The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt (84 page)

The new social season, beginning with the President’s reception, was correspondingly brilliant and lavish. Roosevelt was already popular enough (even among those Cabinet officers who were his sworn enemies politically) to take his pick of invitations. Delighted to have a young and attractive wife to squire around town, he dined out at least five times a week, going on to all the best suppers and balls. Browsing at random through names dropped in his weekly letters to Bamie, one finds those of the Vice President, the Secretaries of State, War, Navy, and Agriculture, ministers from Great Britain and Germany, a Supreme Court Justice, the Speaker of the House, numerous Senators and Congressmen, the president of the American Historical Association, and two “inoffensive” English peers. While crowding such persons into his own little dining room, Roosevelt was embarrassed at not being able to afford champagne,
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but nobody, so far as he could see, seemed to mind very much. He and Edith calculated their guest-lists “pretty carefully,” trying to maintain the right admixture of power, brains, and breeding.
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Gradually, as the season progressed, a group of favored friends began to form. Roosevelt was not so much the leader of this group as its most gregarious member, equally at ease with all.
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Towering—literally—above the others was Speaker Reed, all six feet two inches and three hundred pounds of him, a vast, blubbery whale of a man, poised on two flipper-like feet. Reed was the cleverest politician in Washington, and the most domineering: his gong-like voice,
which filled every corner of the House with ease, could reduce even Roosevelt to silence. Indeed, there was little to be said when the big man had the floor, for he gave off such waves of authority that few men dared contradict him.
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That February he had already established himself as one of the great Speakers of the House, having just made his historic ruling against members who refused to stand up and be counted. (“The Chair is making a statement of fact that the gentleman is present. Does the gentleman deny it?”
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) His wit was brilliant and usually cruel. “They never open their mouths,” he complained of two House colleagues, “without subtracting from the sum of human knowledge.” Asked to attend the funeral of a political enemy, he refused, “but that does not mean to say I do not heartily approve of it.”
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Sooner or later Reed, who kept a diary in French and owned the finest private library in Maine, made his political associates aware of their intellectual ordinariness, but by the same token few questioned his leadership. “He does what he likes,” wrote Cecil Spring Rice, “without consulting the Administration, which he detests, or his followers, whom he despises.”
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Tom Reed came again and again to the tiny house on Jefferson Place, usually with Congressman Henry Cabot Lodge on his arm. Lodge, in turn, escorted Roosevelt as frequently to Lafayette Square, where two small, rich, bearded men lived side by side in a pair of red Richardson mansions. John Hay and Henry Adams were both fifty-two, and both were completing massive works of American history. They were famous for the excellence of their connections, the brilliance of their conversation, and the quality of the guests they invited to dinner. To be entertained by either (or both, for they were virtually inseparable, and liked to call each other “Only Heart”) was to count among the intellectual and social elite of Washington.
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Roosevelt’s references gained him instant access to this charmed circle.

Hay, of course, was an old family friend. Two decades had passed since that windy September night when little Teedie Roosevelt first shook his hand; Hay had subsequently distinguished himself as a diplomat, editor, poet, and Assistant Secretary of State under President Hayes. Now he was parlaying his youthful experiences as secretary to Abraham Lincoln into a ten-volume biography
clearly destined for classic status.
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Ill-born but well-married, John Hay was a spectacularly fortunate man.
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Ruddy with reflected glory, sleek with inherited wealth, he was enough of a personality in his own right to escape censure. No man, with the possible exception of Henry Adams, wrote better letters; not even Chauncey Depew could match his after-dinner wit; no chargé d’affaires bent more gracefully over a lady’s hand, or murmured endearments through such immaculate whiskers. If Hay’s hidden lips never quite touched flesh, if he winced when slapped on the back, few were offended, for he associated only with those who understood delicacy and nuance. The son of Mittie Roosevelt understood these things very well, and was therefore cordially received.

Henry Adams was rather more formidable. Flap-eared, balding, wizened, secretive, and shy, he looked not unlike one of his own Oriental monkey-carvings. There was also something simian about his behavior, which alternated between bursts of chattering effusiveness and sudden, cataleptic withdrawal. Yet even when sunk nerveless in the depths of a leather armchair, Adams was listening, watching out of the corner of his eye every flicker of activity in his vast drawing room.

It was, perhaps, the most privileged space in the United States, this book-lined chamber with its three huge windows overlooking Lafayette Square. Whichever window one stood at, the White House floated serenely in center frame, as if to remind one that the grandfather and great-grandfather of the little man in the chair had once lived there. Adams himself rarely bothered to glance at the view; he preferred to sit gazing at the marble slabs around his fireplace: “onyx of a sea-green translucency so exquisite as to make my soul yearn …”
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It would be
lèse-majesté
to suggest that he cross the square and pay his respects. Presidents, on the other hand, were welcome to visit him—assuming they could contribute something worthwhile to the conversation. If, like Rutherford B. Hayes, they could not, Adams merely ignored them until they went away.
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It was difficult not to be intimidated by Henry Adams. Not only was his blood the bluest in the land, his wisdom was so profound, and his education (a word he loved to use) so universal, that artists, geologists, poets, politicians, historians, and philosophers deferred
to him in their respective fields. Roosevelt had only to glance at the proofs of his nine-volume
History of the United States of America, 1801–1817
, which Adams was then checking, to see that here was learning, grace, and fluidity to which he could not hope to aspire.
The Winning of the West
seemed amateurish in comparison. Insofar as a coarse intellect can comprehend a fine one, he had to acknowledge his own inferiority, while preserving a healthy contempt for the older man’s vein of “satirical cynicism.”
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His own robust masculinity sensed a certain feminine reticence, a distaste for action and rough involvement, which rescued him from awe. Years after, he would write of Henry Adams and that other “little emasculated mass of inanity,”
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Henry James, that they were “charming men, but exceedingly undesirable companions for any man not of strong nature.”
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Adams, for his part, found Roosevelt repulsively fascinating.
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The young commissioner’s vitality was indecent, his finances ridiculous, and he was about as subtle, culturally speaking, as a bull moose; yet there was no denying his originality, and his extraordinary ability to translate thought into deed—with such blinding rapidity, sometimes, that the two seemed to fuse. Roosevelt had “that singular primitive quality that belongs to ultimate matter—the quality that medieval theology assigned to God—he was pure act.”
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He came flying up the steps of 1603 H Street at such a rate that one could sense, as one shrank into one’s armchair, the power that drove him. This young man was equally at home on Adams’s Oriental hearthrug, the spit-streaked stairway of the Senate, or the sod floor of a cowboy cabin. His self-assurance, as he paced up and down blustering about the “white-livered weaklings” who ran the government, was both amusing and frightening. Adams was to spend the next eleven years waiting for the inevitable moment when Roosevelt moved into the house of his ancestors, marvelling at the momentum, “silent and awful like the Chicago express … of Teddy’s luck.”
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The other regular visitors to No. 1603 included Cecil Spring Rice, Clarence King, an eccentric, globe-trotting geologist whose conversation was as coruscating as the specimens clinking in his pockets, and John La Farge—tall, sickly, saturnine, a genius in the
difficult art of stained glass, and in the even more difficult art of writing about it. Equally brilliant, though taciturn and absent-minded, was the sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens. He was then at work on his masterpiece, the memorial to Mrs. Henry Adams in Rock Creek Cemetery.
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Senator James Donald Cameron, beetle-browed and gruff, stopped by often, unaware that he was welcome mainly on account of his young wife, Elizabeth, the most beautiful woman in Washington. (Adams was secretly in love with her; so, to a lesser extent, were Hay and Spring Rice; the three men vied with one another in writing sonnets to her charms.) “Nannie” Cabot Lodge was almost as beautiful as Mrs. Cameron, with her sculptured profile and violet eyes. Famous for her tact, she spent much of her time placating those whom her supercilious husband had offended. Many other rich and talented people crowded Adams’s salon for good food, good champagne, and good talk—the best, perhaps, that has ever been heard in Washington.
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During the season of 1890, Roosevelt’s position in this “pleasant gang,” as John Hay liked to call it, was distinctly that of junior member. He received more in the way of ideas and entertainment than he could possibly bestow. It may be wondered why he was so immediately popular. Perhaps the clue lies in a remark made by one who did not quite make it into the Adams circle: “There was a vital radiance about the man—a glowing, unfeigned cordiality towards those he liked that was irresistible.” Men of essentially cold blood, like Reed and Adams and Lodge, grew dependent upon his warmth, as lizards crave the sun.
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Roosevelt’s ascent into the stratosphere of Washington society was not accompanied by any easing of his difficulties as Civil Service Commissioner. If anything, they were worse now Congress was in session, for spoilsmen formed a majority in both Houses.
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President Harrison’s request for more money for the Commission met with determined opposition and delay. Meanwhile the agency was so short of clerks it had fallen three months behind in the marking of examination papers. “No department of the Government is run with such absolutely insufficient means as ours,” Roosevelt complained to a Congressman, “and I may say also that no officers of corresponding rank to that of the Civil Service Commissioners are
so insufficiently paid.”
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But the House was more interested in Frank Hatton’s now almost daily editorials charging the Commissioners with inefficiency, corruption, and abuse of the law. While trumpeting the Roosevelt/Shidy affair as evidence of gross favoritism, Hatton also accused Commissioner Lyman of employing a relative who trafficked in stolen examination questions. Clearly something had to be done, and on 27 January Congress ordered a full investigation by the House Committee on Reform in the Civil Service. A prominent spoilsman, Representative Hamilton G. Ewart of South Carolina, was appointed prosecutor, and Frank Hatton chosen to assist him.
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A
S ALWAYS WHEN CONFRONTED
with a challenge, Roosevelt instantly took the offensive. He intended so to dominate the hearings that he would be entirely vindicated, and confirmed in the public mind as leader of a just and effective agency. At the preliminary hearing he insisted that any charges against him be separate from those involving Commissioner Lyman. While assuring the committee—repeatedly—that he was “dee-lighted” to be investigated, he “did not want to be tried for other people’s faults.”
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This was hardly a compliment to his senior colleagues, but instinct told him that Lyman’s case was more embarrassing than his own. Frank Hatton, coming face to face with Roosevelt for the first time, was clearly overawed by his pugnacious gestures and snapping teeth. Afterward the editor announced that he had nothing against Roosevelt personally; he merely wished to expose the weaknesses of the Civil Service Commission as presently constituted. Should the agency be reorganized with only one man at its head, “he would be very glad to see Mr. Roosevelt appointed.”
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The hearings proper began on 19 February, with a reading of twelve charges indicting the Civil Service Commission of various faults of management and failure to uphold the law. The fourth alleged