Why it's the only lasting anonymous Washington novel.
The publication of the dismal O: A Presidential Novel—the 2008 campaign's contribution to the genre of anonymously published political fiction—led Slate readers to vote on their all-time favorite Washington novel. You did yourselves credit by choosing Democracy by Henry Adams. Like O, and the Clinton-era Primary Colors before it, Democracy was an anonymously published roman à clef, causing a stir in political circles when it appeared in 1880. Unlike those authors' anonymity, however, the secret of Adams' authorship held for 35 years.
Topical political novels seldom endure as literature, or even as genre fiction. Government officials, campaign operatives, and journalists rarely possess the requisite artistic gifts, as any reader of Newt Gingrich's novels knows well. The appeal of most Washington novels rests in their resonance with current events. After Joe Klein was outed as the author of the Primary Colors, popular interest in reading the book plummeted. Klein's sequel, The Running Mate, written under his own name, drew little attention. Most Washington novels are not literature but punditry by other means.
Yet Democracy, though distinctly an artifact of its historical moment, boasts some true artistry. The most detailed version I have found of the book's publication and reception comes from Ernest Samuels's 1958 biography, Henry Adams: The Middle Years. As a young man, Adams sympathized with the good-government reform movement that sought to purify the corruption-plagued party politics of the "Gilded Age"—the name given to the period by the era's other great political novel, written by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner. But following the Grant presidency's scandals, the 42-year-old Adams, by then an accomplished historian and journalist, lost hope in reform. He would soon embrace a world-weary Spenglerian declinism. As a descendant of both President Adamses and the son of thwarted presidential aspirant Charles Francis Adams, Henry also had personal reasons to believe that the presidency was in eclipse. "I bade politics good-bye when I wrote Democracy," he later said.
The men and women he witheringly depicted in his novel, Adams knew, were not well disguised. So it was all the more important that he himself should be. Disclosing his authorship to only a few confidants, he took pains to be in Europe when the book appeared. It was published on April Fools' Day, 1880. Although the initial American response was subdued, the book made a splash in Britain, where the scribbling class found confirmation of their suspicions about America's vulgar democracy. The British scuttlebutt in turn triggered a new flurry of excitement in the States.
Political insiders delighted in trying to unmask both the characters and the author. The former were easier to figure out—especially the book's compelling villain, Silas B. Ratcliffe, a thinly veiled incarnation of Maine Senator James G. Blaine, who had twice blocked Adams' father from the Republican party's presidential nod. But the author's identity was harder to ascertain. "It was the exception for me to be in any company where I was not plied with questions regarding it," wrote his publisher, Henry Holt, one of the few in on the secret.
Of the innumerable guesses, several came quite close. Theodore Roosevelt believed it was E.L. Godkin, editor of the Nation, a friend of Adams, another one of the few people privy to the truth. Adams' father-in-law nominated his daughter, Marian "Clover" Adams, Henry's wife, but she denied it strenuously. Most richly of all, Adams' own brother, Charles Francis Jr., fingered John Hay—formerly Lincoln's secretary, later William McKinley's secretary of state, and a dear friend of Henry's. (The two men and their wives even lived in adjoining townhouses on Lafayette Square—also the site of much of the novel's action—where Washington's Hay-Adams hotel now stands.)
In the first wave of guesses, only one reviewer, the British writer Mary Augusta Ward, guessed correctly. Ward heard in Democracy echoes of the ideas that were in an article Adams had written in the North American Review on civil-service reform. The Gilded Age's Donald Foster arrived 30 years later, when Theodore Stanton of Cornell, the son of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, declared that while the novel's authorship had "hitherto baffled the critics," he could "definitively" identify Adams. A few years after that, William Roscoe Thayer, who as John Hay's biographer was immersed in the relevant correspondence, proclaimed himself more certain still. "You alone," he wrote to Adams, "were up to the level of its substance, vocabulary and style." Many people found Thayer's conjecture persuasive. But not until 1920—two years after Henry Adams' death—did Henry Holt finally confirm the guess.
By then, Democracy had been through multiple printings. Its success in the new era, several decades after its appearance, owed little to its faded topicality and more to its insights into the dilemmas of American democracy. Beneath the morality tale of corruption and cynicism was what Ernest Samuels called a "symposium on democratic government," with all sides of the issue given their due.
David Greenberg, a professor of history and media studies at Rutgers and author of three books of political history, has written the "History Lesson" column since 1998.
Harvard graduation photograph of Henry Adams from Wikipedia.