party’s suspicion that he wanted to join the Allies in the war against Germany. Only the inspired slogan “He kept us out of war” had, finally, rallied the faithful. Now war was at hand. What to do?
Wilson motioned for Randolph to remove the Ouija board; and himself. Edith also took the hint. At the door she said, “Don’t tire yourself.”
“That’s hardly possible, little girl, in a sickbed.” She was gone. ThenWilson noted the elaborate bed, rather like a Neapolitan hearse that Burden had once seen at the base of Vesuvius. “Though I’m not so sure about
this
bed.” Wilson removed a sheaf of papers from his bedside table, and placed them on the coverlet.
“Have you seen Mr. Bryan?”
Burden shook his head. “I think he’s in Florida.”
“The Speaker?” Wilson stared at Burden out of the corner of his eye, a disquieting effect. But then they were embarked upon a disquieting subject. The speaker of the House, Champ Clark, was the
de facto
heir of Bryan. He had opposed Wilson at every turn and he had been, in 1916, a serious candidate for the presidential nomination. Had it not been for the maneuvering of such Wilsonian Bryanites as Burden, Champ Clark might now be enjoying a chill in the Lincoln bed.
“The Speaker’s Southern. Southerners—Southwesterners—tend to peace at any price—in Europe, anyway.”
“I know. I’m one, too. That’s why I’m far too proud to fight.” Wryly, Wilson quoted himself. This single phrase had enraged every war-lover in the land, particularly the war-besotted Theodore Roosevelt, who sounded no longer sane. Wilson picked up the papers. “I tell you, Mr. Day, I have done everything a man could possibly do to stay out of this terrible business. I’d hoped Germany would be sufficiently intelligent not to force my hand—to allow us to go on as we are, neutral but helpful …”
“To England and France.”
The President was not tolerant of interruptions. He had taught others for too many years: ladies at Bryn Mawr and gentlemen at Princeton; and at neither place had the students been encouraged to interrupt the inspired—and inspiring—lecturer. “England and France. But also there is—was—cotton to the Central Powers, at the insistence of the anti-war ten-cent cotton senators …”
“Of which I am one.”
“Of which you are one.” Although Wilson smiled, his mind was plainly on the set of papers which he kept distractedly shaking as if to dislodge their message. Burden noted that two of them were tagged with red seals. “It is curious that if I am impelled to go to war, it will give pleasure to the Republicans, our enemies, and pain to much of our party.”
Burden was still enough of a lawyer to seize upon a key word. “Impelled,” he repeated. “Who impels you?”
“Events.” Wilson gazed vaguely out the window, toward a row of lightswhere his clerk-like secretary of state, Robert Lansing, was, no doubt, busy doing clerkly things, so unlike his predecessor, the Great Commoner, who was incapable of clerkdom or indeed of anything less mundane than Jovian thunderings for peace.
“I know that many of you thought I was … uh, striking a bargain during the last election. That you would get out the vote because I had kept us out of war, despite so much provocation. Well …” He had either lost his train of thought or he was preparing to indulge himself in the presidential privilege of abruptly abandoning a potentially dangerous line of argument. “Someone asked me the other day—an old colleague from Princeton—what was the worst thing about being president.” Wilson looked directly at Burden, the face solemn but the eyes bright behind the pince-nez. “Luckily, he didn’t ask me what the best thing was. I might never have thought of an answer to that one. Anyway I could answer what was the worst. All day long people tell you things that you already know, and you must act as if you were hearing their news for the first time. Now
Wilson motioned for Randolph to remove the Ouija board; and himself. Edith also took the hint. At the door she said, “Don’t tire yourself.”
“That’s hardly possible, little girl, in a sickbed.” She was gone. ThenWilson noted the elaborate bed, rather like a Neapolitan hearse that Burden had once seen at the base of Vesuvius. “Though I’m not so sure about
this
bed.” Wilson removed a sheaf of papers from his bedside table, and placed them on the coverlet.
“Have you seen Mr. Bryan?”
Burden shook his head. “I think he’s in Florida.”
“The Speaker?” Wilson stared at Burden out of the corner of his eye, a disquieting effect. But then they were embarked upon a disquieting subject. The speaker of the House, Champ Clark, was the
de facto
heir of Bryan. He had opposed Wilson at every turn and he had been, in 1916, a serious candidate for the presidential nomination. Had it not been for the maneuvering of such Wilsonian Bryanites as Burden, Champ Clark might now be enjoying a chill in the Lincoln bed.
“The Speaker’s Southern. Southerners—Southwesterners—tend to peace at any price—in Europe, anyway.”
“I know. I’m one, too. That’s why I’m far too proud to fight.” Wryly, Wilson quoted himself. This single phrase had enraged every war-lover in the land, particularly the war-besotted Theodore Roosevelt, who sounded no longer sane. Wilson picked up the papers. “I tell you, Mr. Day, I have done everything a man could possibly do to stay out of this terrible business. I’d hoped Germany would be sufficiently intelligent not to force my hand—to allow us to go on as we are, neutral but helpful …”
“To England and France.”
The President was not tolerant of interruptions. He had taught others for too many years: ladies at Bryn Mawr and gentlemen at Princeton; and at neither place had the students been encouraged to interrupt the inspired—and inspiring—lecturer. “England and France. But also there is—was—cotton to the Central Powers, at the insistence of the anti-war ten-cent cotton senators …”
“Of which I am one.”
“Of which you are one.” Although Wilson smiled, his mind was plainly on the set of papers which he kept distractedly shaking as if to dislodge their message. Burden noted that two of them were tagged with red seals. “It is curious that if I am impelled to go to war, it will give pleasure to the Republicans, our enemies, and pain to much of our party.”
Burden was still enough of a lawyer to seize upon a key word. “Impelled,” he repeated. “Who impels you?”
“Events.” Wilson gazed vaguely out the window, toward a row of lightswhere his clerk-like secretary of state, Robert Lansing, was, no doubt, busy doing clerkly things, so unlike his predecessor, the Great Commoner, who was incapable of clerkdom or indeed of anything less mundane than Jovian thunderings for peace.
“I know that many of you thought I was … uh, striking a bargain during the last election. That you would get out the vote because I had kept us out of war, despite so much provocation. Well …” He had either lost his train of thought or he was preparing to indulge himself in the presidential privilege of abruptly abandoning a potentially dangerous line of argument. “Someone asked me the other day—an old colleague from Princeton—what was the worst thing about being president.” Wilson looked directly at Burden, the face solemn but the eyes bright behind the pince-nez. “Luckily, he didn’t ask me what the best thing was. I might never have thought of an answer to that one. Anyway I could answer what was the worst. All day long people tell you things that you already know, and you must act as if you were hearing their news for the first time. Now
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