House, and, needless to say, so many were the requests to be present
that the line had to be drawn very carefully, and, in consequence, the
whole affair assumed an intimate and personal aspect. Alice’s Boston
grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. George C. Lee, were especially welcomed
by Mrs. Roosevelt, and my memory of the great morning of the wedding
has a curiously “homey” quality. I much doubt if there was ever a
function--for a wedding in the White House could hardly be anything but
a function--so simple, so charming, and so informal as that marriage
of the lovely daughter of the White House. Almost all the morning Mrs.
Roosevelt knitted peacefully at the sunny window up-stairs near her
secretary’s desk, chatting quietly with Mrs. Lee. All preparations
seemed to have been made in, the most quiet and efficient manner, for
there was no hurry, no excitement. My husband took Mr. Lee for a walk,
as the dear old gentleman was very much excited at the prospect of his
granddaughter’s nuptials in the “East Room.” Everything seemed to go
on quite as usual until the actual moment came, and Alice Roosevelt,
looking very beautiful in her long court train and graceful veil,
came through the group of interested friends up to the white ribbon
which formed, with flowers, a chancel at the end of the “East Room.”
My brother was at his best--gay, affectionate, full of life and fun,
and later took his son-in-law (no longer “to-be”) and all the ushers,
members of Harvard’s Porcellian Club like himself, into the state
dining-room to drink the health of the bride and groom, and recall
various incidents of his and of their college days.
In March of that year I wrote him that my youngest boy was to debate
at St. Paul’s School on the Santo Domingo question, and he answered at
once, with that marvellous punctuality of his: “I wrote Stewart at once
and sent him all the information I could on the Santo Domingo business.
I wish you were down here. In great haste. Ever yours, T. R.”
In great haste, yes, but not too busy to write to a schoolboy-nephew
“at once,” and give him the most accurate information that could be
given on the question upon which he was to take part in school debate.
Again, when I suggested joining him in his car on his way that fall to
vote at Oyster Bay, he writes: “Three cheers! Now you can join me. We
will have lunch immediately after leaving. I am so anxious to see you.
I shall just love the Longfellow.” [Evidently some special edition that
I am about to bring to him.]
On November 20, with his usual interest in my boys, he sends me a
delightful letter from his ex-cowboy superintendent, Will Merrifield,
with whom they had been hunting in August and September, 1906; and
I am interested to see after reading his opinion of my boys how Mr.
Merrifield, although many years had passed since the old days of the
Elkhorn Ranch, still turns to him for advice, still, beyond all else,
wishes to justify his various ventures in the eyes of his old “boss.”
Merrifield writes: “I have sold my ranch, and will be able to make good
all my financial obligations, which was my great ambition, besides
having something left, so that _I will not take office for the purpose
of making money_. [That was one of Theodore Roosevelt’s perpetual
preachings, that no one should take office for the purpose of making
money.] I can be independent as far as money goes, and _above all_
will be able to make good my word to you years ago, as soon as my
business is straightened out.” He sends me the letter not because of
that sentence, but because, as he says, “This letter from Merrifield is
so nice about Monroe and Stewart that I thought I would send it to you.
How well they did.” Always the same generous joy in the achievements of
any of the younger generation.
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.