Wilson

by A. Scott Berg

  Nobody divulged as much to the public. “No details, no explanations” were the orders of the day, recalled Ike Hoover. Outside the White House, people knew only that the President was suffering from nervous exhaustion and that such attendant conditions as his intestinal troubles were manifestations of the assault on his central nervous system. Only the few within earshot of the Lincoln Bed even uttered the word “stroke.” Grayson told the press that he was confident Wilson’s “reserve stamina . . . will carry him through the crisis.”

  Within days, the President had emerged from danger but had entered a twilight zone—a state of physical exhaustion, emotional turbulence, and mental unrest. The “burning question,” Edith Wilson would later explain in her memoirs, became “how Mr. Wilson might best serve the country, preserve his own life and if possible recover.” That did not necessarily reflect the order of her priorities, as she asked the doctors for their candor. They all asserted that Wilson’s brain was “as clear as ever” and that the immediate upturn in his condition suggested something close to a full recovery lay ahead. But, they insisted, recovery was unattainable “unless the President were released from every disturbing problem during these days of Nature’s effort to repair the damage done.”

  Edith asked how that was possible when a Chief Executive only deals with problems. Dr. Dercum—with his bald head and walrus mustache—leaned toward her with an unexpected nostrum. “Madam,” he said, “it is a grave situation, but I think you can solve it. Have everything come to you; weigh the importance of each matter, and see if it is possible by consultation with the respective heads of the Departments to solve them without the guidance of your husband. In this way you can save him a great deal.” Dercum reminded her that the President’s nerves were “crying out for rest” and that “every time you take him a new anxiety or problem to excite him, you are turning a knife in an open wound.”

  Edith suggested allowing Vice President Marshall to succeed, as the Constitution stipulated, thus granting the President the vital rest he required. Dercum disagreed. “For Mr. Wilson to resign,” he explained, “would have a bad effect on the country, and a serious effect on our patient.” In terms more political than medical, he noted that the President had staked his life on ratification of the Treaty. If he resigned, Dercum said, “the greatest incentive to recovery is gone.” As the President’s mind remained “clear as crystal,” Dercum said Woodrow Wilson “can still do more with even a maimed body than any one else.” Grayson had told Dercum of the President’s having discussed all public affairs of the last four years privately with Edith. Knowing that, Dercum deputized her, insisting, “He has the utmost confidence in you.”

  “So began my stewardship,” Edith would admit two decades later. In that capacity, she would determine not only what matters should come before the President but also when. More than a mere sentry, the second Mrs. Wilson took it upon herself to filter and analyze every issue that required Presidential action, executing those duties to the best of her ability. As she explained: “I studied every paper, sent from the different Secretaries or Senators, and tried to digest and present in tabloid form the things that, despite my vigilance, had to go to the President.” In insisting that she never “made a single decision regarding the disposition of public affairs,” Mrs. Wilson failed to acknowledge the commanding nature of her role, that in determining the daily agenda and formulating arguments thereon, she executed the physical and most of the mental duties of the office.

  Edith Bolling Wilson did not become, as some have asserted, “the first female President of the United States.” But she came close. She considered herself more of a lady-in-waiting to her husband than an executive; but she was in a position to act, while he could only react. Unschooled in politics—and unskilled—she held not the least desire for any power, other than the power to heal her husband. She just wanted Woodrow to get better.

  And so began the greatest conspiracy that had ever engulfed the White House. With only virtuous intent, the plot unfolded—one that was hardly a scrupulous interpretation of the Constitution, which provided for “the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation or Inability” of the President with the ascension of the Vice President “until the Disability be removed, or a President shall be elected.” The devoted wife, the dedicated physician, and—soon—the devout secretary debated among themselves how to proceed, even though the legal issue ought not have been theirs to decide. But the Constitution provided neither means nor measures to determine Presidential disability, so they took the law of the land into their own hands, concluding what best served Woodrow Wilson best served the country. Their behavior tacitly acknowledged that this was a power grab, as they enshrouded the Presidency in as much secrecy as possible.

  With the White House ominously dark and silent, Lansing, the most discontented Cabinet member, wanted answers. Without realizing that Wilson’s illness was all that had kept him from being discharged, the Secretary of State requested a private audience with Tumulty. The Secretary came to the Cabinet Room at 11:30 on Friday, October 3, to propose that Vice President Marshall serve in a Presidential capacity. Lansing carried a volume known as Jefferson’s Manual—parliamentary procedure for use in the Senate—from which he read aloud the Constitutional clause describing the circumstances under which the duties shall devolve upon the Vice President. Tumulty grew indignant. “Mr. Lansing,” he said brusquely, “the Constitution is not a dead letter with the White House. I have read the Constitution and do not find myself in need of any tutoring at your hands.” He asked Lansing just who should declare the President’s disability, and Lansing said that should fall upon either Dr. Grayson or Tumulty himself.

  “You may rest assured that while Woodrow Wilson is lying in the White House on the broad of his back I will not be a party to ousting him,” said his first and most faithful political aide. “He has been too kind, too loyal, and too wonderful to me to receive such treatment at my hands.” At that moment, Dr. Grayson appeared. Tumulty turned to him and said, “And I am sure that Doctor Grayson will never certify to this disability. Will you, Grayson?” The doctor assured Lansing that the President’s mind was “clear and acute” and that he would not be party to suggesting his incapacity. With neither willing to sign such a statement, any further suggestions of removing the President would be futile, if not faintly seditious.

  Lansing believed nonetheless that the President’s state was “dangerous,” as was that of the government of the United States. At first he thought the Vice President should convene an emergency session of the Cabinet that weekend, but after his meeting with Tumulty he realized that it would “unduly alarm the nation.” In the absence of leadership and the evident decision of the White House to bypass Marshall, Lansing felt somebody had to be in control of the executive branch. He and Tumulty agreed that he would call a meeting for the following Monday. In yielding nothing more than that to the Secretary of State, however, Tumulty officially became Mrs. Wilson’s accomplice, interpreting the health of the President and that of the nation as one and the same.

  Within days, newspapers reported rumors that Wilson had suffered a cerebral lesion or hemorrhage, to which Dr. Grayson issued only nondenial denials. He and the other attending physicians had agreed on a policy of not answering any questions, and that vagueness only fueled more gossip.

  Cabinet members chewed on any morsel of information they could find. When David Houston ran into Newton Baker at the Shoreham Hotel on Friday, the Navy Secretary said the silence from the White House had him “scared literally to death.” Two days later, again at the Shoreham, Houston happened to see the Vice President and Mrs. Marshall lunching. The Agriculture Secretary paid his respects and found Marshall deeply disturbed—not at any news that he had heard but at all that he had not heard. He felt he should be briefed, officially and immediately. Then, revealing what a ridiculous position the Vice Presidency had become, he also said that “it would be a tragedy for him to assume
the duties of President, at best; and that it would be equally a tragedy for the people; that he knew many men who knew more about the affairs of the government than he did; and that it would be especially trying for him if he had to assume the duties without warnings.” The first Vice President to serve two terms since 1825, he pled for any “real facts.”

  After a few days in which Wilson’s condition was still touch and go, the co-conspirators felt obliged to prepare Thomas Marshall for the worst. To keep from drawing attention to any possible succession, Edith agreed to a briefing through a third party. Although it meant divulging the nation’s darkest secret to another person, they decided to entrust a middleman—J. Fred Essary, Washington correspondent for the Baltimore Sun. Upon receiving a few facts, he went to Marshall’s office and, sitting next to him at his desk, privately explained the reason for his visit. As Essary reported the situation, Marshall sat speechless, staring at his clasped hands. Essary awaited some reaction but received none. He rose, approached the door, and looked back at the amiable little man from a small town in Indiana, still gazing at his hands. Not until Marshall saw Essary years later in Indiana did he apologize for his behavior that day. “I did not even have the courtesy to thank you for coming over and telling me,” Marshall explained. “It was the first great shock of my life.” Alice Roosevelt Longworth would later cackle over what had become Washington lore for years—that upon learning the direness of the President’s situation, the Vice President had fainted.

  The President’s health showed incremental signs of improvement. Within days of his stroke, he was sleeping much of his days and nights. His appetite slowly returned, as did his sense of humor. Wilson had difficulty in swallowing and had to be coaxed into eating. After Mrs. Wilson was able to feed him several mouthfuls by spoon, he signaled for Grayson to draw close enough to hear something he had to say. “Doctor,” he whispered,

  A wonderful bird is the pelican

  His bill will hold more than his bellican.

  He can take in his beak

  Enough food for a week

  I wonder how in the hell-he-can.

  When Dr. Grayson focused a light on his eyes and explained he was examining his pupils, Wilson replied, “You have a large order, as I have had a great many in my day.” By that weekend, Wilson asked that a stenographer be called, so he could dictate some letters. Grayson talked him out of even thinking of work by reminding him that, as a good Presbyterian, he should honor the Sabbath.

  On Monday, October 6, the Cabinet convened for close to two hours. Lansing announced that the President would not be returning to the public business for some time and that they should consider a new modus operandi. He thought the Vice President should be prevailed upon; and he asked his colleagues to consider what constituted Presidential “inability” and who was to decide it. Secretary Houston reminded the others at the table that after President James A. Garfield had been shot, he lingered in bed for two months without a declaration of inability, while the Attorney General ran the government. At Lansing’s beckoning, Grayson appeared. He briefed the Secretaries to the effect that the President’s mind was “not only clear but very active.” He then added, with an inscrutable gaze, “The President asked me what the Cabinet wanted with me and by what authority it was meeting while he was in Washington without a call from him.” He said the President was more than a little perturbed when he heard that the meeting was taking place. Lansing was taken aback. Secretary Baker suggested that Grayson tell the President that they only met “as a mark of affection,” and he asked the doctor to convey their unanimous sympathy with their assurance that they were all looking out for his interests.

  In a moment alone, Daniels suggested to Grayson that an honest acknowledgment of the President’s condition might elicit sympathy and even greater support instead of the current “uncertainty and criticism.” Grayson agreed but was clearly under orders from Mrs. Wilson, who knew her husband’s desires. In truth, it seems unfathomable that either of them would have breathed a word about the Cabinet meeting to the convalescent.

  The press and the public began to discuss the issue of “disability.” In the cases of prior Presidents’ deaths, the various departments functioned autonomously. Now some wondered what would happen if Wilson’s Cabinet members disagreed about his ability to serve, whether a decision required unanimity or just a majority vote. Others were concerned about the extraordinary war powers that had been granted to the Chief Executive and whether a Cabinet member might seize the opportunity to advance his own agenda.

  With any number of people assuming duties the President had once performed himself, the White House put a new mode of operation to the test on October 7. While he should not have had such matters on his mind, Wilson wanted to communicate with Josephus Daniels regarding the Navy forces in the Adriatic Sea. He called Edith to his side and dictated his message to her, which she handed to a White House stenographer. While he transcribed the message and delivered it to the Secretary’s office, she called Daniels herself to announce its impending arrival. The reply reversed the same route. Wilson had hoped to greet the participants at the opening of an industrial conference in Washington that week. In his stead, Tumulty wrote the brief welcome and asked Labor Secretary Wilson to deliver it; Samuel Gompers read a second, longer message at the conference, which Interior Secretary Lane had written. So adamant was Dr. Grayson about Wilson’s adhering to his “absolute rest cure,” he prohibited the President’s signing anything but the most essential documents and even ordered the removal of newspapers from his bedroom, for they would only agitate him. When Colonel House returned to the United States, he solicitously wrote Edith, but she chose not even to tell her husband that he was back.

  At the end of October, H.R. 6801, the Volstead Act—“to prohibit intoxicating beverages”—arrived at the White House for the President’s signature. In vetoing and returning it to Congress, he enclosed his customary message of explanation for his action; but on this occasion, Tumulty wrote the justification and Secretary Houston vetted it. The House overrode the veto 175 to 55 that same day; the Senate overrode 64 to 20 the next. Within three months, the United States was under the influence of Prohibition—the first constitutional amendment ever to abridge rights of the people.

  The next week Lansing submitted a Thanksgiving Proclamation for Wilson’s approval, and its return the next day troubled him. Practically every other document he had ever submitted to the President came back with corrections in the schoolmaster’s hand. This was unmarked, except for a disturbingly illegible signature, in pencil. Lansing could not see how Wilson could possibly “conduct the government for months to come.” He told House that the President was already displeased with his having called one or two Cabinet meetings but that he intended to continue doing so, because he thought it “the proper thing to do.” To the public, the mystery prevailed as to whether the President had suffered a stroke.

  The charade continued. Dr. Grayson never strayed from the party line: “His body was broken,” he said of the President, “but his intellect was unimpaired and his lion spirit untamed. His collapse brought no weakening of his purpose.” That was not the whole truth. Ike Hoover, one of a handful of people permitted into the sickroom, saw that the President lay there most of the time “helpless.” Hoover saw improvement, but he said what most refused to admit: “There was never a moment during all that time when he was more than a shadow of his former self. He had changed from a giant to a pygmy in every wise. He was physically almost incapacitated; he could articulate but indistinctly and think but feebly.” So pathetic was the sight, Hoover said the few who served him turned away from his gaze. Not Edith. So long as the government continued to function and Wilson’s judgment determined its policy, she saw no reason to alter the practice of sequestering her husband and issuing documents in his name, even if it required a certain amount of extrapolation on her part. “I carried out the directions of the doctor
s,” she would later write. “Woodrow Wilson was first my beloved husband whose life I was trying to save, fighting with my back to the wall—after that he was the President of the United States.”

  A month passed during which no government official, not even a secretary, saw the President of the United States. Nobody even shaved him. Once a day, somebody would hoist him from his bed and set him in a comfortable chair. After several days, Wilson tried an invalid rolling chair, but that proved ineffective because he could not sit upright in it. At last, Hoover suggested a rolling chair such as those on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. The White House rented one from a New Jersey dealer for five dollars a week, and in time, bought it outright. For months, Wilson used the chair whenever he left his bed.

  Just as Wilson seemed to be improving, he suffered another setback. A troubling prostatic condition worsened, creating a urinary obstruction. One of Wilson’s doctors urged the high-risk operation of an abdominal incision and the insertion of a catheter into the patient’s bladder. Grayson balked, calling upon Doctor Hugh Hampton Young of the Johns Hopkins Medical School, the country’s authority on the prostate gland, to join the private White House team. He believed the dangers of the operation outweighed those of waiting. Overloaded with information, Edith sided with those who would allow nature to take its course. It did, but not without sapping much of the President’s strength. While it forced him to submit to more rest, it allowed him, at last, to turn a corner for the better. For a month, Woodrow Wilson had been able to perform only the most basic duties of office.

  By the end of October, the White House troika of Edith, Grayson, and Tumulty believed that Wilson was far enough out of the woods to expose the President in a few carefully managed visits. At four in the afternoon on the thirtieth, Attorney General Palmer became the first Cabinet member to see the President since his stroke. They conferred for twenty minutes about an impending coal strike, one that the Administration was challenging on grounds that it violated the Lever Act, one of those war measures that still lingered, endowing the executive branch with extraordinary powers. Palmer reported to the press that the President was alert, attentive, and had offered “suggestions of his own.” He also wired the Ambassador to Japan, “Alarming rumors concerning president’s condition quite unfounded. Physically weak but in every other respect in splendid shape. Doctors report him rapidly improving. He transacts public business daily.”