(A Chronicle in the manner of John Drinkwater.)
Scene I.
—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.
Woodrow Wilson, lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen. Joseph Tumulty, a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.
Wilson: Tumulty.
Tumulty: Yes, Governor.
Wilson: I wouldn’t have you think I’m insensible to the merits of your proposals—but I can’t accept them. In the bargainings and shifts of the Allies I must be unfettered, if necessary blindly followed, by the American delegation. Otherwise there’ll be another Congress of Vienna.... It’s not that I criticise our Allies, I would be loath to do that; but I understand their passions and distress. Firmness on our part may perhaps redress the balance.... Where’s Lansing? (The Secretary of State comes in.)
Lansing: Good morning, Mr. President.
Wilson (wistfully): Why—you’re mighty formal, Lansing. I’ve not to convince you again, I trust. Why, Lansing——
Lansing: I hold, as you know, that with the Republicans in a majority in both Houses, it’s an act of, I won’t say folly, Mr. President, but an act of ill-judgment to have them uncommitted to the terms of peace.