GROVER CLEVELAND "VIEWED"
I well remember the Governor, as I made my way up into his bedroom,
paint-box in hand, and said: "Well, we must make the best of it, and
turn this into a studio. May I move the bed a few inches?" "All right,"
and between us we moved the bed.
The Governor was Grover Cleveland, and the State he governed the State
of New York. I had long since learnt that New York was not the capital,
but that Albany enjoyed that privilege. In Albany I was making a
prolonged stay, painting portraits of some very prominent people,
amongst others of Mrs. V. L. Pruyn and the Erastus Cornings, who were
notably amongst his warmest friends and supporters.
I was enjoying Mrs. Pruyn's hospitality, and in her house I had
exceptional opportunities of being initiated into the mysteries of
American politics. I was made very much at home, too, in surroundings
which bore testimony to the consummate taste and connoisseurship of my
hostess and her late husband. My wishes were not forestalled, or they
could never have been so correctly carried out. But, as soon as they
were expressed, some magic button would be touched, and some tutelary
genius would appear to take my instructions, or some man or woman I had
desired to know would be announced. So I made many pleasant
acquaintances, and in due time was introduced to Cleveland.
Election time had come with all its excitement and turmoil. Good
citizens wearing most picturesque uniforms were mustering by their
thousands, and were drilling as if war were imminent; but it was only
the true military step and swing they were practising, that they might
creditably march in procession with banners flying and bands playing,
and outdo the rival party in their show of enthusiasm. Sober,
steady-going individuals were transformed into stump orators and
agitators; the contagion spread, quickening pulse and heart-beat, till
the whole nation seemed delirious. Enthusiasm begot passion, and passion
frenzy. Then came the crisis. The returns were officially announced; the
President was elected, and--one, two, three, as if by the touch of a
magic wand, down went the pulse to its normal beat, the excitement
suddenly collapsed, and the electors settled down to a well-earned four
years' rest. But before that happy consummation, there was much to see
and note that was interesting to a stranger like myself.
Amid all the conflicting opinions and clamourings, there was one point
the whole nation seemed to agree upon. Everybody was going about,
Diogenes-like, seeking for an honest man. When found, he was to be made
a President of. To be sure either party claimed to have discovered that
one honest man, and thereupon commenced the main work on both sides,
that of vilifying the personal character of the opposing candidate. All
the dirtiest sediment at the bottom of the blackest inkstand was stirred
up, all the devilry stored in the arsenals of diabolical newspaper
offices was brought into action, to prove to the hilt that Mr. Blaine
and Mr. Cleveland were the two most dishonest men in the United States.
Under the guise of "plain truths" fanciful untruths were circulated, and
the mud raked up was used to make mud pies which were greedily devoured
by hungry partisans. There were curious war-cries too on either side,
the deep significance of which had to be fully explained to the
uninitiated, before he could appreciate their strength. In the Cleveland
camp they were constantly burning pieces of paper and shouting: "Burn
this letter, dearest Fisher." "Oh! you'd better, better, better burn
this letter," or up went the cry in rhythmical measure--
"James Gould Blaine, James Gould Blaine,
He's the continental liar from the State of Maine."
Outsiders got a little slap too, where the partisan saw his opportunity,
as when one of the Irish banners paraded the sentiment: "We love James
Blaine for the English enemies he has made."
I fully shared in the excitement, and wherever two or three thousand
people were blocking a space really only adapted to so many hundred, I
helped to make ugly rushes, and took my part in the chorus of yelling
and hissing. This was in New York, on the principal day of the election.
A day or two afterwards I had returned to Albany, and was calling on
Cleveland with Erastus Corning.
"No," said the future President in answer to Mr. Corning's proposal to
start the illuminations and torchlight procession that night, "don't
hurry; I know it's all right, but wait for to-morrow's returns." He was,
to all outward appearances, the one man least affected by the issue.
The next day the returns came, and the torch and other lights were
allowed to blaze. All doubts had been dispelled by a certain telegram
from Jay Gould. His enemies swore that that arch-grabber of millions had
manipulated the telegraph wires, withholding or forging the returns
expected from various parts of the States, and it was generally
understood that the earliest opportunity would be taken to burn down his
house and to lynch him. That morning a telegram of congratulation from
the great financier, happily unlynched, had just been handed to the
President-elect; he showed it to us, deliberating whether it should be
communicated to the representative of the _New York Herald_, who was
anxiously waiting to carry it away. He decided to do so, and then turned
to a dear old man who stood beaming in the doorway, with a little boy
clinging to his coat-tails, both looking round the big reception-room
with eyes of wonder and bewilderment. There were no servants or ushers
to introduce visitors; anybody could walk in unannounced, and the old
man, who had tramped up with his grandson from a great distance to see
the new Democratic President, found his way into the large hall of the
capital. Now he was evidently much puzzled to know which in our little
group of eight or ten persons was that President. He soon held the right
man's hand, and truly touching he was in his allegiance. He had waited
for many a weary year, he said, for the advent of the Democratic party,
and at last this happy day had dawned upon him and his beloved country.
I made a rapid sketch of him, for he was a type well worth recording;
Cleveland liked it, so I naturally gave it him.
All this was in the first days of November 1884. It was not till the
following February, when I again visited Albany, that I found myself
installed in the bedroom above mentioned. The President-elect was living
in a very small house in Willet Street, what we should call a bijou
residence. The people had nicknamed it the Casket, if I recollect right,
and it was certainly not much bigger than a receptacle of that
description.
Cleveland had very kindly consented to let me paint a head of him. An
opportunity of doing so was only to be found in the little house, and we
entrenched ourselves in the bedroom against the intrusions of
office-seekers and office-bearers, enthusiastic supporters, cranks and
faddists, and, though last not least, young ladies with albums and
birthday-books.
"Well, Mr. Cleveland," I said, as I started full speed to cover my
canvas, "I'm not going to apologise for troubling you; I'm sure you must
be quite pleased to have for once in the way a man come to view you, not
to interview you. It must be a relief too, to know that I'm not going
to rush off after the sitting, and send telegrams and cables all over
the place, to let an expectant public know what you said."
He answered, "I am glad that is so."
Then for a while our conversation ran on art and other peaceful pursuits
of man. Seeing a good opening I led up to the question ever uppermost in
my mind,--that of international arbitration as against the arbitrament
of the sword, and of the institution of a permanent tribunal between the
United States and England. And here let me say in parenthesis, it is a
glorious profession, that of the portrait-painter; he can button-hole
his man and keep him a fixture, whilst he indoctrinates and prods him
with truths, from which, under other circumstances, his victim would
seek to escape. Cleveland sat like a brick, and listened
sympathetically. Then, he said in a few sharp concise words, that he
fully agreed with me, and that he strongly felt it was high time for
civilised humanity to abandon the barbarous methods of settling
disputes. I told him I was sorely tempted to break my word, and to cable
that welcome "message" to my friends in Europe without further delay.
That temptation, however, I was not going to yield to. Finding that, as
a member serving on the Executives of various Peace Societies, I was
well posted up in matters relating to the subject, he began to question
and cross-question me like the lawyer that he is.
I had to give him information concerning the various proposals made in
Europe (which continent by the way he had never visited), for the
constitution of permanent courts of arbitration, and to explain any
views I might personally hold. This more especially in reference to my
suggestion, that we might take up arbitration where we left it and link
the present to the past; that we might do this by resuscitating the last
tribunal that had done good service--at that time it was the Court that
adjudicated on the Alabama claims--and declare it permanent, as
permanent as all national courts and constitutional parliaments.
He expressed no definite opinion on the merits of the scheme, but was
sufficiently interested in it to look at it from all sides. He wanted to
know how it was "going to be worked out practically," and I had to
particularise the provisions according to which the members of the last
tribunal were to be replaced in cases of death or retirement, or new
members were to be added, to suit the special case to be adjudicated
upon. There was a good deal more said about the Dis-united States of
Europe, as compared to the United States of America, but as I was the
talker, and he only the questioner, it need not be recorded.
Some weeks afterwards I met Mr. Love, Secretary of the Peace Union in
Philadelphia, and learnt from him that the President had requested him
to furnish particulars concerning the work of the Peace Societies in
America.
Such seeking for information is particularly characteristic of the man.
I can fancy his saying to himself, "What that artist told me I've put in
a pigeon-hole. Now I'll just hear what one or two others have to say
about it. Later on, I'll decide what's worth keeping."
From that day to this he has certainly been a warm supporter of
arbitration. Which is the method he considers best suited to be worked
out practically we were only to learn twelve years later, when, under
his administration, the Treaty of Arbitration, unfortunately not
ratified by the Senate, was signed.
That chapter closed, we turned to more restful subjects than the peace
question. Talking of portrait-painting, I chanced to mention that I
liked to give my sitters some characteristic name, to keep before my
mind as a sort of password, whilst I proceeded with my work. By way of
illustration, I told him of a certain young lady I had been commissioned
to paint. She was very pretty, had a pair of twitting, soul-tormenting
eyes and moisture-sparkling lips. I added, that such arbitrarily coined
adjectives, and a good many more that suggested themselves, helped me
but little towards the composition of my picture. That only came when I
had found my formula; and my young lady, who had all along been waiting
for me to name the happy day of the first sitting, was much pleased when
I started with the motto, "Don't you wish you may get it?" I painted her
peeping out from behind a curtain, holding a lovely red rose in her
hand, which, the rose and the hand, you might or might not be destined
to get.
Mr. Cleveland listened with that interest which every good sitter is
expected to display whilst under treatment, and sympathetically agreed
with me that it was wise not to begin a thing till it was finished.
Then he said, "Have you given me a name, too; and if so, what is it?"
Now that was rather a poser, for I _had_ given him a name, and it at
once struck me that he might not like it. I admitted as much, and
prefacing that he must take one of the two words used in the good sense,
I said that I had labelled him "Solid and Stolid"; the "stolid," I
explained, meaning that he was a man who wasn't going to move unless he
saw good cause why. He seemed to think I wasn't far wrong there. As for
the "solid," that needed no apology. Physically, any weighing machine
would prove his substantial solidity; and intellectually, even a slight
acquaintance with him would show him to be a powerful man.
All this little by-play did not prevent my getting on with my picture;
nor was I much disturbed by the business that occasionally claimed the
President-elect's attention. He took things with characteristic
coolness, and gave his instructions without moving a muscle. Only once
he got up, more freely to indulge in his habit of thinking before
speaking. He was to decide where he would take up his quarters on his
visit to New York; that was a burning question, warmly discussed in the
press. Why, I don't quite recollect, but anyway his decision was eagerly
awaited by two contending groups of his followers. His Secretary had
handed him a telegram, and was waiting for instructions what to answer.
I thought it proper to be unmistakably minding my own business, and
became deeply interested in the background of my picture. But I could
not help hearing Cleveland's answer:--
"Say the governor has not decided; he seems inclined to select his own
hotel." This in a drowsy undertone. Then, turning to me with a sudden
outburst of energy he said:--
"They'll have to find it out sooner or later, and the sooner they find
it out the better, that I'm not a figure-head to be put in front of a
tobacconist's store."
After the second sitting my portrait was finished, and my kind model
asked me to stop and take luncheon with him. I accepted with pleasure,
and this little _tête-à-tête_ with Cleveland is one of my pleasantest
transatlantic recollections. Democratic simplicity ruled supreme. We
shared four cutlets and a dish of potatoes, and wound up with some
stewed fruit; with that we drank our bumpers of ice water in true
American fashion. It was quite a relief to get from Lucullus to
Cincinnatus. I had had ample opportunity of appreciating American
hospitality, fêted and "received" as I had been by my new friends, but
now, it was really refreshing to sit down for once in a way to a meal
without having constantly to say "No, thank you," to the bearers of dish
or bottle, and without being uncomfortably reminded that you were
feasting whilst others were starving within easy reach perhaps of your
table, laden with all the luxuries that wealth commands.
The servant disappeared, we helped ourselves, and in answer to a
question of mine, Cleveland chatted freely about himself and his
antecedents.
"I really do not know how it has all come about," he said. "I began in
the smallest of ways as clerk in a store; then I got into a law office"
(I think he said at four dollars a week), "and one thing leading up to
another, I set up as a lawyer myself. For a while I was Mayor of
Buffalo, and then an unexpected opportunity sent me as Governor to
Albany. I can hardly tell you why I am President; I was not anxious to
be Governor, and not ambitious to be President. When my term is ended, I
think, on the whole, that I should like best to be Mayor of Buffalo
again."
I answered that I could well understand that desire, as he might not
find quite so much left to veto there as in other places. This in
allusion to the byname of "the vetoing Mayor of Buffalo" the people had
given him on account of his systematic opposition to all extravagant
expenditure when Governor of the State. It was said he had saved the
taxpayer a million dollars during the first year of his administration.
Then the conversation turned on the responsibilities of statesmen, and I
hazarded the remark that they must weigh heavily on them, especially in
cases where perhaps the fate of nations depended on their decision. What
were Mr. Gladstone's feelings, and how did he sleep, I wondered, after
he had signed the paper authorising the bombardment of Alexandria?
"Well," said the President, "I think he would have slept well. When a
man has fully and carefully considered all facts and arguments that can
help him to a conclusion, and when he has decided to do what he
considers right, according to the best of his judgment, there is no
reason why he should not sleep as soundly as ever he did before."
Such were the characteristic words meditatively and slowly spoken by the
man who was going to be inaugurated, a few days later, in Washington, as
President of the United States, and who henceforth was to take many a
momentous decision, that would affect the weal and woe of millions of
his compatriots--decisions, too, so weighty and far-reaching that on
them might depend the fate of nations, the peace of the world.
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