, an elevation he easily achieved at the recently established Academy Senate. A mock legislative body, it was large, unwieldy, given to committees, cabals, and posturing, an excellent place to gain and sharpen political skills. Within two weeks
of his arrival, he received notification that he had “
been elected to
membership in the P.E.A. Senate. If possible, attend the next meeting, Sunday, Oct. 9, 1940, in the Debating Room of Phillips Hall.” He soon became one of the senators from Virginia. “I don't remember what my first debate topic was…. I remember the room was spinning around. I do know that I could never speak without full notes…. I prepared carefully…. It took time and effort to prepare for each debate. Then I learned the trick of reading without appearing to read.”

After dark the town of Exeter fell silent, even more so once cold weather set in. On campus, night life was restricted to club activities, study hall, the dormitory, the radio, private bull sessions, public debates. Each Sunday evening the senators met in raucous session. On Wednesday night the Golden Branch Debating Society assembled. Gene soon became a member, accomplished simply by attendance and then a maiden speech. With notes in hand he appeared, fully formed it seemed, an electrically eager, epithet-extending debater to be reckoned with, sharp and acerbic in his spontaneous comments. He prepared for debates, not classes. On Friday night the G. L. Soule Debating Society convened. At the beginning of October the Golden Branch debated “Why Willkie Should be President.” The affirmative won. At the end of the month, as the election approached, Willkie won the student poll, 438 to Roosevelt's 146, the faculty poll 20 to 18. Republicans' hopes, on and off campus, were high. In November many boys stayed up late to hear the election results on the radio. Like the majority of Exonians, Gene was disappointed. But at the same time as Exonians favored Willkie, they also favored, by a smaller margin, that America enter into a military alliance with Great Britain. Passionately sharing his grandfather's politics, the senator from Virginia took the conservative side in most debates: he was a happy, if not gleeful, warrior, like the Roosevelt whose political skills he admired, whose views he opposed. He increasingly perfected his Roosevelt imitation: “I
hate
wa
aaa
r! Eleanor
hates
waaaar.” Soon he organized an “America First” chapter. His more numerous, powerful opponents, led by the smart, articulate Tom Lamont, a grandson of J. P. Morgan's partner, had created “Bundles for Britain.” London was being bombed. German troops marched into Romania. Lend-Lease ships sailed the North Atlantic to Britain. Gene and Lamont became instant political enemies.

By spring his favorite faculty member, whom he never had for a class,
was the anti-Exonian, ex-Princetonian Tom Riggs, who had recently come to Exeter. He was not there for long. Sharply intelligent, ironic, dissident, the outspoken Riggs, who taught English, attracted the disapproval of the largely mainstream Exonians. “He seemed fonder of the kids than of the faculty,” one of his colleagues remarked, “whom he thought of as fuddy-duddy establishment people. Riggs had no anchors down—he was a free spirit who didn't care about gaining the respect of the Exeter people, and it was clear to everyone that he was there only temporarily. He rejected the discipline of the environment.” When obliged to take his turn presiding at morning chapel, the scrawny, balding, sharp-nosed, jug-eared Riggs “
would pull
his clothes on over pink-and-white striped pajamas, plainly visible at wrist and ankle,” Gore Vidal recalled, “and read the lesson and announcements in a voice like W. C. Fields.” The principal, Bliss Perry, who had been leading Exeter since 1914, found Riggs a major nuisance. Gene thought him fascinating, totally admirable. Since Riggs encouraged him to talk about literature and politics on terms that did not include Exonian condescension or punitive put-downs, Gene felt conversationally at ease with him, someone he could express himself to and learn from. Acutely political, Riggs was the son of a former governor of Alaska. At Princeton, with other undergraduates, he had helped create in spring 1936 a national stir with the satiric “The Veterans of Future Wars.” Its main platform was that all potential veterans should immediately receive a bonus of $1,000 so that they might get the full benefit of compensation
before
they were killed or maimed. “
Soldiers of America
, Unite. You have nothing to lose.” The national press, partly bemused, publicized the new organization. Congress investigated. One humorless congressman called them “Communists because they welcome Pacifists and Fascists with open arms.” They were beneath notice, he concluded, but should be investigated. Partly joke, partly angry satire, lightly serious, the witty Princetonians made their point effectively. Since the Veterans of Foreign Wars sold poppies to commemorate the dead, the Veterans of Future Wars sold poppy
seeds
. As opposed to American involvement in foreign wars as Senator Gore, Riggs came at it from the radical left. A Marxist, he seemed both brilliantly talented and sensibly antiwar. It was an eye-opener for the Senator's grandson. When Gene showed Riggs some of the Senator's speeches, Riggs ironically commented, “He knows how to make the eagle scream.” At Exeter, T. P. Gore received scant respect. The Willkie Republicans, mostly internationalists, thought him a reactionary
rabble-rouser who, fortunately, no longer served in the Senate. Roosevelt Democrats despised him. The radical left agreed with his antiwar views but nothing else. For the first time Gene had to take seriously criticism of his grandfather's political positions.

If he had no friends yet at Exeter, he had people with whom he was friendly. Both reserved and aggressive, he did not make friends easily. To some his aggressiveness seemed un-Exonian self-promotion, a personal projection that seemed out of place among New Englanders and their ethos. He was used to boasting about his grandfather and father and announcing that he himself expected to accomplish great things. Some he irritated. Others found his elegant abrasiveness interesting. One could never predict what he would say. Or if one were to predict with a likelihood of accuracy, the guess had to be he would say something outrageous or controversial or extravagantly self-regarding by Exonian standards. With a reputation for quips in conversation and barbs in debate, he made some of his classmates anxious. There would be a price to pay if one tangled with him. Used to being conversationally combative, he assumed that everyone would understand he meant nothing personal, that he intended to entertain, persuade, assert himself rather than put others down. Not everyone did. But his skills, his talents, and particularly his devotion to reading and writing made him stand out, attractively even if ambivalently, to some of his talented classmates. With two of them—A. K. Lewis, familiarly known as “A.K.” or “Hacker,” slim, dark-haired, with rimless glasses and cleft chin, the son of a well-known Harvard philosopher, and Robert Bingham, a tall, beefy, pink-complexioned New Englander with blue eyes, light-brown curly hair, a heart-shaped face, and invariably a bow tie—he soon became warmly friendly. Lewis and Bingham spent much time together. Bingham, Lewis recalled, “was very charismatic, with a wonderful sense of humor. I think he had more humor than anybody else I have ever met, humor as opposed to wit; he was a wonderful person and very generous.”