Senator Gore tells me,” there was plainly a bridge from repetitions of the obvious to Oklahoma’s blind senator, whose opposition to the war had set in motion a series of parliamentary maneuvers designed to smoke out the President’s intentions, “that I owe my re-election entirely to his efforts for me in California.”
“But you do owe your majority to California.”
Wilson had gone to bed on election night thinking that his Republican opponent, Charles Evans Hughes, had been elected; so, indeed, had “President” Hughes. The next day the Far Western returns came in and Wilson was narrowly re-elected. Burden knew that this might not have happened if that professional spellbinder Gore had not been persuaded to leave his sulky seclusion in Oklahoma City and go to California and take the stump for Wilson. Gore had done so on condition that he could guarantee that Wilson would continue to keep, as he had kept, the peace. On election night Gore had wired Tumulty the exact figure by which Wilson would carry California.
Now Wilson was faced with his own less than courageous record. At various times, he had managed to be both war and peace candidate. This sort of thing never troubled the public, whose memory was short; but senators were constitutionally endowed with long memories and, often, mysterious constituencies as well. Some were obliged to follow the prejudices of their pro-German constituents. Others saw themselves as architects of a new and perfect republic, and their leader was La Follette of Wisconsin, far more dangerous in his idealism than any of the Bryanites, who were bound to beswayed by popular opinion, a highly volatile substance produced, often at whim, by William Randolph Hearst in his eight newspapers, not to mention all the other publishers, to a man for war. Thus far, Hearst was still the voice of the Germans and the Irish; and his papers in the great Northern cities played shamelessly to that city mob which he still counted on to make
him
president in 1920.
“I expected to be a reformer president.” Wilson sounded wistful. “There was so much to do right here at home, and we did do so much, so fast.”
Burden agreed, without reserve. The sort of reforms that Roosevelt had always spoken of with such transcendent passion Wilson had actually accomplished with gentle reason, combined with the subtle twisting of congressional arms. But then, as he liked to say, anyone who could master the Princeton faculty
and
the alumni association would find a mere Congress easy to deal with. Was it Senator Lodge who had said, “But he never did master them. That’s why politics was his only escape?”
“What position will they—will
you
take if I were to ask for war?” Wilson had collected himself.
“It will depend on what your reasons are. I always thought you missed your chance—if war is what you want—when the Germans sank the
Lusitania
, and so many American lives were lost. The public was ready for war that day.”
“But,” Wilson was cool, “I was not. It was too soon. We were—we are—not prepared.”
“Two weeks ago,” Burden was enjoying the game, “when you sent Ambassador Bernstorff home, the people were ready, again. Now comes the Zimmermann business.…” Although Burden was most sensitive to Wilson’s aversion to advice of any kind, he knew that he had been invited to the President’s sickbed to give him a reading of the Senate’s mood. He took the plunge. “The time has come. The thing is here. You can’t wait much longer. The press is doing its work. Gallant little Belgium. Raped nuns. Devoured children. The Hun is the devil. If there is to be war, prepared or unprepared, now is the time.”
Wilson stared at the papers in his hand; and waited.
Burden proceeded. “Isn’t that why you’ve called a special session? To ask us to declare war?”
“If I do, how many would oppose me? And on what ground?” Wilson’s usual Presbyterian moralizing and cloudy poetic
“But you do owe your majority to California.”
Wilson had gone to bed on election night thinking that his Republican opponent, Charles Evans Hughes, had been elected; so, indeed, had “President” Hughes. The next day the Far Western returns came in and Wilson was narrowly re-elected. Burden knew that this might not have happened if that professional spellbinder Gore had not been persuaded to leave his sulky seclusion in Oklahoma City and go to California and take the stump for Wilson. Gore had done so on condition that he could guarantee that Wilson would continue to keep, as he had kept, the peace. On election night Gore had wired Tumulty the exact figure by which Wilson would carry California.
Now Wilson was faced with his own less than courageous record. At various times, he had managed to be both war and peace candidate. This sort of thing never troubled the public, whose memory was short; but senators were constitutionally endowed with long memories and, often, mysterious constituencies as well. Some were obliged to follow the prejudices of their pro-German constituents. Others saw themselves as architects of a new and perfect republic, and their leader was La Follette of Wisconsin, far more dangerous in his idealism than any of the Bryanites, who were bound to beswayed by popular opinion, a highly volatile substance produced, often at whim, by William Randolph Hearst in his eight newspapers, not to mention all the other publishers, to a man for war. Thus far, Hearst was still the voice of the Germans and the Irish; and his papers in the great Northern cities played shamelessly to that city mob which he still counted on to make
him
president in 1920.
“I expected to be a reformer president.” Wilson sounded wistful. “There was so much to do right here at home, and we did do so much, so fast.”
Burden agreed, without reserve. The sort of reforms that Roosevelt had always spoken of with such transcendent passion Wilson had actually accomplished with gentle reason, combined with the subtle twisting of congressional arms. But then, as he liked to say, anyone who could master the Princeton faculty
and
the alumni association would find a mere Congress easy to deal with. Was it Senator Lodge who had said, “But he never did master them. That’s why politics was his only escape?”
“What position will they—will
you
take if I were to ask for war?” Wilson had collected himself.
“It will depend on what your reasons are. I always thought you missed your chance—if war is what you want—when the Germans sank the
Lusitania
, and so many American lives were lost. The public was ready for war that day.”
“But,” Wilson was cool, “I was not. It was too soon. We were—we are—not prepared.”
“Two weeks ago,” Burden was enjoying the game, “when you sent Ambassador Bernstorff home, the people were ready, again. Now comes the Zimmermann business.…” Although Burden was most sensitive to Wilson’s aversion to advice of any kind, he knew that he had been invited to the President’s sickbed to give him a reading of the Senate’s mood. He took the plunge. “The time has come. The thing is here. You can’t wait much longer. The press is doing its work. Gallant little Belgium. Raped nuns. Devoured children. The Hun is the devil. If there is to be war, prepared or unprepared, now is the time.”
Wilson stared at the papers in his hand; and waited.
Burden proceeded. “Isn’t that why you’ve called a special session? To ask us to declare war?”
“If I do, how many would oppose me? And on what ground?” Wilson’s usual Presbyterian moralizing and cloudy poetic
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