faith by his works; I leave to professional theologians the settlement
of the question, whether he is to achieve his salvation by his works or
by faith which is only genuine if it expresses itself in works. Micah’s
insistence upon love and mercy, and doing justice and walking humbly
with the Lord’s will, should suffice if lived up to.... Let the man
not think overmuch of saving his own soul. That will come of itself,
if he tries in good earnest to look after his neighbor both in soul
and in body--remembering always that he had better leave his neighbor
alone rather than show arrogance and lack of tactfulness in the effort
to help him. The church on the other hand must fit itself for the
practical betterment of mankind if it is to attract and retain the
fealty of the men best worth holding and using.”
Space forbids my quoting further from this, to me, exceptionally
interesting article which closes with this sentence: “The man who
does not in some way, active or not, connect himself with some active
working church, misses many opportunities for helping his neighbors and
therefore, incidentally, for helping himself.”
And again, in an address at the old historic church of Johnstown
in Pennsylvania, he makes a great plea for the church of the new
democracy, and lays stress upon the fact that unless individuals can
honestly believe in their hearts that their country would be better
off without any churches, these same individuals must acknowledge the
fact that it is their duty to uphold, by their presence in them, the
churches which they know to be indispensable to the vigor and stability
of the nation.
In the first week of February, 1918, he had arranged to come to me
for a cup of tea to meet one or two literary friends, and the message
came that he was not well and was going to the hospital instead.
The malignant Brazilian fever, always lurking, ready to spring at
his vitality, had shown itself in a peculiarly painful way, and an
operation was considered necessary. As his own sons were far away,
my son Monroe, who was soon to sail for France, was able to assist
in taking him to Roosevelt Hospital, and there the operation was
successfully performed; but within twenty-four hours, an unexpected
danger connected with the ears had arisen, and for one terrible night
the doctors feared for his life, as the trouble threatened the base
of the brain. The rumor spread that he was dying, and on February 8th
the New York _Tribune_ printed at the head of its editorial page this
short and touching sentence: “Theodore Roosevelt--listen! You must be
up and well again; we cannot have it otherwise; we could not run this
world without you.” At the time these words were printed, I was told
by my sister-in-law and by the doctor that he wanted to speak to me
(I had been in the hospital waiting anxiously near his room) and that
they felt that it would trouble him if he did not have his wish; they
cautioned me to put my ear close down to his lips, for even a slight
movement of the head might bring about a fatal result. My readers must
remember what was happening on the other side of the ocean as Theodore
Roosevelt lay sick unto death in the city of his birth. The most
critical period of the Great War was at hand. Very soon the terrible
“March offensive” was to begin. Very soon we were to hear that solemn
call from General Haig that his “back was against the wall.” We were
all keyed up to the highest extent; all of my brother’s sons were at
the front, my own son was about to sail, and at this most critical
moment the man to whom the youth of America looked for leadership was
stricken and laid low.
As I entered the sick-room, all this was in my mind. Controlling myself
to all outward appearance, I put my ear close to his lips, and these
were the words which Theodore Roosevelt said to his sister, words which
he fully believed would be the last he could ever say to her. Thank
God he did speak to me many times again, and we had eleven months more
of close and intimate communion, but at that moment he was facing the
valley of the shadow. As I leaned over him, in a hoarse whisper he
said: “I am so glad that it is not one of my boys who is dying here,
for _they_ can die for their country.”
As he gradually convalesced from that serious illness, many were our
intimate hours of conversation. The hospital was besieged by adoring
multitudes of inquirers. I remember taking a taxicab myself one day to
go there, and when I said to the Italian driver, “Go to the Roosevelt
Hospital,” the quick response came: “You go see Roosevelt--they all
go see Roosevelt--they all go ask how Roosevelt is--he my friend,
too--you tell him get well for me.” Every sort of individual, as he
grew stronger, waited in the corridor for a chance to consult him
on this or that subject. Of course few were allowed to do so, but it
was more than ever evident by the throng of men, distinguished in the
public affairs of the country, who begged admittance even for a few
moments that the “Colonel” was still the Mecca toward which the trend
of political hope was turning!
After a brief rest at Oyster Bay he insisted upon keeping the
appointments to speak in various states, appointments the breaking of
which his illness had necessitated. His great ovation in Maine showed
beyond dispute how the heart of the Republican party was turning to its
old-time leader, and every war work, needless to say, clamored for a
speech from him. One of his most characteristic notes was in connection
with my plea that he should speak at Carnegie Hall for the Red Cross
on a certain May afternoon. Josef Hofmann had promised to come all the
way from Aiken to play for the benefit if Theodore Roosevelt were to be
the speaker of the occasion, and in writing him on the subject, I laid
stress on the sacrifice of time and energy of the great pianist, and
in my zeal apparently gave the impression that my brother was to do a
great favor to Josef Hofmann rather than the Red Cross, and he answers
me humorously: “Darling Corinne:--All right!--A ten-minute speech for
the _pianist_. That goes!” He always considered it a great joke that it
was necessary for Josef Hofmann to have him speak.
That same May one lovely afternoon stands out most clearly. John
Masefield, the great English poet, had been several times in the
country. My brother knew his work well but had not met him, and I
had had that privilege. I wished to take him to Oyster Bay, and the
invitation was gladly forthcoming. It proved fair and beautiful, and
Mr. Masefield and I motored out to luncheon. On the veranda at Sagamore
Hill were my brother and Mrs. Roosevelt, their daughter Mrs. Derby
and her lovely children, and later John Masefield took little Richard
on his lap and wove for him a tale to which we grown people listened,
my brother resting his eyes gladly on the little boy’s head as he
leaned against the poet. After the story was told, we wandered off to
a distant summer-house overlooking both sides of the bay, and there
Theodore Roosevelt and John Masefield spoke intimately together of many
things. It was a day of sunlight in early spring, and the air was full
“of a summer to be,” but under the outward calm and beauty of the sun
and sea lay a poignant sadness for our sons who were in a distant land,
for the moment had come when the American troops were to show their
valor in a great cause.
The day after the Carnegie Hall speech for the Red Cross, one of his
most flaming addresses, in which he pictured the young men of America
as Galahads of modern days, I wrote to him of my gratitude and emotion,
and he answers at once (how did he ever find the time to answer so
immediately so many letters which came to him):
“Darling Corinne:--That is a very dear letter of yours; your sons and
my sons were before my eyes as I spoke. I am leaving tomorrow for the
West until May 31st. I leave again on June 6th, returning on the 13th,
and on Saturday, the 15th, must go to a Trinity College function and
stay with Bye. [Referring to my sister, Mrs. Cowles.] Will you take me
out in your motor to Oyster Bay for dinner when I return?” Already he
had plunged into what he considered his active duty and was overtaxing
his strength--that strength only so lately restored, and not entirely
restored--in the service of his country.
It was at Indiana University in June of that year that he made one
of his most significant pronouncements, a pronouncement especially
significant in the light of the so-called Sinn Fein activities during
the last two years in this country. He was very fond of the Irish, and
fond of many of the Irish-born citizens of America, and always loved to
refer to his own Irish blood, but he had no sympathy whatsoever with
certain attitudes taken by certain Irish-born or naturalized Americans
under the name, falsely used, of patriotism, and he speaks his mind
courageously and clearly at Indiana University.
“Friends, it is unpatriotic and un-American to damage America because
you love another country, but there is one thing worse and that is
to damage America because you hate another country. The Sinn Feiner
who acts against America because he hates England is a worse creature
than the member of the German-American Alliance who has acted against
America because he loves Germany. I want to point out this bit of
etymological information: Sinn Fein means ‘Us, Ourselves.’ It means
that those who adopt that name are fighting for themselves, for a
certain division of people across the sea. What right have they to come
to America? Their very name shows that they are not American; that they
are for themselves against America.”
In July, when I had been threatened with rather serious trouble in my
eyes, he again writes with his usual unfailing sympathy: “I think of
you all the time. I so hate to have you threatened by trouble with
your eyes or any other trouble. Edgar Lee Masters spent a couple of
hours here yesterday. Ethel and her two blessed bunnies have gone. I
miss Pitty Pat and Tippy Toe frightfully.” Little “Edie,” his youngest
granddaughter, was a special pet, and rarely did one visit Sagamore at
that time without finding the lovely rosy baby in his arms. He could
hardly pass her baby-carriage when she slept without stopping to look
at her, for which nefarious action he was sometimes severely chastised
by the stern young mother. But the burning heart of Theodore Roosevelt
could hardly ever be assuaged even by the sweet unconsciousness of the
little children who knew not of the dangers faced so gallantly by their
father and their mother’s brothers.
America had been over fourteen months in the Great War when an
editorial appeared in one of the important newspapers called “The
Impatience of Theodore Roosevelt.” It ran as follows:
“There is a certain disposition to criticise Theodore Roosevelt for
what is termed his ultra views regarding the war. It is not all
captious criticism. Some people honestly feel that he has been
impatient and fault-finding. Much of the picture is true. He _has_ been
impatient; he _has_ taken what may be called an ultra position; he
_has_ found fault, but we should like to point out one very distinct
fact. Theodore Roosevelt from the first day we entered the war has
stood unswervingly and whole-heartedly for throwing the complete
strength of the nation into the war. For that matter, he held this
position, preached this doctrine long before we entered the war. He
preached the draft, he preached preparation, he preached the sending
of the largest possible army to France,--_from the beginning_. Now the
fact we wish to point out is that the country is not growing _away_
from Theodore Roosevelt’s position,--it is growing toward it. It has
been actually moving toward it of late very rapidly. This is true not
merely of the great mass of people, but of their representatives at
Washington, ... and perhaps even some members of the Cabinet and the
President himself. Practically the whole nation _now_ is unreservedly
for throwing the whole strength of the nation to the side of the
allies. This was not true a year ago today, although we had then been
officially at war with Germany for more than two months. Today the
whole nation stands where Theodore Roosevelt stood one year ago, and
two years ago, and three years ago.--In point of fact, ever since the
day when by the sinking of the _Lusitania_, Germany declared itself an
outlaw to the name of civilization. We do not mean to say that Theodore
Roosevelt was the nation’s sole leader, but we do wish to say that
he was very distinctly a leader, and later, in the highest and best
sense,--a man who saw, far ahead of many others, what ought to be and
what must be, and then threw his whole heart and soul into bringing
the nation and many reluctant minds to his point of view. We write: He
may have been impatient; he may have found fault, but we think that
most Americans of whatever party color, if they now have any regrets,
have these regrets because we could not earlier have come nearer to
the ideal set up a year, or two years, or three years ago by Theodore
Roosevelt. If this is not one of the highest standards of leadership,
we do not understand the meaning of the term.”
Events were moving rapidly. Our American soldiers were already playing
a gallant part in the terrible drama enacted on the fields and forests
of France and in the fastnesses of the Italian hills. News had come of
“Archie’s” wounds and of “Ted’s” wounds, and Quentin had already made
his trial flights, while Kermit had been transferred from the British
army to his own flag.
Political events in America were also marching rapidly forward.
Already, wherever one lent a listening ear, the growing murmur rose
louder and louder that Theodore Roosevelt was the only candidate to
be nominated by the Republican party in 1920. The men who had parted
from him in 1912, the men who had not rallied around him in 1916, were
all eagerly ranging themselves on the side of this importunate rumor.
A culminating moment was approaching. It was the middle of July, and
the informal convention of the Republican party in New York State was
about to take place at Saratoga. My eldest son, State Senator Theodore
Douglas Robinson, led a number of men in the opposition of the then
incumbent of the gubernatorial chair, Charles S. Whitman. The hearts
of many were strong with desire that my brother himself should be the
Republican nominee for the next governor of New York State. No one knew
his attitude on the subject, but he had promised to make the address of
the occasion, my son having been appointed to make the request that he
should do so. My husband and I had arranged to meet him in Saratoga, my
son having preceded us to Albany to make all the formal arrangements.
The day before the convention was to take place the terrible news came
that Quentin was killed. Of course there was a forlorn hope that this
information might not be true, that the gallant boy might perhaps have
reached the earth alive and might already be a prisoner in a German
camp, but there seemed but little doubt of the truth of the terrible
fact. My son telephoned me the news from Albany before the morning
paper could arrive at my country home, and at the same time said to me
that he did not feel justified in asking his Uncle Theodore whether
he still would come to Saratoga, but that he wanted me to get this
information for him if possible.
My country home in the Mohawk Hills of New York State is many miles
from Sagamore Hill on Long Island, and it was difficult to get
telephone connection. My heart was unspeakably sore and heavy at the
thought of the terrible sorrow that had come to my sister-in-law and my
brother, and I shrank from asking any question concerning any matter
except the sad news of the death of Quentin, or imminent danger to him.
My brother himself came to the telephone; the sound of his voice was as
if steel had entered into the tone. As years before he had written me
from South Africa in my own great sorrow, he had “grasped the nettle.”
I asked him whether he would like me to come down at once to Oyster
Bay, and his answer was almost harsh in its rapidity: “Of course not--I
will meet you in Saratoga as arranged. It is more than ever my duty
to be there. You can come down to New York after the convention.” The
very tone of his voice made me realize the agony in his heart, but duty
was paramount. The affairs of his State, the affairs of the nation,
needed his counsel, needed his self-control. His boy had paid the final
price of duty; was he, the father who had taught that boy the ideal of
service and sacrifice, to shrink in cowardly fashion at the crucial
moment?
The next day I met him in Albany and motored him to Saratoga. His face
was set and grave, but he welcomed my sympathy generously. Meanwhile,
the night before there had been great excitement in Saratoga. A number
of delegates were in favor of renominating Governor Charles S. Whitman
on the Republican ticket, but a large and important group of men, in
fact, the largest and most important group in the Republican party of
New York State, were extremely anxious that Colonel Roosevelt should
allow his name to be brought forward as a candidate for governor.
Elihu Root, William Howard Taft, and many of the weighty “bosses” of
the various counties lent all their efforts toward this achievement.
Colonel Roosevelt, on his arrival in Saratoga, took a quiet luncheon
with my family, Mrs. Parsons, and myself, after which we adjourned
to the large hall in which the convention was to be held. I remember
before we left him that Mrs. Parsons suggested the insertion of a
sentence in the speech which he was about to make, and his immediate
and grateful response to the suggestion. No one had a more open mind to
the helpful suggestion of others.
The great hall was already filled to overflowing when we arrived, and
it was difficult for us to find our seats, even although they had been
carefully reserved for us. The atmosphere of the crowd in the great
building was different from that of any concourse of people who had
hitherto waited the coming of Theodore Roosevelt. At other times, in
other crowds, when their favorite leader was expected, there had always
been a quality of hilarity and gay familiarity showing itself in songs
and demonstrations in which the oft-repeated “We want Teddy--we want
Teddy” almost always was heard, but in this great assemblage there was
a hushed silence and solicitude for their beloved friend, a personal
outflowing of silent sympathy for the man whose youngest, whose
“Benjamin,” had so lately paid the final price, and even a few minutes
later, when to the strains of the “Star-Spangled-Banner,” Colonel
Roosevelt was escorted up the aisle by my son, Senator Robinson, and
Congressman Cox, from his own Nassau County, the many faces turned
eagerly to watch him showed in strained eyes and set though quivering
lips their efforts at self-control. As he began his speech, we realized
fully that he was holding himself firmly together, but as he poured
out his message of Americanism, as he pleaded for the finer and truer
patriotism to be brought more closely and definitely into political
action, he lost the sense of the great bereavement that had come to
him, in his dedication anew to the effort to arouse in his countrymen
the selfless desire for service, with which he had always fronted
the problems of his own life. Toward the end of the speech, though he
never referred to his sorrow, the realization of it again gripped him
with its inevitable torture, and again the people who sat in breathless
silence--listening to one to whom they had always listened--followed in
their hearts the hard path that he was bravely treading.
The convention adjourned, and he asked the leaders to wait until the
following day, at least, for his answer to the Round-Robin request
which had been sent to him, but he did not give much hope that he would
look favorably upon their desire that he should allow his name to be
put in nomination as candidate for governor. I motored him back to
Albany and took the train with him for New York. In recalling the hours
of intercourse that afternoon and early evening, the great impression
made upon my mind by his attitude was one of ineffable gentleness.
Never was he more loving in his interest about me and mine; never was
he less thoughtful of self. I realized that he needed quiet, and when
I found that my seat was in a different car from his, although several
people offered to change their seats with me, I felt that after our
drive together, it would do him more good to be alone and read than
to try to talk to me. I told him I would order our dinner and would
come back for him when it was time for the meal, and I left him with
his usual book in his hand. When I came back, however, I stood behind
him for a moment or two before making myself known to him again, and
I could see that he was not reading, that his sombre eyes were fixed
on the swiftly passing woodlands and the river, and that the book had
not the power of distracting him from the all-embracing grief which
enveloped him. When I spoke, however, he turned with a responsive
smile, and during our whole meal gave me, as ever, the benefit of his
delightful knowledge of all the affairs of the world.
Only once during our talk did he speak of the Round-Robin, and
especially of my son’s desire that he should be the nominee for
governor. He used an expression in discussing the matter which gave
me at once a sense of almost physical apprehension. Looking at me
gravely, he said: “Corinne, I have only one fight left in me, and I
think I should reserve my strength in case I am needed in 1920.” The
contraction of my heart was swift and painful, and I said: “Theodore,
you don’t feel really ill, do you?” “No,” he said; “but I am not what
I was and there is only one fight left in me.” I suggested that that
fight would probably be made easier by this premonitory battle, but he
shook his head and I could see that there was but little chance of his
undertaking the factional warfare of a state campaign, nor did he seem
to feel, as did some others, that to win the election for governor of
New York State would be of distinct advantage in connection with the
great fight to come in 1920. The following week Theodore Roosevelt
definitely refused to let his name be put before the people as a
candidate for the governorship of the Empire State.
That evening on arriving late in New York, he would not let me go to
the Langdon Hotel with him, but insisted on taking me to my own house.
The next morning I went early to the Langdon, hoping for better news,
and saw my sister-in-law, whose wonderful self-control was a lesson
to all those who have had to meet the ultimate pain of life. I could
see that she had but little hope, but for my brother’s sake, until the
actual confirmation of Quentin’s death, she bravely hoped for hope.
Later, Colonel Roosevelt made a statement from Oyster Bay in connection
with the many telegrams and cables of sympathy which they received. He
said: “These messages were not meant for publication but to express
sympathy with Quentin’s father and mother, and sorrow for a gallant
boy who had been doing his duty like hundreds of thousands of young
Americans. Many of them indeed, I think, were really an expression of
sympathy from the mothers and fathers who have gladly and proudly, and
yet with sorrow, seen the sons they love go forth to battle for their
country and the right. These telegrams, cables, and letters show the
spirit of our whole people.”
The noble attitude of my brother and sister-in-law roused deep
admiration, and I have always felt that their influence was never more
felt than when with aching hearts they continued quietly to go about
their daily duties.