Part 21

Again, on December 26, comes a long letter describing another “White House Christmas.” He deplores the fact that the children are growing a little older, and that “Ted” says in a melancholy way that he no longer feels the wild excitement of former years and the utter inability to sleep soundly during the night before Christmas. He adds, however: “Personally I think that ‘Ted’ also was thoroughly in the spirit of the thing when Christmas actually arrived, because by six o’clock every child of every size was running violently to and fro along the hall, in and out of all the other children’s rooms, the theory being that Edith and I were still steeped in dreamless and undisturbed slumber!”

It is true that that winter _was_ more difficult than the winter before, but he met the unusual difficulties with unabated courage, and writes in October, 1907, after giving me much family news: “Indeed times have been bad in New York, and as is always the case the atonement was largely vicarious, and innocent people suffered. I hope it does not extend through the rest of the country. If we check it, I think it will mean ultimate good, though it will also mean depression for a year at least.”

In March, 1908, in the midst of harassing controversies and presidential difficulties of all kinds, he takes the time and interest to write concerning a young friend of mine into whose life had come an unfortunate trouble. The letter is so full of a certain quality--what perhaps I might call a righteous ruthlessness specially characteristic of Theodore Roosevelt--that I quote a few lines from it:

“I hate to think of her suffering; but the only thing for her to do now is to treat the past as past, the event as finished and out of her life; to dwell on it, and above all to keep talking of it with any one, would be both weak and morbid. She should try not to think of it; this she cannot wholly avoid, but she _can_ avoid speaking of it. She should show a brave and cheerful front to the world, whatever she feels; and henceforth she should never speak one word of the matter to any one. In the long future, when the memory is too dead to throb, she may, if she wishes, speak of it once more, but if she is wise and brave, she will not speak of it now.”

This note referring to a matter which did not come, except through the interests of affection, close to his own life shows with startling clearness the philosophy of his attitude toward sorrows wherein an original mistake had perhaps been the cause of sorrow. Of all the qualities in my brother, this one never failed him. It was not harshness; it was, as I said, a righteous ruthlessness. The thing that injured one’s possibility for service in any way must be cut out or burnt out. When that great sorrow of his own life, the death of his splendid boy, came in July, 1918, although he never put aside the sympathy of others--indeed, he gladly welcomed it, and gladly even would talk with those in his innermost circle of the youngest he loved so well--still, as a rule, his attitude was similar to that taken in the above letter. Morbid craving could _not_ bring back his child; morbid craving _could_ hurt his own potential power for good. The grief must be met with high head and squared shoulders, and the work still to do _must_ be done.

All through the spring of 1908 the question as to his successor in the White House was constantly in his mind. After serious thought he had come to the conclusion that of the men closest to him, William Howard Taft, who had done splendid work as governor in the Philippines and had been an able lieutenant in the work of the Roosevelt administration, would most conscientiously carry out the policies he thought vital for the country. This belief did not in any way mean that he wished Mr. Taft to be an automaton or dummy, possible of manipulation, but he felt that his then secretary of war was more thoroughly in sympathy with the policies which he believed to be the right policies for our country than any other man except the secretary of state, Mr. Elihu Root, whose possible election to the presidency he felt would be very doubtful. Many have criticised in later years, especially after the trouble in 1912, his choice of Mr. Taft to succeed him. There came out at one time an article in the periodical _Life_ which, to my mind, explained well the confidence which my brother placed in almost every man who worked with him. The article said approximately: “The reason that Theodore Roosevelt occasionally made mistakes in feeling that some of his associates in the work of the government would continue to be what he believed them to be, is as follows: _While_ any individual was working with Mr. Roosevelt, in fact, _under_ Mr. Roosevelt, the latter had the power of inspiring the said individual with his own acuteness, his own energy, his own ability. The person, therefore, frequently shone with a reflex light, a light which seemed to Mr. Roosevelt to originate in him, but in fact, came from his own unfailing sources. The consequence is that when some official who had seemed to Mr. Roosevelt to be almost a _rara avis_, was left to his own devices, and without the magnetic personality of his chief to inspire in him qualities not really indigenous in him, the change in what that official could accomplish was very marked.” Theodore Roosevelt was convinced that Mr. Taft was entirely in accord with the policies in which he so fully believed, and he had absolute confidence that in leaving in his hands the work which he had striven so hard to perfect, he was doing the best thing possible for the United States.

At that time the people wanted to renominate my brother as President. He, however, was convinced that a renomination would have defeated the spirit of the unwritten law that no man should succeed himself a third time in succession.

I was present at the convention in Chicago in 1908, and have fortunately retained a letter written to my children the very morning of that convention, which runs as follows:

“Oh, how I wish you could have been here this morning. Such an ovation was never known as greeted Mr. Lodge’s mention of your Uncle Ted. Mr. Lodge’s speech was most scholarly and reserved, and in referring to the laws, he said, ‘The President has invariably enforced the laws, and the President is the most abused and the most _popular_ man in the country.’ Then came a ripple and then a mighty shout of applause, growing louder and louder, increasing and increasing more and more every moment. They clapped, they shouted, they cheered. The whole great Convention sang the Star Spangled Banner, and then they clapped again, and carried ‘Teddybears’ around the hall. They took off their coats and swung them around their heads. You have never even imagined anything like it. Several times, Mr. Lodge raised his gavel, but with no result, and finally he started his speech again, and persevered until the deafening noise began to subside fifty minutes after it began. It really was a wonderful and thrilling scene. It was three o’clock before we could keep our luncheon engagement at George Porter’s that first day.”

The following day it required all Mr. Lodge’s determination, and a ringing message over the telephone from the White House itself, to prevent the renomination of my brother. Not only did the people want him, but, what has been so often _not_ the case, the _delegates_ wanted him as well. It was one of those rare moments at a great convention when the people and the delegates were in accord, and yet, it was not to be. The will of Theodore Roosevelt was carried out, and William Howard Taft was chosen as the nominee of the Republican party for the next President of the United States.

On June 23, 1908, came a letter from the White House to me: “Darling Corinne--It was very good of you and Douglas to telegraph me. I am extremely pleased with the result of the Convention. I think Cabot’s handling of it was masterly.” And then, on June 26, an extremely interesting letter came, one, I think, which, written as it was four years before the great controversy of 1912, settles forever that question which was so much discussed as to what Theodore Roosevelt meant by his statement that he would not run for the presidency again. This letter, on White House paper, is dated Oyster Bay, June 26, 1908:

“Darling Corinne--My letter must have crossed yours. It was just exactly as you and Alice said. Now there is nothing to explain. I have been much amused at the fact that my English friends are wholly incapable of understanding my reasons for the view I take, and think it due to weakness or some fantastic scruple on my part. My theory has been that the presidency should be a powerful office, and the President a powerful man, who will take every advantage of it; but, as a corollary, a man who can be held accountable to the people, after a term of four years, and who will not in any event occupy it for more than a _stretch_ of eight years....” Nothing is more conclusive of my brother’s attitude than that sentence “who will not in any event occupy it for more than a _stretch_ of eight years.” He did not believe in a third term _consecutively_, but in no way did he pledge himself at that time, or at any other time, not to consider again the possible gift of the highest place in the nation, should an interval come between his occupancy of the White House and the renewed desire of the people that he should fill that place in the nation once more. I have given some time to his attitude on this question, as it has been much misunderstood.

In amusing contrast to the seriousness of his decision not to accept a renomination comes a characteristic incident in the President’s career. The account of this I quote from a letter to me of Mr. Gustavus Town Kirby, a participator himself in the event. The letter runs as follows:

“In 1908 the Olympic Games had been held at London, England, and when the athletes returned to this country, most of them went, with some heads of the American Olympic Committee, including the late James E. Sullivan and myself, to visit and receive the congratulations of the then President of the United States at his summer home in Oyster Bay. [What committee, on no matter _what_ important business, did not receive the congratulations of that eclectic President at his summer home at Oyster Bay!] I shall never forget the enthusiasm of the gathering, nor how, no sooner had either Sullivan or I presented a member of the team to the President, than he would, by use of his wonderful memory and in his most inspiring manner, tell the special athlete all about his own performance,--how far he had put the shot to win his event, or how gamely he had run; by how much he had beaten his competitor; his new world-record time, and the like. At the time I marvelled, and I thought even one as great as he must have ‘brushed up’ for the occasion, but ‘Billy’ Loeb, his Secretary, told me afterwards that it was not so, and that all during the Games he was kept constantly informed of the result of the performances of our boys; and while he actually knew none of these boys by sight, he not only knew them by name, but their performances as well. Not only to me, but to all gathered at this reception was this feat of memory most astounding. Mr. Roosevelt’s gracious cordiality, his fine speech of congratulation, and his magnetic personality had such an effect on all that it was with great difficulty that they could be literally _driven_ from the grounds and onto the Long Island boat for their return to New York.

“Michael Murphy, the trainer, many years trainer at Yale, and thereafter at ‘Pennsylvania,’ and also for the New York Athletic Club, whose team in 1895 was triumphant over the great team of the London Athletic Club, was also a member of the party. On the way back in the boat I happened to pass through the cabin, which was entirely empty except for Michael Murphy, who, like the all but wizened-up old man he was, having but about a quarter of a lung, and deaf except to those things which he could not hear, sat huddled in a corner. I went up to Mike and said, ‘What are you doing?’ He answered, ‘I am thinking!’ I replied, ‘Yes, that is evident; but what are you thinking about?’ He then said: ‘Well, Mr. Kirby, I suppose there is no doubt but that I am the greatest trainer of men in the world.’ ‘That certainly is true,’ I said. He went on: ‘Mr. Kirby, you are all wrong; until we went down to Oyster Bay I thought I might be, but now I know I am not.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘Mike, that is nonsense. What do you mean?’ Then Mike answered, ‘Give me sixty men, every one of whom is a champion, and let that man at Oyster Bay have sixty other men, every one of whom is a dub, and his team would lick mine every time!’ I said, ‘Mike, this is impossible; it could not be,’ and then Mike continued,--showing how that magnetic personality of Mr. Roosevelt’s had taken hold of him, and how truly he, Mike Murphy, understood the psychology of inspiration,--‘Yes, Mr. Kirby, you see it’s this way; that man down there would tell a miler that he could reel off a mile in four minutes, (as you know, no one has run, or ever will run a mile in four minutes) and not only would that man _think_ he could run a mile in four minutes, but, by Gad, he’d go out and _do_ it.’”

Perhaps no one has ever more cleverly expressed the extraordinary power of that personality than that wizened old trainer, sunk into despondency because he realized that where men are concerned skill and science are as nothing compared to the genius of leadership.

That summer my brother showed to my husband and myself his never-failing love and consideration in a very special manner. My husband’s mother had died a couple of years before, and her son and daughter and myself had decided that the most fitting memorial to one who was specially beloved and missed in the immediate vicinity of her old home would be the erection of a small free library to the memory of her and her husband. The building was completed, and my husband wished to have a dedication service, at which time he would hand over the keys to the library trustees in our village of Jordanville. My husband’s old home, a grant in the time of Queen Anne to his great-great-great-grandfather, Doctor James Henderson, of Scotland, had always been a place for which my brother had a deep affection. Situated as it was on the high Mohawk hills overlooking the great sweep of typical American farm-land, we lived a somewhat Scotch life in the old gray-stone mansion copied from the manor-house of Mr. Robinson’s Scotch ancestors. My brother delighted in our relationship with the neighbors in our environment, and accepted gladly my husband’s earnest desire that he should make the speech of dedication when the library was given by us to the little village of Jordanville.

It was a great day for that tiny village when the President of the United States, his secretary of state, Mr. Elihu Root, and the Vice-President-elect, James S. Sherman, a native of the next county, after being our guests at luncheon, proceeded on my husband’s four-in-hand brake to the steps of the little colonial building three miles away, designed by our friend Mr. S. Breck P. Trowbridge.

What a day it was and what fun we had! After the library exercises we held a reception at our home, Henderson House, and hundreds of every sort and kind of vehicle were left or tethered along the high ridge near our house. My brother and I stood at the end of the quaint old drawing-room, and an endless file of country neighbors passed before him, and each and all were greeted with his personal enthusiasm and the marvellous knowledge of their interests with which the slightest word from me seemed to make him cognizant. The sunset lights faded over the Mohawk hills and lost their last gleam in the winding river below before the last “dead-wood coach” or broken-down buggy had disappeared from the grounds of Henderson House, and then in the old hall my own family servants--many of them had been twenty or thirty years upon the place--came in to greet him after supper, and sang the hymn which they often sang on Sunday evenings: “God be with you till we meet again.” The stories of that day will be told in time to come by the children’s children of my kind friends of Warren Township, Herkimer County. Theodore himself writes of the experience as follows:

“Oyster Bay, August 27, 1908. Dearest Corinne and Douglas: There is not a thing I would have missed throughout the whole day. It was a very touching little ceremony, and most of all it was delightful to see you two in your lovely home, living just the kind of life that I feel is typical of what American life should be at its best. I was so glad to see all your neighbors, and to see the terms they were on with you. Moreover, the view, the grounds, the house itself, and all there was therein, were delightful beyond measure; and most delightful of all was it to see the three generations ranging from you two to the babies of dear Helen and Teddy. Ever yours, Theodore Roosevelt.” As usual, he never spared an effort to do the lovely thing, and then say the satisfying thing to those for whom he had done the service.

And now the time of Theodore Roosevelts incumbency as President was drawing to a close. There is always a glamour as well as a shadow over “last times,” and my last visit to the White House, in February, 1909, stands out very clearly. My brother, the year before, had sent the great American fleet around the world, an expedition discountenanced by many, and yet conceded later to have been one of his most brilliantly conceived strategic inspirations. “In time of peace, prepare for war,” said Washington, and Theodore Roosevelt always followed that maxim. That trip around the world of the American fleet was more conducive to peace than any other action that could have been taken. The purpose was “friendly,” of course, but those splendid battle-ships of ours, engineered by such able commanders, could not fail to be an object-lesson to any who felt that the United States was too isolated to care for her own defense.

But even in such a demonstration as this, he managed to include a touch of exquisite sentiment. When the great vessels neared the Hawaiian Islands, he ordered them to deflect their course to pass by and salute the tragic island of Molokai, home of the afflicted lepers, so that they too should know of the protection which America affords to its most unfortunate children.

During those days in February, 1909, he seemed as gay as a boy let out of school. He was making all the arrangements for his great African adventure. In fact, with his usual “preparedness,” he had been preparing for that event for a whole year. Everything was accurately arranged, and he and his son Kermit were to start immediately after he was to leave the White House in March. The lectures which he was to deliver a year from the following spring were all written and corrected. One afternoon in the “Blue Bedroom,” which I generally occupied on my visits, I heard a knock at my door, and he came in with several rolls of paper under his arm. “It is raining,” he said, “and I think I won’t take my ride. I want your opinion on the lectures I am to deliver at Oxford, in Berlin, and at the Sorbonne. I should like to read them to you,” and we settled down for a long delightful, quiet time “à deux.” As usual, he was more than willing to listen to any remark or criticism, and once or twice accepted my slight suggestions of what I thought could improve his articles.

Some people felt that my brother was often egotistical, and mistook his conviction that this or that thing was right for an egotistical inability to look at it any other way. When he was convinced that his own attitude was correct, and that for the good of this or that scheme no other attitude should be taken, then nothing could swerve him; but when, as was often the case, it was not a question of conviction, but of advisability, he was the most open-minded of men, and gladly accepted and pondered the point of view of any one in whom he had confidence. I was always touched and gratified beyond measure at the simple and sometimes almost humble way in which he would listen to a difference of opinion upon my part. Occasionally, after thinking it seriously over, he would concede that my point of view was right. In this particular case, however, they were the slightest of slight suggestions which I made, for each of those articles seemed to me in its own way a masterpiece.

During that visit also occurred the last diplomatic dinner, always followed when he was President by the delightful, informal supper at tables set in the upper hall of the White House. That night he was particularly gay, and many witty repartees passed between him and our beautiful and gifted friend, Mrs. Cabot Lodge, the friend who had for us all, through her infinite charm and brilliant intellectuality, a fascination possessed by no other. She almost always sat at his table at the informal suppers, and, needless to say, those two were the centre of attraction. The table at which I myself sat that night had the distinguished presence of General Leonard Wood, General Young, and the French ambassador, Monsieur Jusserand, one of my brother’s favorite companions on the famous White House walks, hero of the true story of the time when on one of those same famous walks they inadvertently came to the river, into which my brother plunged, followed immediately by the dauntless French ambassador, who refused to “take off his gloves for fear of meeting the ladies”!

I spent one whole morning in the office during that visit, having asked my brother if I might sit quietly in a corner and listen to his interviews, to which request he gladly acceded. One after another, people filed in to see him. I made a few notes of the conversations. One of his first answers to some importunate person who wished him to take a stand on some special subject (at that time he was anxious not to embarrass his successor, Mr. Taft, by taking any special stands) was: “As Napoleon said to his marshals, ‘I don’t want to make pictures of myself.’”

In receiving Mr. Hall, the president of the Gridiron Club, he remarked that he (Theodore Roosevelt) had been one of the few people who used these dinners as “a field of missionary endeavor.” Doctor Schick, of the Dutch Reformed Church, in which he had been a regular attendant, came to arrange for a good-by meeting at the church. To a man who came in to see him on the subject of industrial peace, he replied: “The President believes in conciliation in industrial problems.” Endless subjects were brought up for his consideration, and many times I heard him say: “Remember, a new man is in the saddle, and there can’t be two Presidents after March 4th.” These notes were taken at the time, February, 1909, and are not the result of memory conveniently adjusted toward later happenings.

Every time I talked with my brother on the subject of the future, he repeated the fact that he was glad to plunge into the wilderness, so that no one could possibly think that he wanted a “finger in the pie” of the new administration. Over and over again he would say: “If I am where they can’t get at me, and where I cannot hear what is going on, I cannot be supposed to wish to interfere with the methods of my successor.”