Wilson

by A. Scott Berg

  The Wilsons appreciated Colby’s steadfastness, but Edith urged her husband to end the partnership, freeing Colby to earn a living. Wilson regretted only that he had hindered Colby more than helped him, especially as Colby had been so solicitous in his attempts to engage Wilson in a new occupation when he clearly had little interest. Tellingly, after his first visit to the offices, Wilson never set foot in them again. His only residual from the enterprise was a distribution of $5,000, to which he felt so unentitled, he blew the money on a Rauch & Lang electric car for Edith, a newer model of the vehicle she had famously driven around Washington before their marriage.

  Colby would announce the termination of the partnership in December 1922, saying that Wilson wished to redirect his energies to politics. The midterm elections that year reflected the unpopularity of the Harding Administration—halving the Republican lead in the Senate, and putting the Democrats within striking distance of recapturing the House, what with a gain of more than seventy-five Representatives. Wilson said the people regretted the verdict they had delivered in 1920, “and are preparing to render one in favor of the policies they then unwisely condemned.” The party was coming back, Colby asserted, “on a tide of revived Wilsonism.” Wilson himself, Colby suggested, wanted to “direct the flowing of this tide.” And Colby was one of the few who knew that the former President was, in fact, considering another run for the White House.

  Madness did not fuel this pipe dream so much as anger. Within Harding’s first months in office, Congress introduced the highest tariffs in American history. The all-Republican government—with its protectionism and allegiance to big business—would make every attempt it could to erase Wilson’s record.

  On August 25, 1921, the United States signed the Treaty of Berlin, which officially ended the war with Germany. This neutered version of Wilson’s Treaty of Versailles incorporated the Lodge reservations. That week, the nation also signed treaties with Austria and Hungary. The Revenue Act of 1921 dramatically reduced taxes for the very rich, which Treasury Secretary Andrew Mellon argued was necessary in order to stimulate economic growth. During his first Christmas in office, Harding commuted the sentence of Eugene V. Debs.

  More than politics, White House ethics had changed. The capital buzzed with stories of the President’s liquor consumption, poker games, extramarital affairs, and cronies in high places, not the least of whom were Secretary Fall and Attorney General Harry M. Daugherty, a renowned Ohio political fixer. The louche President set the tone for the rest of the nation, encouraging licentiousness. In the words of the country’s new literary sensation, F. Scott Fitzgerald, “America was going on the greatest, gaudiest spree in history”—as a lost generation ran wild in what Fitzgerald christened “the Jazz Age.” To many across the nation, the priggish Woodrow Wilson had never looked more attractive.

  “Never,” observed Ray Baker from his desk in the dugout, “was there such a swift change of public regard for a man than for Mr. Wilson since he left the White House.” This wave of admiration manifested itself in scores of ways, beyond the appreciation expressed in the press and the batches of mail. The house at 2340 S Street became a highlight of the rubberneck wagon tours of Washington, and every afternoon at three o’clock, people gathered to watch the Wilsons as they departed for their daily drive. In May, the Reverend Sylvester Beach of Princeton reported from the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in Indiana that the entire convocation rose to its feet and cheered for five minutes upon a Czech minister’s mention of Woodrow Wilson and the League of Nations. President Alderman of the University of Virginia wrote Wilson that many of the school’s students, acting upon “an independent impulse,” raised money to place a bronze tablet on his former room at 31 West Range. When the boys asked Alderman for an appropriate inscription, he suggested five words from Horace—“Justum ac tenacem propositi virum” (“A just man who sticks to his principles”). Plaques, bridges, and streets in Wilson’s name popped up around the world, from Montevideo to Bordeaux, including an avenue in Paris and a drive in Los Angeles. More than fifty Woodrow Wilson clubs sprouted on college campuses in appreciation of his “generous service to humanity.” Many of the younger generation felt called to service by his “inspired leadership to establish justice and peace as the basis for a new international conception of freedom.”

  In the meantime, several prominent women banded to promulgate Wilson’s principles. They took their idea to Cleveland Dodge; and soon more Wilson supporters, including the members of the Woodrow Wilson clubs, joined this movement to establish “a nation-wide tribute to Woodrow Wilson in appreciation of his great service for world peace.” At a meeting at New York’s Biltmore Hotel, several admirers developed a plan to raise $500,000 for the cause, and formed a steering committee that included Henry Morgenthau, Adolph Ochs, Bernard Baruch, Daisy Harriman, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, who served as chairman. Their initial impulse was to give several substantial prizes each year to the college students who wrote the best papers on “international subjects related to the development of the League of Nations.” This endowment became the cornerstone for the Woodrow Wilson Foundation and paved the way for future institutions that would link policy and scholarship in his name, most notably the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars. Roosevelt maintained an active interest in the organization despite being struck ill in August 1921, at his summer home on Campobello Island. It left him paralyzed below the waist. By September, the Roosevelts announced that he had poliomyelitis but that it was a mild case that would have temporary effects. His unabating work on the Foundation helped conceal the actual seriousness of his condition.

  On October 4, 1921, President Harding wrote Wilson of an “unusual assemblage” to take place at Arlington National Cemetery—the burial of an unknown soldier from the World War. Great Britain and France had each established a similar monument the year prior on Armistice Day; and an act of Congress in Wilson’s final minutes as President authorized the exhumation of an unnamed American soldier from one of the cemeteries in France for entombment in a new marble sarcophagus at Arlington. “Undoubtedly it will be the part of the President to have a presidential party of a considerable number on that day,” Harding wrote, “and I have thought it would be fine if you could find it agreeable for you and Mrs. Wilson to accept an invitation to become members thereof.”

  Although his disability would prevent him from visiting the grave, Wilson was determined to pay his respects to the fallen by riding in the procession that would transport the Unknown Soldier’s casket from the Capitol to the cemetery. He requested an open carriage instead of a motorcar. After a series of slights on the part of the Harding White House, the Wilsons arrived at the appointed minute in their victoria, their servant Isaac Scott sitting with the coachman. No guard appeared to escort them, and when a police sergeant led them to the forming parade, they discovered that their place had already been filled. As the procession began to move down Pennsylvania Avenue, behind the flag-draped caisson, the Wilsons had to wait and then wedge themselves unceremoniously into the first available space, far behind the officials and between two phalanxes of marching veterans. Thousands lined the great boulevard, observing the passing of the Unknown Soldier in solemn stillness.

  Then, as the two-horse carriage bearing the Wilsons appeared—the former President in a dark suit and overcoat and high silk hat, and wearing a small red poppy in his lapel—whispers spread through the crowd. Slowly a ripple of applause broke out. When all the observers realized that it was Wilson himself, there was a steady wave of approbation that lasted the entire way to the White House. There Wilson detached from the procession, as he had been instructed, and retreated to S Street. He told a newspaperman that the ovation had embarrassed him “because it was given in a funeral procession.”

  Later that day, many found themselves drawn to S Street, spontaneously paying homage to the man some were calling “the Known Soldier.” Not until Wilson appeared at
his front door at three o’clock did he discover twenty thousand people had amassed in front of the house. For ten minutes they roared, offering three cheers for the League of Nations, another three cheers for Woodrow Wilson, and three more for “the greatest soldier of them all!” Leaning hard on his cane, the former President walked down the five front steps of his house in order to greet three disabled veterans in a car in his driveway. Then he went back inside, where he and Edith appeared at a window on the second floor. The crowd, not ready to disperse, again demanded his presence.

  He returned to the front door, where several committees of Wilson societies had gathered. Hundreds of children waited as well, one of whom handed him a letter, which said, “Young as we are we have learned to admire you and the great principles for which you stand. . . . We, as future citizens of the United States, will do our best to perpetuate these ideals you have fought for so bravely.” A member of the League of Nations Association spoke of the burial at Arlington, saying, “We haven’t forgot the ideals for which we went to war and for which this soldier died.” He assured Wilson that his work “shall not die.”

  “I wish that I had the voice to reply and to thank you for the wonderful tribute that you have paid me,” Wilson told the crowd. “I can only say God bless you.” Silence followed, until one man boomed, “Long live the best man in the world!” The crowd cheered once again, and tears streamed from Wilson’s eyes. Trembling, he reached for Edith’s hand. Like most of the crowd, she cried as well. The throng spontaneously broke into “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” and the Wilsons held on to each other as he said goodbye and kissed his wife’s hand. They entered the house, but the people remained for another hour, silent and still.

  The spiritual nature of the afternoon was lost on none of its witnesses. Even Senator John Sharp Williams of Mississippi, who had served in Congress since 1893, had been drawn to S Street. He found himself as inspired as all the others, who wanted nothing “political or actual to be accomplished,” he wrote Wilson, “except to show good will to you for the present, faith in you for the future, and an endorsement of you in the past.” The tide had definitely turned, he said, in its feelings not only toward Wilson but also his beliefs.

  No less a figure than muckraker and teacher Ida Tarbell, who had been lecturing across the country, discovered that Americans were awakening to the responsibilities of foreign affairs and Wilson’s approach to them. After the political denunciation he had received the year prior, she wrote an article for Collier’s called “The Man They Cannot Forget,” in which she asked why people from so many walks of life revered him. Her rhetorical answer lay in his having inspired their greatest moments through the example of his deeds as well as the power of his words. She believed the essence of Wilson’s mission on earth was to elevate mankind. He made overused American catchphrases and high-minded political rhetoric real—personal and deep, “the working basis on which men may strive to liberty of soul and peaceful achievement.” Above all, she wrote:

  He made them literally things to die for, lifting all of our plain, humble thousands who never knew applause or wealth or the honor of office into the ranks of those who are willing to die for an ideal—the highest plane that humans reach.

  Although Wilson had never worn a military uniform, soldiers and their families held him in special regard. They felt he had sacrificed as much as they had, and they said as much in the letters that poured into S Street. An especially moving display occurred one Saturday night at Keith’s Theatre, when an elderly actor came before the footlights and addressed the audience. “My only boy was killed in the war,” he said, “and not in words can I express how much I miss him.” He described a recent visit to Walter Reed Army Hospital, where he encountered what he called “pieces of still living men.” He candidly admitted that he found comfort knowing his boy “was sleeping peacefully in France” and not among the shattered victims he had visited. “But one of the greatest casualties this war has produced,” he said, on a note of pride, “is the distinguished man who is in this audience tonight.” Audience members wept openly as they rose to their feet and cheered, some leaping onto their seats and waving handkerchiefs. A girl stepped down from the stage and walked to seat U-21 to hand Woodrow Wilson a bunch of flowers.

  There was a Wilson revival in the making, and his most devout follower of the last decade had to scurry to find his place in it. Not even on S Street—where Bolling performed secretarial duties, Baker advised, and Colby, Baruch, Norman Davis, and Louis Brandeis appeared for political conversation—was there a specific role for Tumulty. In November 1921, he published Woodrow Wilson As I Know Him, a hagiographic memoir, meant to show not only Wilson’s great intellect but also his “great heart.” At least one critic found the book an “incredibly vulgar, oleographic caricature,” with the author basking in reflected glory. While Wilson never displayed any interest in it, the volume was just one of many that quickly appeared.

  With access both to Wilson and his papers, which had no strings attached, Ray Baker published a three-volume work entitled Woodrow Wilson and World Settlement. It contributed enormously to Wilson’s growing popularity. He allowed that Wilson’s mission to Paris had failed to actualize his dreams, but he gave the public a sense of Wilson’s own estimation of his work there. He had told Baker one afternoon while lying in bed, “I am not an impractical idealist, nor did I, at Paris, want everything torn up by the roots and made over according to some ideal plan.” With Professor William E. Dodd of the University of Chicago—already the author of a short Wilson biography, and a future Ambassador to Germany—Baker produced six volumes of Wilson’s public papers. With a healthy monthly stipend from Bernard Baruch, Baker spent another fourteen years writing an eight-volume biography to honor the former President.

  Marginalized, Tumulty frantically sought ways to reenter Wilson’s life. On April 5, 1922, he wrote the “Governor,” as he continued to call him, that the National Democratic Club of New York City was holding its annual Jefferson banquet that week and that it would “hearten and inspire” the audience to receive a message from him. Even an expression of regret at not being able to attend would suffice, Tumulty said, as it would also extend Tumulty’s credibility as an insider to the former President. Wilson refused. He felt it would be “quite meaningless” unless he offered a serious expression of his view about the current national situation, and he did not consider this an appropriate occasion for breaking his silence.

  The next morning, Tumulty called Mrs. Wilson and asked if she could not get her husband to send a letter to the dinner. Edith asked if Tumulty had not received his reply. Although he had, he fretfully stressed the importance of Wilson’s writing something and beseeched her to persuade him. “No, Mr. Tumulty,” Edith said, “you know him well enough to know that when he has thought a thing out and decided it there is no use to continue arguments.” Then Tumulty said he had an important personal matter he needed to discuss with Wilson, and he asked if she could at least arrange for a meeting that afternoon. She respected the wish and set the meeting for three o’clock, just before the Wilsons’ daily drive. An anxious Tumulty arrived early and sat in the dugout with Randolph Bolling, asking him if Mrs. Wilson had gotten Wilson to compose a message for the dinner. Bolling thought not; and because Wilson was feeling low that day, he recommended that Tumulty not even raise the matter.

  Because of the “personal” nature of Tumulty’s mission, Edith left the two men alone. By the time she returned from an errand, he had gone. She said to Woodrow that she hoped Tumulty had not bothered him about that message for the dinner. He said, “No, I am glad to say he had the good taste not to mention it.” When she asked what he had come to discuss, it turned out to be a vague conversation about American ideals, clearly a hasty substitute for what he had hoped to talk about. Days later, the morning newspapers wrote up the speech Governor Cox had made at the Jefferson banquet . . . along with the message “from Woodrow Wilson”: “Say t
o the Democrats of New York that I am ready to support any man who stands for the salvation of America, and the salvation of America is justice to all classes.” Because Cox had addressed those very points, the audience logically interpreted the banquet as the unofficial launch of his campaign—with Wilson’s endorsement. “My husband,” Edith recalled a decade later, “was thunderstruck.”

  Wilson summoned Edith’s brother and asked him to dispatch a letter to Louis Wiley of The New York Times expressing the former President’s dismay—not only because he had never sent any message but also because of his suggested support for Cox to head the ticket again. He valued Cox as a loyal friend of the League but believed defeated teams required new captains to turn them around. Later that morning, while shaving, he told Edith it had just occurred to him that Tumulty had been at the banquet and that perhaps he could shed light on what had occurred. Dictating to her, he said, “It is obviously my duty as well as my privilege to probe the incident to the bottom.”

  A chagrined Tumulty hastened from New York, and after many desperate hours attempting to see Wilson in person, he sheepishly owned up to having composed the message himself. He realized the embarrassment he had caused his former boss and the need to rectify what he maintained was a misunderstanding on his part. He offered a contorted explanation to The New York Times. While he assumed responsibility for the delivery of the fabricated message, he wrote Wilson, “I think you will hold me blameless for the unjust interpretations put upon it.”

  Tumulty knew he had not adequately apologized, and so the next day he sent Wilson a more detailed explanation, which only dug a deeper hole for himself. He realized he had betrayed the Governor’s trust, but he presumed Wilson would take into account that since the earliest days of their association, as he said, “I have had but one thought, but one ambition, and that was to serve you and the great purposes which I know lay close to your heart.” Now he prostrated himself, affirming, “You will find me as a mere private in the ranks, deferring to your unselfish leadership and defending your policies at every turn of the long road which lies ahead of us.” If Wilson found it necessary to rebuke him, Tumulty said, he would not complain, nor would he “wince under the blow nor . . . grow in the least faint-hearted or dispirited.” In all his protestations, Tumulty never simply acknowledged that Wilson had explicitly stated he never wished to send a message in the first place. He was shown the same door as Hibben and House before him.