My Brother, Theodore Roosevelt

by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson

Frédéric Mistral, the Provençal poet, said of Theodore Roosevelt:

C’est lui qui donne une nouvelle espérance à l’humanité.

Toward the spring of 1900, while my brother was in his second arduous year of activity as governor of New York State, he came one afternoon to my house, as he frequently did, for he made headquarters there whenever he was in New York. I remember I was confined to my room with an attack of grippe. The door-bell rang in the rapid, incisive way which always marked his advent, and in a moment or two I heard him come bounding up the stairs to my bedroom. He seemed to bring the whole world of spring sunshine into the room with him, and before I could say anything to greet him he called out: “Pussie, haven’t we had fun being governor of New York State?” I remember the grippe seemed to leave me entirely. My heart was full of that elation which he alone could give by his power of sharing everything with me. He sat down in a rocking-chair by me and began to rock violently to and fro, every now and then receding almost the whole length of the room as he talked, and then rocking toward me with equal rapidity when he wished to emphasize some special point in his conversation. When he stopped for breath, I said laughingly, but with a certain serious undertone in the midst of my laughter: “Theodore, are you not going to take a complete rest some time this summer? You certainly need it. It has been year after year, one thing after another, more and more pressing all the time—civil service commissioner, police commissioner, assistant secretary of the navy, lieutenant-colonel, then colonel of the Rough Riders, and all that that campaign meant, and now nearly two years of hard work as governor of New York State. Surely, you must take some rest this summer.”

He looked back at me rather as one of my little boys would look if I spoke to them somewhat harshly, and answered in a very childlike way: “Yes, of course you are right. I do mean to take a rest of one whole month this summer.” I said: “That isn’t very much—one month, but still it is better than nothing. Now, do you really mean that you are going to rest for one whole month?” “Yes,” he answered, as if he were doing me the greatest possible favor, “I really mean to rest one whole month. I don’t mean to do one single thing during that month—except write a life of Oliver Cromwell.” How I laughed! What an idea of complete rest—to write a life of Oliver Cromwell! And write a life of Oliver Cromwell he did during that period of complete rest, but before he was able to do it there came many another stirring event and change in the outlook of his existence.

Messrs. Platt and Odell, supposedly the arbiters of the fate of every New York State governor, agreed that two years of Theodore Roosevelt in the Executive Mansion at Albany was quite enough, and that come what might, he should not have another term, and so they bent all their subtle political acumen toward the achievement of their wish to remove him. They would, however, have been thwarted in their purpose had not the Western part of our country decided also that Theodore Roosevelt’s name was necessary on the presidential ticket, to be headed, for a second time, by William McKinley.

The young governor, deeply absorbed in the many reforms which he had inaugurated in the Empire State, was anything but willing to be, as he felt he would be, buried in Washington as vice-president, but as the time drew near for the Republican Convention of June, 1900, more and more weight was thrown in the balance to persuade him to accept the nomination.

I have frequently said in these pages that one of the most endearing characteristics of my brother was his desire to have my sister and myself share in all of his interests, in his glory, or in his disappointments, and so, when the convention at Philadelphia met, and as the contending forces struggled around him, he telegraphed to my husband and myself, who were then at our country home in New Jersey, and begged us to come on to Philadelphia, and be near him during the fray. Needless to say, we hurried to his side.

I shall always remember arriving at that hotel in Philadelphia. How hot those June days were, and how noisy and crowded the corridors of the hotel were when we arrived! Blaring bands and marching delegations seemed to render the hot air even more stifling, and I asked at once to be shown to the room where Governor Roosevelt was. A messenger was sent with me, and up in the elevator and through circuitous passages we went, to a corner room overlooking a square. We knocked, but there was no answer, and I softly opened the door, and there sat my brother Theodore at a distant window with a huge volume upon his knees. The soft air was blowing in the window, his back was turned to the door, and he was as absolutely detached as if vice-presidential nominations, political warfare, illicit and corrupt methods of all kinds in public life were things not known to his philosophy. I tiptoed up behind him and leaned over his shoulder, and saw that the great volume spread out before him was the “History of Josephus”! I could not but laugh aloud, for it seemed too quaint to think that he, the centre of all the political animosity, should be quietly apart, perfectly absorbed in the history of the Jews of a long-past day. As I laughed, he turned and jumped to his feet, and in a moment Josephus was as much a thing of the past as he actually was, and Theodore Roosevelt, the loving brother, the humorous philosopher, the acute politician, was once more in the saddle. In a moment, in a masterly manner, he had sketched the situation for me: ‘Yes, Platt and Odell did want to eject him, that was true, but it wasn’t only that. The West felt strongly, and the Middle West as strongly, that his name was needed on the presidential ticket. No, he didn’t want to give up a second term as governor of New York State; he hated the thought of a vice-presidential burial-party, but what was he to do? He didn’t really know himself.’

At that moment, without any ceremony, the door was thrown open, and in marched the delegation from Kansas. Fife and drum and bugle headed the delegation with more than discordant noises. Round and round the room they went, monotonously singing to the accompaniment of the above raucous instruments: “We want Teddy, we want Teddy, we want Teddy.” My brother held up his hand, but nothing seemed to stop them. Over and over again they filed solemnly around that sitting-room, and finally, forming in a straight line, they metaphorically presented arms, and stood for a moment silently before him. He stepped nearer to them and, with a somewhat anxious tone in his voice, said: “Gentlemen of Kansas, I know that you only want what is best for the country, and incidentally what you think is best for me; but, my friends, I wish you would withdraw your desire that I should be the candidate for the vice-presidency. I want another term as governor of New York State. I have initiated a good many reforms that I think would help my native state. I have made many appointments, and the people I have appointed would feel that I have gone back on them if I can’t be there to help them with their work. I am sure I could be of more use to my country as governor of New York State than as vice-president. I wish you would change your minds and help me to do the thing which I think is the best thing to do.” The delegation from Kansas looked the pleader gently but firmly in the eye. The fife and drum and bugle struck up its monotonous sound again. The leader of the Kansas delegation turned, and, with all his followers, once more they marched slowly and steadfastly around that room, making no answer to Governor Roosevelt except the indomitable refrain of “We want Teddy, we want Teddy, we want Teddy,” which sounded for a long while down the corridor. As we listened to their retreating footsteps, he turned to me with a look of mingled amusement and despair in his eyes, and said: “What can I do with such people? But aren’t they good fellows!”

And so, as is now well known to history, the Kansas delegation and other like delegations had their way. Mr. Platt and Mr. Odell thought they had their way too, and at one of the most exciting conventions at which I have ever been present—dominated in masterful fashion by the unique personality of Mark Hanna—Theodore Roosevelt was made the nominee for the second place on the ticket of the Republican party of 1900. One little incident occurred the next morning which I have always felt had a certain prophetic quality about it. An article appeared in one of the Philadelphia papers, signed by that inimitable humorist, the brilliant philosopher, Peter Dunne, alias “Mr. Dooley.” I wish I could find the article—I kept it for a long while—but this is about the way it ran:

“Tiddy Rosenfeldt came to the Convintion in his Rough Rider suit and his sombrero hat and his khaki clothes, trying to look as inconspichuous as possible, and as soon as he got there Platt fill on his chist and Odell sat on his stummick and they tried to crush him and squeeze the life out of him. And they think they have done it, and perhaps they have, but, Hinnessey, they needn’t be quite so sure, for Tiddy Rosenfeldt will get somewhere no matter what happens, even though the path lies through the cimitery!”