True, the Democratic Party organization was no better than the Republican. Nevertheless, I recalled with faith the words of that valiant reformer, Carl Schurz, who years before had said:
“Between them [the old parties] stands an element which is not controlled by the discipline of the party organization, but acts upon its own judgment for the public interest. It is the Independent element which in its best sense and shape may be defined as consisting of men who consider it more important that the Government be well administered than that this or that set of men administer it. This Independent element is not very popular with party politicians in ordinary times; but it is very much in requisition when the day of voting comes. It can render inestimable service to the cause of good government by wielding the balance of power it holds with justice and wisdom.”
Here, I thought, in this great body of thoughtful independents of both parties, lies the hope of political regeneration. Woodrow Wilson is the only man in either party who stands out clearly for the things which all of us hold dear. If we can introduce him to these men, if we can lift him up upon a platform high enough to permit his ringing words to reach across the continent, they will rally to his banner as we have done.
It was from these motives, and in this splendid hope, that I threw myself whole-heartedly into what my friends had called a “hopeless cause.” Now was the opportunity to restore idealism to our government; to place man, as of old, above the dollar; to place law once more securely above the greed and personal ambition of the individual. America was very dear to me! I had come to her an alien by race and speech; she had thrown wide open the door of opportunity to me; I had been free to find satisfaction for every one of my ambitions. Surely, the utmost I could do in her service was little enough to repay the just debt I owed her.
Let me return now to the dinner of the National Democratic Club, which I have already mentioned. I sat at a table facing the guests of honour, and before they seated themselves I went up and spoke to Governor Wilson. On a sudden impulse, he exclaimed: “Come along with me, I want to introduce you to someone.” He led me to another table, and there I had my first meeting with Walter Hines Page, who was then editor of the World’s Work magazine, and who was destined later to play such a momentous part in the salvaging of civilization while acting as President Wilson’s Ambassador at the Court of St. James’s. Wilson and Page had been acquainted for many years and they addressed each other familiarly.
“This,” said the Governor, laying his hand on my shoulder, “is the Mr. Morgenthau I talked about to you this afternoon. Now you two get acquainted.” He then returned to the speakers’ table, and Page spoke to me and expressed his hearty satisfaction at welcoming “the latest recruit to the little band of Wilson adherents.” He invited me to call upon him at his place of business, at Garden City, Long Island, for a longer conference.
Two years later Page and I recalled this scene, under very altered circumstances. I stopped in London on my way to Constantinople. There I found Page installed in the American Embassy. When I entered his private office, Page had cleared his room, and we faced each other there alone—Page sitting forward on the edge of his chair, his elbow on the table, his head leaning against his hand, and with the most quizzical and expectant look upon his face. I said to him, “Ambassador, I know what you are thinking about.”
“Well, what?” he challenged.
“You are thinking,” I said, “of the day when the Governor of New Jersey introduced the retired financier to the magazine editor. That was only two years ago; and now what a difference! He is President of the United States; you are here as his Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s; and I am his Ambassador at the Sublime Porte. And you are thinking that it’s mighty funny.”
“No; you’re wrong,” said he.