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: