My Brother, Theodore Roosevelt

by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson

“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.