CHAPTER TWO
Presidents--Lean and Fat
If you wish to sip the very essence of democracy, you must pay a visit to the White House and talk with the President of the United States. The more urgent your business, the more stirring the occasion, the more completely unpretentious will be your reception.
We arrived in Washington in late October, already somewhat battered by an existence in which every meal was a banquet, and on the day after our arrival found ourselves drawing up at the gates of the White House, duly attired, cleaned and brushed, in order to make the most favourable impression on President Wilson.
The simplicity of the first home of America is, in some ways, more alarming than the pomp of an ordinary Court. There were no beautiful footmen, no drifting diplomats to waft us higher and higher until we were at length admitted into the presence. Indeed, it was more like going to see a dentist than a President.
We were shown into a pleasant white room, with the usual dentist’s array of newspapers and periodicals, slightly soiled by many democratic thumbs. At this point it might be mentioned that the pet mascot of the Mission also entered the White House with us, concealed in an overcoat. This was Cuthbert, a stuffed rabbit, which had been presented by a frivolous friend to the Mission on our departure from England. Cuthbert had been a sure help in trouble and had grown more than human. When the sea was rough, he would be propped up on the edge, looking over, in case he might be overcome. When it was calm he would be allowed to bask in the sunshine. And when we were passing under the Statue of Liberty he was stood to attention until the statue was passed. He couldn’t salute, because toy rabbits aren’t made that way.
Cuthbert was adored by every member of the Mission, except the representative of Oxford, who thought that such things were naughty. He was taken to the tops of skyscrapers to survey New York by night. He was taken on the Hudson to survey New York by day. And I was damned if I was going to allow Cuthbert to depart from America without entering the White House. And so, he was carefully stuffed into the capacious pocket of Sir Arthur’s overcoat (unknown, one must in fairness admit, to Sir Arthur). He was not taken, however, to see the President. There are limits.
Mr. Lawson, the Secretary for the Interior, was with us when we entered, but the real thrill of the morning was to come when a manservant poked his head through the door and said, ‘Are you men waiting to see the President?’ We all bridled slightly at this historic question. ‘How divinely American!’ we thought. Were we ‘men’ waiting to see the President? Men. _Men_, if you please. The world’s greatest authority on bugs. A man. The world’s greatest authority on the canals of Mars. A man. The world’s greatest authority on Greek something or other. A man. Men--all men. Except, of course, the women. We said, yes, we were waiting to see him.
‘Then you’d best come along with me,’ said the manservant.
We came along with him. We came along through a passage, from which outside you could see the short drive, the white buildings of Washington, the bustling life of the city passing by, and we stepped through some folding doors, on to a great space of highly polished floor, in the centre of which, like a waxwork, was standing the world’s most important figure--President Wilson.
The first thing that struck me was that he looked very clean. Immaculate. Not that I had expected to find him dirty. But there was something about the stiff white cuffs, the gleaming collar, the sparkling pince-nez, the beautifully pressed trousers, that suggested he had dressed in a disinfected room with the assistance of a highly efficient valet, who had put on his clothes with pincers. Again the dentist feeling. He _was_ like a dentist. Or a distinguished surgeon.
In silence we were introduced, and slid over the polished floor until we were grouped round him in a sort of semicircle. I had a ridiculous feeling that we were all going to sing ‘Here we come gathering nuts-in-May.’ Everything was suddenly so dignified. No question now of being mere ‘men.’ We were all diplomats, in the centre of the universe.
And then Wilson began to speak, quietly and calmly, weighing his words, telling us exactly what was passing in his mind. I remember being struck by two things--foolish, no doubt. The first was a feeling of strangeness that he should speak with an American accent. One had imagined him as belonging to the world, forgetting that after all, he only belonged to America. The second was that he was just an ordinary man, in a hideously difficult position, applying the ordinary standards of decent conduct to the world situation.
He talked about affairs in France, compared them with that of last year, and drew conclusions. And then he said something extraordinarily interesting:
‘My principal difficulty,’ he remarked, ‘is that we are dealing with people whom we can’t trust. I wonder if you can understand how baffling that is, when one is honestly trying to find a way out? If Germany were like any other country, if we could count on certain promises, certain assurances being fulfilled, then we should know where we are. But we can’t count (he almost shouted the last words) on that. I write a note. I receive an answer. I write another note. I receive another answer. I _go on writing notes_. And I am left in exactly the same situation as before, because I have learnt, from bitter experience, that the promises contained in that answer will be broken as soon as the first convenient opportunity presents itself.’
All the time he spoke he stood looking straight in front of him, with his hands behind his back. He looked terribly tired. I gathered afterwards that he had scarcely time to sleep, that often he would be up all night trying to unravel the hopeless tangle of lies and evasions which was almost daily served up for him.
He continued in this strain for some time, until there suddenly came into his voice a note of passion, ‘America is not going to leave the Hohenzollerns in power. It would mean leaving a running sore in the heart of Europe.’ He made a little grimace of disgust.
I won’t attempt to give any long précis of his remarks. Generalizations are never interesting, and even if they were, you can discover all of them in the newspapers of the period. Sir Arthur had a talk with him on the way out about his life at Princeton, and with his usual genius, managed to smooth the wrinkles out of his face and to make him laugh. The last words I heard him say were in reference to the Princeton professors. ‘They kicked me upstairs,’ he said. A very long way upstairs, most people would think.
That was one of the most interesting mornings of my life. I only wish that Cuthbert could have been concealed behind the curtain.
* * * * *
Where Wilson impressed one with a feeling of respect (if not reverence), Taft filled one with a bouncing spirit of good will--a sort of ‘Pippa Passes’ spirit--that as long as Taft was in being, all must be right with the United States.
I met him at a dinner given about this time in Washington, and was at once captivated by him, because he seemed to make a point of being particularly charming to the people who didn’t matter. There was a tremendous reception after dinner, and half the time Taft was standing, a round Colossus, talking to persons of no importance, and ignoring the crowd of millionaires and diplomats who clustered round him.
Somehow or other, I found myself talking to him. He said:
‘Well, young man, and aren’t you getting rather sick of trotting round with a lot of old professors?’
I indignantly disclaimed any such suggestion (which happened to be quite untrue).
However, Taft only winked, and said Englishmen were always so tactful, weren’t they, winked again, heaved his shoulders, and shook. Then, apropos of nothing he said:
‘I heard a wonderful story yesterday about a Scotchman.’
One has always just heard wonderful stories about Scotchmen, but not always from Ex-Presidents of the United States, so I listened politely.
‘A Scotchman,’ said Taft, speaking in a loud whisper, and keeping one eye on the crowd of millionaires behind him, ‘went out one cold day on the links, did the whole eighteen holes, tramped back, and at the end of it all gave his caddy threepence.’
Here he heaved again. I wondered if that was the end of the story, when Taft continued:
‘The caddy looked at the man and said, “D’ye ken I can tell yer fortune by these three pennies?”’
(Heavens! I thought. He can speak Scotch. No wonder they made him President of the United States.)
‘The man shook his head,’ said Taft, ‘and the caddy looked at the first penny.
‘“The fir-r-rst penny,” he said, “tells me that you’re a Scotsman. Eh?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“The second tells me that you’re a bachelor.”
‘“Yes.”
‘“And the thir-rd penny tells me that yer father-r was a bachelor too.”’
And with that Taft turned on his heel, roaring with laughter, leaving at least one young Englishman a staunch Anglo-American for the rest of his life.
* * * * *
It was also in Washington that I first met Elihu Root. Everybody, ever since my arrival had said, ‘Ah! but you must meet Elihu Root,’ rather in the same sort of way as Sydney people say, ‘Ah! but you must see our harbour,’ or Cambridge people, ‘Ah! but you must see our Backs.’ He seemed to have a quite unique reputation--the reputation of being a thoroughly honest politician. I used to ask, ‘Why in that case is he not made President?’ And the reply invariably was, ‘He is too good, too honest, too impeccable.’ All of which seemed very strange.
However, when one met him, the mystery was explained. Elihu Root struck me as ‘a very parfit gentle knight.’ His conversation was like a man thinking aloud. He shut his eyes and frowned and then spoke, and you knew that the man was telling you what he really thought. It was at one of the inevitable banquets that he first appeared, and after it was over I boldly went up to him and asked him some sort of question about Anglo-American friendship.
‘That rests with you, young man,’ he said, and shut his eyes. ‘Youth to youth, young heart to young heart’--and he sighed a little sentimentally.
I asked him the usual stock question which one asks on these occasions--if there was no means of dissipating some of the ridiculous clouds of mistrust and delusion which still hung over the Atlantic, blotting out the true features of each nation from one another; if there was no means of bringing the Press, at least, to realize the importance of the Anglo-American ideal.
‘Ah--the Press. Did you ever study the question of sovereignty at college?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever tried to put your finger on a certain monarch, a certain body of men, a certain institute and say, “Here is sovereignty--here is the ultimate authority”? And have you, when you have decided that sovereignty lies here, or there, suddenly realized that the true power still eludes you? Have you realized that those men are elected by the people and that in consequence sovereignty lies in the people? And have you, going even further, realized that the force that makes the people vote, i.e., the force that moulds the people’s wills, is really the true sovereign? Think about it. And then you will realize the true importance of the remark you made to me just now.’
All this was delivered with eyes shut and with head tilted back. A very straight and honest man, Mr. Root, typical of all that is best in American life.
* * * * *
From Washington we travelled to Boston, staying with President Lowell of Harvard. Harvard made us all feel a little depressed. It was so very rich, so very efficient, so very prosperous, so entirely different from the bankrupt universities of England. I looked with green eyes on undergraduates’ rooms fitted with telephones and bathrooms, and served with a central heating apparatus that made the frozen apartments of Balliol seem a little torturous.
And then, after Boston, Chicago. Our arrival in Chicago was sensational. Mr. Hearst, the newspaper proprietor, had declared the war to be over, although it was still raging gaily, and had another forty-eight hours to run. As a result of Mr. Hearst’s enterprise, all the country people within a hundred miles of Chicago had come to ‘celebrate,’ and they travelled with us, dressed in their best, and taking liberal swigs of whisky. When we actually arrived, we found a mad city. Paper littered the streets, bells clanged everywhere. And when we came to the club (decency forbids me to mention which one it was) every waiter in the place was drunk, and we had to tread our way upstairs over recumbent figures, while our bags remained in the hall.
‘Terrible,’ said the representative of Oxford. ‘I am beginning to understand why the Americans have so urgent a need for Prohibition.’
I am afraid I did not agree with him. It all seemed to me very jolly. For one thing, all the telephone books in the club had been taken to the roof where they had, throughout the day, been slowly torn into little pieces by intoxicated fingers, in order that the streets might have a festive and confetti-like appearance. As a result, though we could be rung up, we could not ring up, and that, for the secretary of an educational mission was, I assure you, a blessing not at all in disguise.
* * * * *
However, that was one of the only two occasions when I ever saw anybody intoxicated in America. The other was some weeks later when we were down in Texas. We had been travelling all night, and we emerged, one cold morning before breakfast, at the town of--(I had better leave it blank), to visit the local university. Half the professional staff were lined up on the platform to meet us, and they certainly had the warmest ideas of hospitality, for from the overcoat pockets of at least half a dozen of the more venerable members of the staff protruded the neck of a bottle of rye whisky. Now rye whisky is, at all times, a potent drink, but taken before breakfast, on a cold morning, it is not only potent, it is deadly. Nor was this all. For when we had driven to the university, we were greeted by a festive board at which the chief item of diet appeared to be egg-nog, well flavoured with rum. However, we all enjoyed ourselves very much, though I fear that this part of the tour cannot have been very fruitful from the educational point of view, however much it may have strengthened the Anglo-American ties of friendship.