During his incumbency as governor of New York State he always made his headquarters either at the house of my sister, Mrs. Cowles, or at my house, and many were the famous breakfast-parties at 422 Madison Avenue in those strenuous days. He was criticised for breakfasting with Mr. Platt and Mr. Odell (Mr. Platt’s associate boss), but almost all of those much-discussed meals took place at my own house, and many a time Messrs. Platt and Odell had the unusual experience of finding that they were apparently expected to sit upon one chair, as my brother had invited so many more people to breakfast than could possibly be seated at my comparatively small table. After breakfast was over, Mr. Platt would say in a rather stern manner, “And now, Governor Roosevelt, I should like to have a private word with you,” and my brother would answer, “Why, certainly, Mr. Platt, we will go right up to my sister’s library—good-by, gentlemen,” turning to his other guests, and then to Mr. Platt again, “We shall be quite private except for my sister. I always like to have her present at all my conferences. She takes so much interest in what I am doing!” This with a humorous side-glance at me, knowing how irritating my presence was to the gentleman in question. I can bear witness to the fact that through those many conferences my brother’s courtesy to the brilliant older man never failed, nor did he ever lose his independent outlook or action. My brother’s effort to work with Mr. Platt rather than against him also never failed, and many a time I have heard him say: “Mr. Platt, I would rather accept your suggestion of an appointee than that of any one else if you will suggest as good and honorable a man as any one else. I want to work with you and I know that your great information about Republican affairs is of enormous value to me, but I must reserve my own power of decision in all matters, although I hope always to be in accord with you.”
The Rough Riders were always turning up on every occasion, or if they did not actually turn up in propria persona, strange letters on many and varied subjects came to my house from them. Amongst these letters one arrived when my brother was breakfasting with me one morning at my house. The mail that morning was unique in more ways than one, for another letter arrived with no name and no address on it. Instead of name and address there was a drawing of a large set of teeth, and on the reverse side of the envelope was written: “Please let Jack Smith, 211 W. 139th Street, know whether this letter reaches its destination. It is a bet and a lot of money hangs in the balance”! Those strong white teeth, which had been the terror of the recreant policemen, were quite as much a factor at the Capitol on the hill at Albany.
In the same mail, as I said, came a very characteristic epistle from a Rough Rider, which ran as follows:
“Dear Colonol: Please come right out to Dakota. They ain’t treatin me right out here. The truth is, Colonel, they have put me in jail and I ain’t ought to be here at all, cause what they say ain’t true, Colonel. They say that I shot a lady in the eye and it ain’t true, Colonel, for I was shootin at my wife at the time.—I know you will come and get me out of jail right off, Colonel,—please hurry. J. D.”
How my brother laughed as he turned the manuscript over to me, and said: “They are the most unconscionable children that ever were, but oh what fighting men they made!”
Another amusing incident occurred at the house of my sister, where we were all lunching one day, having one of our merry family reunions to meet the governor. My sister had just returned from Europe with a “perfect treasure” of an English butler, who had not yet become entirely accustomed to the vagaries of the Roosevelt family! We were in the midst of a specially merry argument when the door-bell rang and the butler left the dining-room to answer the bell. In a few moments he returned with a somewhat puzzled expression on his face, and leaning over my brother’s chair, he said in a stage whisper: “There is a —— there is a —— gentleman in the hall, sir —— he says, sir, that his name, sir, is —— Mr. ‘Happy Jack’ of Arizona.” “Why,” said my brother, leaping to his feet, “I didn’t know that ‘Happy Jack’ was in New York,” and he hurriedly left the room to welcome his precious Rough Rider. In a few moments he came back literally doubled up with laughter, and burst out: “You know, there has been a great deal in the newspapers about the trouble that I have had with importunate office seekers, who have forced themselves, in a very disagreeable way, into the executive mansion at Albany. Dear old ‘Happy Jack’ read, way out in Arizona, about the annoyance I was having with these people, and he just packed his kit and came all the way from Arizona to offer to be ‘bouncer-out’ of the executive mansion! Wasn’t that fine of ‘Happy Jack’!”
Several years later, when my brother was President of the United States, I was in England and I spent a week-end with the St. Loe Stracheys in Surrey, where Lord and Lady Cromer were also passing Sunday. Lord Cromer having, as a young man, visited our Western plains and prairies, adored the stories of the Rough Riders, and especially the incident of “Happy Jack’s” desire to become “bouncer-out” of the executive mansion. He loved the story so much that he insisted upon my telling it to another English peer, in whom the sense of humor was less striking than in Lord Cromer. I shall never forget the dreary sensation of struggling to tell Earl S—— that particular story. We were at a rather dreary garden-party, and Lord Cromer had presented his friend for the special purpose of having me tell this Rough Rider story. Much against my will, I acceded to his request, and the story seemed to get longer and longer and duller and duller in the telling. Having mentioned the “perfect treasure” of a butler in the beginning of the tale, that seemed to be the rudder to which Earl S—— clung through the involutions of Rough Riderism, and as I stumbled on to the ever-lengthening end of that unfortunate anecdote, the English peer in question turned to me as I fell into silence and said, coldly and courteously: “Is that all?” “Yes,” I said hastily, “quite all.” “Oh!” said my companion, with a sigh of relief, and then feeling that he had not been quite sufficiently sympathetic, he added courteously: “And did the butler stay?” When I returned with this sequel to the story of “Happy Jack” of Arizona and recounted it to my brother, he laughed immoderately and said: “I know you must have suffered telling the story, but that postscript to the story is worth all the pain you suffered.”
One afternoon in May, I think in the year 1900, my brother telephoned me that he wanted to bring several men to dinner the following day, amongst others, Mr. Winston Churchill, of England, now so well known all over the world, but then still very young, though having had many experiences as a writer in connection with the Boer War. He was making a speaking tour in America. As usual, the little party grew, and when we assembled at dinner the following evening, dear old General Wheeler (Fighting Joe), Mr. St. Clair McKelway, of the Brooklyn Eagle, and one or two others, I remember being very much interested in Mr. Churchill’s method of probing Governor Roosevelt’s mind. The young Englishman, of mixed parentage, had on his American side a certain quality unusual in the average Englishman, and the rapid fire of his questioning was very characteristic of the land of his mother’s birth, while a certain “sureness” of point of view might be attributed to both countries. At one period during the dinner he referred to a certain incident that had occurred in Africa, and relegated it to the action which took place at Bloemfontein. My brother very courteously said: “I beg your pardon, but that particular incident took place, if I am not mistaken, at Magersfontein.” The young Englishman flushed and repeated with determination that it had occurred at Bloemfontein, and added the fact, which was already known to us, that he had been there. My brother again, his head a little on one side, and still most courteously, reiterated: “I think, Mr. Churchill, if you will stop and think for a moment, you will remember that I am right in this instance, and that that incident took place at Magersfontein.” Mr. Churchill paused a moment in the ever-ready flow of his talk and then suddenly, with a rather self-conscious frown, said: “You are right, governor, and I am mistaken. It did occur at Magersfontein.” This anecdote I give simply to show, what is known by all who were intimate with my brother, namely, the extraordinary accuracy with which he followed the affairs of the day, and the equally extraordinary memory which retained the detail of individual occurrences in a most unusual manner. In the soft spring air we sat later in the evening by the open window while General Wheeler, son of the South, veteran of the Civil War, and Theodore Roosevelt, son of the North, who had so lately led his famous regiment through the Cuban jungles in close proximity to General Wheeler, told story after story of the way in which, shoulder to shoulder, they had buried the old differences in the new co-operation.
In May, 1899, I received one of the comparatively few letters which came to me while my brother was governor, for we met so frequently that we rarely wrote. The following letter, coming as it did at the end of his first year of service as governor of New York State, is of special interest.
“Darling Corinne,” he says, “your letter touched me deeply. It was so good to catch a glimpse of you the other day. I have accomplished a certain amount for good this year. I want to see you and go over it all at length with you. In a way, there is a good deal that is disappointing about it because I had to act, especially towards the end, against the wishes of the machine people who have really given me my entire support, and with the reformers, labor and otherwise, who are truly against me whenever it comes down to anything really important to me. We have just returned from a really delightful driving trip to a quaint, clean, little inn at Crooked Lake, some eighteen miles off. We drove out there Saturday with every child except Quentin, and back again on Sunday. Everything went off without a hitch and Edith and I enjoyed it as much as the children.... My love to Douglas and to blessed little Corinne. Ever yours, T. R.”