Recollections of full years

by Helen Herron Taft

But I could not linger long because my duties as a hostess began at once. I was not unused to the accepted regulations of official life, so, in spite of a slight feeling that the whole thing was unreal, I was not embarrassed as I walked into the great dining-room and took my place by the door to receive guests for the first time as mistress of the White House.

I had left to the efficient management of Captain Archibald Butt as many of the details of the day’s programme as was possible. Some time before I had carefully gone over the plans with him, we had provided for any reasonable emergency, and I knew my instructions would be carried out. Captain Butt—later Major Butt—had been military aide to President Roosevelt; we had known him well, both in the Philippines and in Washington, and we were glad to have the opportunity of continuing him in that capacity. Whatever Major Butt did was done faultlessly—always. During the three years he was with us—day in and day out, upon every possible occasion, in the closest intimacy—I never ceased to wonder at his genius for work, his comprehensive grasp of important matters and of small details, his extraordinary accuracy. His very presence inspired the utmost confidence. Archie Butt, as everybody called him, became our close and dearly loved friend. Indeed, we felt that he belonged to us, and nothing in all our experience ever touched us as deeply as the tragedy of his death. Returning from a short vacation abroad, he went down on the Titanic, facing death like a soldier, after the lives of nearly all the women and children had been saved.

We had invited a large number of people to the usual Inaugural luncheon. The cook and several of the staff of servants were to accompany Mrs. Roosevelt to Oyster Bay, but they remained until the afternoon of the Fourth when the staff I had engaged were installed. There are a few old, official servants who remain in the house from one administration to another, keeping in operation an uninterrupted household routine, so there was no reason why the Inaugural luncheon should not be carried through with the same smoothness and despatch to be expected on ordinary occasions. But again we reckoned without the weather. The difficulties of traffic, added to the crush on the avenues, made it impossible for our guests to arrive on time and they continued to straggle in throughout the whole afternoon, each one wishing to apologise in person and make special explanation. This, of course, made anything like systematic reception out of the question and the result was that the luncheon really ran into and became a part of the tea for my husband’s classmates of Yale, which was scheduled for five o’clock. There was some confusion, but much goodwill and frank enjoyment and the fact that the President was not there to receive his classmates caused nothing more than a few repetitions of, by that time, familiar comments on the elements.

Mr. Taft was reviewing the Inaugural Parade and the last of it did not pass the reviewing stand until after nightfall. He came in, however, in time to exchange greetings with old-time, enthusiastic friends, the members of the Yale class of ‘78, and to hold them longer than they had intended to remain. When the last of them had wished us Godspeed and said good-bye, we stood, the five of us,—my husband, my three children and I,—alone in the big state dining-room, and tried to realise that, for the first time, the White House was really our Home. The great walnut-panelled room, with its silvered chandeliers and big moose heads, seemed very empty with only the Taft family in it, after all the clatter and chatter that had been sounding there all day. We gazed at each other for a moment, with slightly lost expressions on our faces, and then nature asserted herself in the new President.

© Harris & Ewing.
THE PRIVATE DINING-ROOM OF THE WHITE HOUSE, AND THE FAMILY SITTING-ROOM AT THE END OF THE LONG UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR

“Let’s go up stairs, my dears, and sit down!” said he.

Poor man, he had not experienced the blissful sensation of sitting down since early that morning; so we proceeded out to the elevator, which Charlie, true to his boy nature, had, of course, already learned to operate. For once, I am glad to say, it did not stick between floors. This was a habit to which it became addicted in later days, a habit it was sure to indulge on occasions when the President proudly used it for taking a large party of men upstairs after dinner. But this time he was able, without delay, to reach the best easy-chair in the sitting-room where he remained until I prodded him once more into activity by reminding him that he must get into evening clothes else the Inaugural Ball could not take place.

Not having been taxed so greatly, I was not yet ready to succumb to fatigue; besides I was now eager to roam around the house, to familiarise myself with the mysteries of my new home and to plan the assignment of rooms among various members of the family who were to come to us that very night.

The second story of the White House, where all the family living rooms are, corresponds in spaciousness with the floor below, which, with its broad hall, its great East Room, its large reception rooms and state dining room, is familiar to the public. Upstairs there is a very wide hall running the entire length of the building. The rooms occupied by the President and his wife are in the southwest corner and at that end of the house the hall is partially partitioned and screened off and pleasantly furnished with desks, sofas and easy-chairs to make a fairly large and very private family sitting-room. It was here that I left my tired husband while I went on my first tour of exploration.