every letter, especially in the letters to their mutual little friend
“Edie.” On January 25 this admiration is summed up in a postscript
which says: “Teedie is out shooting now. He is quite professionist [no
higher praise could apparently be given than this remarkable word]
in shooting, skinning and stuffing, and he is so satisfied.” This
expression seems to sum up the absolute sense of well-being during that
wonderful winter of the delicate boy, who, in spite of his delicacy,
always achieved his heart’s desire.
In the efforts of his little sister to be a worthy companion, I find in
my diary, written that same winter of the Nile, one abortive struggle
on my own part to become a naturalist. On the page at the end of my
journal I write in large letters:
NATURAL HISTORY
“QUAIL
“Ad. near Alexandria, Egypt, November 27th, 1872. Length 5--Expanse
13.0 Wings 5 Tail 1.3--Bill 5. Tarsus 1.2 Middle Toe 1.1 Hind Toe
.3.”
Under these mystic signs is a more elaborate and painstaking
description of the above bird. I can see my brother now giving me a
serious lecture on the subject, and trying to inspire a mind at that
time securely closed to all such interests--to open at least a crack
of its reluctant door, for “Teedie” felt that to walk with blind
eyes in a world of such fluttering excitement as was made for him by
the birds of the air showed an innate depravity which he wished with
all his soul to cure in his beloved little sister. At the end of my
description of the quail I fall by the wayside, and only once again
make an excursion into the natural history of the great land of Egypt;
only once more do I struggle with the description of a bird called
this time by the curious name of “Ziczac.” (Could this be “Zigzag,” or
was it simply my childish mind that zigzagged in its painful efforts
to follow the impossible trail of my elder brother?) In my account of
this, to say the least, unusual bird I remark: “Tarsus not finished.”
Whether _I_ have not finished the tarsus, or whether the bird itself
had an arrested development of some kind, I do not explain; and on
the blank page opposite this final effort in scientific adventure I
finish, as I began, by the words “_Natural History_,” and underneath
them, to explain my own unsuccessful efforts, I write: “My Brother,
Theodore Roosevelt, Esq.” Whether I had decided that all natural
history was summed up in that magic name, or whether from that time on
I was determined to leave all natural history to my brother, Theodore
Roosevelt, Esq., I do not know; but the fact remains that from that day
to this far distant one I have never again dipped into the mystery of
mandibles and tarsi.
* * * * *
And so the sunny, happy days on the great river passed away. A merry
eighteenth-birthday party in January for my sister Anna took the form
of a moonlight ride to the great temple of Karnak, and, although we
younger ones, naturally tired frequently of the effort to understand
history and hieroglyphics, and turned with joy even in the shadow of
the grand columns of Abydos to the game of “Buzz,” still I can say with
truth that the easily moulded and receptive minds of the three little
children responded to the atmosphere of the great river with its mighty
past, and all through the after-years the interest aroused in those
early days stimulated their craving for knowledge about the land of the
Pharaohs.
On our way down the river an incident occurred which, in a sense,
was also memorable. At Rhoda on our return from the tombs of Beni
Hasan we found that a dahabeah had drawn up near ours, on which were
the old sage Ralph Waldo Emerson and his daughter. My father, who
never lost a chance of bringing into the lives of his children some
worth-while memory, took us all to see the old poet, and I often think
with pleasure of the lovely smile, somewhat vacant, it is true, but
very gentle, with which he received the little children of his fellow
countryman.
It was at this time that the story was told in connection with Mr.
Emerson that some sentimental person said: “How wonderful to think of
Emerson looking at the Sphinx! What a message the Sphinx must have had
for Emerson.” Whereupon an irreverent wit replied: “The only message
the Sphinx could possibly have had for Emerson must have been ‘You’re
another.’” I can quite understand now, remembering the mystic, dreamy
face of the old philosopher, how this witticism came about.
* * * * *
And now the Nile trip was over and we were back again in Cairo, and
planning for the further interest of a trip through the Holy Land. Mr.
Thayer and Mr. Jay, two of the young friends who had accompanied us on
the Nile, decided to join our party, and after a short stay in Cairo
we again left for Alexandria and thence sailed for Jaffa. In my diary
I write at the Convent of Ramleh between Jaffa and Jerusalem, where we
spent our first night: “In Jaffa we chose our horses, which was very
exciting, and started on our long ride. After three hours of delightful
riding through a great many green fields, we reached this convent and
found they had no room for ladies, because they were not allowed to go
into one part of the building as it was against the rules, but at last
Father got the old monks to allow us to come into another part of the
convent for just one night.”
“Father,” like his namesake, almost always got what he wanted.
From that time on one adventure after another followed. I write of many
nice gallops, and of my horse lying down in the middle of streams; and,
incidentally with less interest, of the Mount of Olives and the Church
of the Holy Sepulchre! Antonio Sapienza proved to be an admirable
dragoman, and always the practical part of the tenting cavalcade
started early in the morning, and therefore as the rest of us rode
over the hills in the later afternoon we would see arranged cosily in
some beautiful valley the white tents, with the curling smoke from the
kitchen-tent already rising with the promise of a delightful dinner.
Over Jordan we went, and what a very great disappointment Jordan was
to our childish minds, which had always pictured a broad river and
great waves parting for the Ark of the Covenant to pass. This Jordan
was a little stream hardly more impressive than the brook at our old
home at Madison, and we could not quite accustom ourselves to the
disappointment. But Jerusalem with its narrow streets and gates,
its old churches, the high Mount of Olives, and the little town of
Bethlehem not far away, and, even more interesting from the standpoint
of beauty, the vision of the Convent of Mar Saba on the high hill not
far from Hebron, and beyond all else the blue sparkling waters of the
Dead Sea, all remain in my memory as a wonderful panorama of romance
and delight.
Arab sheiks visited us frequently in the evening and brought their
followers to dance for us, and wherever my father went he accumulated
friends of all kinds and colors, and we, his children, shared in the
marvellous atmosphere he created. I remember, in connection with the
Dead Sea, that “Teedie” and Mr. Jay decided that they could sink in
it, although the guides had warned them that the salt was so buoyant
that it was impossible for any living thing to sink in the waters (the
Dead Sea was about the most alive sea that I personally have ever
seen), and so the two adventurous ones undertook to dive, and tried
to remain under water. “Teedie” fortunately relinquished the effort
almost immediately, but Mr. Jay, who in a spirit of bravado struggled
to remain at the bottom, suffered the ill effects from crusted salt in
eyes and ears for many hours after leaving the water.
For about three weeks we rode through the Holy Land, and my memory of
many flowers remains as one of the charms of that trip. Later, led in
the paths of botany by a beloved friend, I often longed to go back to
that land of flowers; but then to my childish eyes they meant nothing
but beauty and delight.
After returning to Jerusalem and Jaffa we took ship again and landed
this time at Beyrout, and started on another camping-trip to Damascus,
through perhaps the most beautiful scenery which we had yet enjoyed.
During that trip also we had various adventures. I describe in my diary
how my father, at one of our stopping-places, brought to our tents some
beautiful young Arab girls, how they gave us oranges and nuts, and how
cordially they begged us, when a great storm came up and our tents were
blown away, to come for shelter to their quaint little houses.
Even to the minds of the children of eleven and fourteen years of age,
the great Temple of Baalbek proved a lure of beauty, and the diary
sagely remarks that “It is quite as beautiful as Karnak, although in
an entirely different way, as Baalbek has delicate columns, and Karnak
great, massive columns.” The beauty, however, is not a matter of such
interest as the mysterious little subterranean passages, and I tell how
“Teedie” helped me to climb the walls and little tower, and to crawl
through these same unexplored dark places.
The ride into Damascus itself remains still an expedition of glamour,
for we reached the vicinity of the city by a high cliff, and the
city burst upon us with great suddenness, its minarets stretching
their delicate, arrow-like spires to the sky in so Oriental a fashion
that even the practical hearts of the little American children
responded with a thrill of excitement. Again, after an interesting
stay in Damascus, we made our way back to Beyrout. While waiting for
the steamer there my brother Elliott was taken ill, and writes in a
homesick fashion to the beloved aunt to whom we confided all our joys
and woes. Poor little boy! He says pathetically: “Oh, Auntie, you don’t
know how I long for a finishing-up of this ever-lasting traveling, when
we can once more sit down to breakfast, dinner and lunch in our own
house. Since I have been sick and only allowed rice and chicken,--and
very little of them--I have longed for one of our rice puddings, and
a pot of that strawberry jam, and one of Mary’s sponge cakes, and I
have thought of when I would go to your rooms for dinner and what jolly
chops and potatoes and dessert I would get there, and when I would come
to breakfast we would have _buckwheat cakes_. Perhaps I am a little
homesick.” I am not so sure but what many an intelligent traveller,
could his or her heart be closely examined, would find written upon it
“lovely potatoes, chops and hot buckwheat cakes.”
But all the same, in spite of “Ellie’s” rhapsody, off we started on
another steamer, and my father writes on March 28, 1873:
Steamer off Rhodes.
Teedie is in great spirits, as the sailors have caught for him
numerous specimens, which he stuffs on deck, to the edification of
a large audience.
I write during the same transit, after stopping at Athens, that “It is
a very lovely town, and that I should have liked to stay there longer,
but that was not to be.” I also decided that although the ruins were
beautiful, I did not like them as much as either Karnak or Baalbek.
Having dutifully made these architectural criticisms, I turn with gusto
to the fact that Tom and Fannie Lawrence, “Teedie,” “Ellie,” and I
have such splendid games of tag on the different steamers, and that I
know my aunt would have enjoyed seeing us. The tag was “con amore,”
while the interest in the temples was, I fear, somewhat induced. Our
comprehending mother and father, however, always allowed us joyous
moments between educational efforts. In a letter from Constantinople
written by “Ellie” on April 7, he says: “We have had Tom and Frank
Lawrence here to dinner, and we had a splendid game of ‘muggins’ and
tried to play eucre (I don’t know that this is rightly spelled) with
five, but did not suceede, Teedie did make such mistakes. [Not such an
expert in cards, you see, as in tarsi and mandibles!] But we were in
such spirits that it made no difference, and we did nothing but shout
at the top of our voices the battle cry of freedom; and the playing of
a game of slapjack helped us get off our steam with hard slaps, but
even then there was enough (steam) left in Teedie and Tom to have a
candle fight and grease their clothes, and poor Frank’s and mine, who
were doing nothing at all!” As one can see by this description, the
learned and rather delicate “Teedie” was only a normal, merry boy after
all. “Ellie” describes also the wonderful rides in Constantinople, and
many other joys planned by our indulgent parents. From that same city,
called because of its many steeples The City of Minarets, “Teedie”
writes to his little friend Edith:
I think I have enjoyed myself more this winter than I ever did
before. Much to add to my enjoyment Father gave me a gun at
Christmas, which rendered me happy and the rest of the family
miserable.
I killed several hundred birds with it, and then went and lost it!
I think I enjoyed the time in Egypt most, and after that I had the
most fun while camping out in Syria.
While camping out we were on horseback for several hours of each
day, and as I like riding ever so much, and as the Syrian horses
are very good, we had a splendid time. While riding I bothered the
family somewhat by carrying the gun over my shoulder, and on the
journey to the Jordan, when I was on the most spirited horse I ever
rode, I bothered the horse too, as was evidenced by his running
away several times when the gun struck him too hard. Our tent life
had a good many adventures in it. Once it rained very hard and the
rain went into our open trunks. Another time our tents were almost
blown away in a rough wind, and once I hunted a couple of jackals
for two or three miles as fast as the horse could go.
Yours truly,
T. ROOSEVELT, JR.
This little missive sums up the joy of “Teedie’s” winter in Egypt and
Syria, and so it seems a fitting moment to turn to other interests
and occupations, leaving the mysterious land of the pyramids and that
sacred land of mountains and flowers behind us in a glow of child
memories, which as year followed year became brighter rather than
dimmer.
III
THE DRESDEN LITERARY AMERICAN CLUB
MOTTO “W. A. N. A.”
It was a sad change to the three young American children to settle in
Dresden in two German families, after the care-free and stimulating
experiences of Egypt and the Holy Land. Our wise parents, however,
realized that a whole year of irregularity was a serious mistake in
that formative period of our lives, and they also wished to leave no
stone unturned to give us every educational advantage during our twelve
months’ absence from home and country. It was decided, therefore,
that the two boys should be placed in the family of Doctor and Mrs.
Minckwitz, while I, a very lone and homesick small girl, was put with
some kind but far too elderly people, Professor and Mrs. Wackernagel.
This last arrangement was supposed to be advantageous, so that the
brothers and sister should not speak too much English together. The
kind old professor and his wife and the daughters, who seemed to the
little girl of eleven years on the verge of the grave (although only
about forty years of age), did all that was in their power to lighten
the agonized longing in the child’s heart for her mother and sister,
but to no avail, for I write to my mother, who had gone to Carlsbad
for a cure: “I was perfectly miserable and very much unstrung when
Aunt Lucy wrote to you that no one could mention your name or I would
instantly begin to cry. Oh! Mother darling, sometimes I feel that I
cannot stand it any longer but I am going to try to follow a motto
which Father wrote to me, ‘Try to have the best time you can.’ I
should be very sorry to disappoint Father but sometimes I feel as if I
could not stand it any longer. We will talk it over when you come. Your
own little Conie.”
Poor little girl! I was trying to be noble; for my father, who had
been obliged to return to America for business reasons, had impressed
me with the fact that to spend part of the summer in a German family
and thus learn the language was an unusual opportunity, and one that
must be seized upon. My spirit was willing, but my flesh was very, very
weak, and the age of the kind people with whom I had been placed, the
strange, dreadful, black bread, the meat that was given only as a great
treat after it had been boiled for soup--everything, in fact, conduced
to a feeling of great distance from the lovely land of buckwheat cakes
and rare steak, not to mention the separation from the beloved brothers
whom I was allowed to see only at rare intervals during the week. The
consequence was that very soon my mother came back to Dresden in answer
to the pathos of my letters, for I found it impossible to follow that
motto, so characteristic of my father, “Try to have the best time you
can.” I began to sicken very much as the Swiss mountaineers are said
to lose their spirits and appetites when separated from their beloved
mountains; so my mother persuaded the kind Minckwitz family to take
me under their roof, as well as my brothers, and from that time forth
there was no more melancholy, no bursting into poetic dirges constantly
celebrating the misery of a young American in a German family.
From the time that I was allowed to be part of the Minckwitz family
everything seemed to be fraught with interest and many pleasures as
well as with systematic good hard work. In these days, when the word
“German” has almost a sinister sound in the ears of an American, I
should like to speak with affectionate respect of _that_ German family
in which the three little American children passed several happy
months. The members of the family were typically Teutonic in many ways:
the Herr Hofsrath was the kindliest of creatures, and his rubicund,
smiling wife paid him the most loving court; the three daughters--gay,
well-educated, and very temperamental young women--threw themselves
into the work of teaching us with a hearty good will, which met with
real response from us, as that kind of effort invariably does. Our
two cousins, the same little cousins who had shared the happy summer
memories of Madison, New Jersey, when we were much younger, were also
in Dresden with their mother, Mrs. Stuart Elliott, the “Aunt Lucy”
referred to frequently in our letters. Aunt Lucy was bravely facing
the results of the sad Civil War, and her only chance of giving her
children a proper education was to take them to a foreign country where
the possibility of good schools, combined with inexpensive living,
suited her depleted income. Her little apartment on Sunday afternoons
was always open to us all, and there we, five little cousins formed the
celebrated “D. L. A. C.” (Dresden Literary American Club!)
On June 2 I wrote to my friend “Edie”: “We five children have gotten
up a club and meet every Sunday at Aunt Lucy’s, and read the poetry
and stories that we have written during the week. When the book is all
done, we will sell the book either to mother or Aunt Annie and divide
the money; (although on erudition bent, still of commercial mind!)
_I_ am going to write poetry all the time. My first poem was called
‘A Sunny Day in June.’ Next time I am going to give ‘The Lament of
an American in a German Family.’ It is an entirely different style I
assure you.” The “different style” is so very poor that I refrain from
quoting that illustrious poem.
[Illustration: The Dresden Literary American Club--Motto, “W. A. N. A.”
(“We Are No Asses”).
From left to right: Theodore Roosevelt, aged 14¾ years; Elliott
Roosevelt, aged 13½ years; Maud Elliott, aged 12¾ years; Corinne
Roosevelt, aged 11¾ years; John Elliott, aged 14½ years. July 1, 1873.]
The work for the D. L. A. C. proved to be a very entertaining pastime,
and great competition ensued. A motto was chosen by “Johnnie” and
“Ellie,” who were the wits of the society. The motto was spoken of with
bated breath and mysteriously inscribed W. A. N. A. underneath the
mystic signs of D. L. A. C. For many a long year no one but those in
our strictest confidence were allowed to know that “W. A. N. A.” stood
for “We Are No Asses.” This, perhaps somewhat untruthful statement,
was objected to originally by “Teedie,” who firmly maintained that
the mere making of such a motto showed that “Johnnie” and “Ellie”
were certainly exceptions that proved that rule. “Teedie” himself,
struggling as usual with terrible attacks of asthma that perpetually
undermined his health and strength, was all the same, between the
attacks, the ringleader in fun and gaiety and every imaginable humorous
adventure. He was a slender, overgrown boy at the time, and wore his
hair long in true German student fashion, and adopted a would-be
philosopher type of look, effectively enhanced by trousers that were
outgrown, and coat sleeves so short that they gave him a “Smike”-like
appearance. His contributions to the immortal literary club were either
serious and very accurate from a natural-historical standpoint, or else
they showed, as comparatively few of his later writings have shown,
the delightful quality of humor which, through his whole busy life,
lightened for him every load and criticism. I cannot resist giving in
full the fascinating little story called “Mrs. Field Mouse’s Dinner
Party,” in which the personified animals played social parts, in the
portrayal of which my brother divulged (my readers must remember he was
only fourteen) a knowledge of “society” life, its acrid jealousies and
hypocrisies, of which he never again seemed to be conscious.
MRS. FIELD MOUSE’S DINNER PARTY
BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT--AGED FOURTEEN
“My Dear,” said Mrs. M. to Mr. M. one day as they were sitting on
an elegant acorn sofa, just after breakfast, “My Dear, I think that
we really must give a dinner party.” “A What, my love?” exclaimed
Mr. M. in a surprised tone. “A Dinner Party”; returned Mrs. M.
firmly, “you have no objections I suppose?”
“Of course not, of course not,” said Mr. M. hastily, for there was
an ominous gleam in his wife’s eye. “But--but why have it yet for a
while, my love?” “Why indeed! A pretty question! After that odious
Mrs. Frog’s great tea party the other evening! But that is just
it, you never have any proper regard for your station in life, and
on me involves all the duty of keeping up appearances, and after
all _this_ is the gratitude I get for it!” And Mrs. M. covered her
eyes and fell into hysterics of 50 flea power. Of course, Mr. M.
had to promise to have it whenever she liked.
“Then the day after tomorrow would not be too early, I suppose?”
“My Dear,” remonstrated the unfortunate Mr. M., but Mrs. M. did not
heed him and continued: “You could get the cheese and bread from
Squeak, Nibble & Co. with great ease, and the firm of Brown House
and Wood Rats, with whom you have business relations, you told me,
could get the other necessaries.”
“But in such a short time,” commenced Mr. M. but was sharply cut
off by the lady; “Just like you, Mr. M.! Always raising objections!
and when I am doing all I can to help you!” Symptoms of hysterics
and Mr. M. entirely convinced, the lady continues: “Well, then we
will have it the day after tomorrow. By the way, I hear that Mr.
Chipmunck has got in a new supply of nuts, and you might as well
go over after breakfast and get them, before they are bought by
someone else.”
“I have a business engagement with Sir Butterfly in an hour,” began
Mr. M. but stopped, meekly got his hat and went off at a glance
from Mrs. M.’s eye.
When he was gone, the lady called down her eldest daughter, the
charming Miss M. and commenced to arrange for the party.
“We will use the birch bark plates,”--commenced Mrs. M.
“And the chestnut ‘tea set,’” put in her daughter.
“With the maple leaf vases, of course,” continued Mrs. M.
“And the eel bone spoons and forks,” added Miss M.
“And the dog tooth knives,” said the lady.
“And the slate table cloth,” replied her daughter.
“Where shall we have the ball anyhow,” said Mrs. M.
“Why, Mr. Blind Mole has let his large subterranean apartments and
that would be the best place,” said Miss M.
“Sir Lizard’s place, ‘Shady Nook,’ which we bought the other day,
is far better _I_ think,” said Mrs. M. “But _I_ don’t,” returned
her daughter. “Miss M. be still,” said her mother sternly, and Miss
M. _was_ still. So it was settled that the ball was to be held at
‘Shady Nook.’