Class ^ELiX^n Ronk .\/OCi> GopyiiglitN" ROOSEVELT A Study in Ambivalence ROOSEVELT A STUDY IN AMBIVALENCE BY George Sylvester Viereck AUTHOR OF WJNIiVEH AND OTHER POEMS," "THE CANDLE AND THE FLAME." "CONFESSIONS OF A BARBARIAN" ET CETERA NEW YORK JACKSON PRESS, INC. 1919 Copyright, 1919 BY GEORGK SYLVKSTKR VIERFXK JUL -7 1919 ©CI.A5364*il To my Wife Margaret Edith Viereck '\JEVER on the winning side, 1 V Always on the right — Vanquished, this shall be our pride In the world's despite. Let the oily Pharisees Purse their lips and rant, Calm we face the Destinies: Better "can't" than cant. Bravely drain, then fling away, Break, the cup of sorrow! Courage! He who lost the day May have won the morrow. Apologia Pro Vita Sua © Underwood & Underwood ^Hfz 4^4 4^^ HIS book, dear reader, will be a delightful '^'^^g secret between us. It will not be re- 5>J viewed in the American press. It will not even be mentioned. My psycho- analytic interpretation of Colonel Roosevelt contains much that is startling. It adds to the portrait of Theo- dore Roosevelt a line here and there that cannot be erased by the relentless years, nor by their relenting historians. There is no question that I understand Theo- dore Roosevelt. On that point I have Mr. Roosevelt's own testimony. Nor is there any doubt that I can wield a pen. The very men who would place a Maxim silencer on my poor efforts bear witness to that fact, unless their own literary verdicts were indeed scraps of paper. Nevertheless, in the present instance, the voice of the reviewer will be hushed. There may be, now and then, a quotation from one of the Colonel's letters to me. There may be, here and there, a slur. But no honest criticism. How account for this phenomenon? Is it because the Poetry Society of America has revoked my poetic 12 ROOSEVELT license? No, that is not the reason. Is it because I am excommunicated from the ranks of the Authors' League? In fact, if newspaper accounts may be trusted, its devotees are pledged never to utter the name of Viereck. "It is understood," one of the judges of the vehmic court confided to a reporter of a New York daily with a Paris edition, ''that hereafter no member of the Authors' League of America will mention Mr. Viereck's name again, nor refer to him or his writings in any way. Let the request be made to newspapers to follow a similar course. With his expulsion from the Authors' League and the record of that expulsion, his name becomes taboo." This mediaeval sentence sends no shudders down my spine. It carries no pontifical weight. New York is not Canossa. The little popes of the Authors' League have no influence beyond their door mat. The true cause for the reticence of the press where this book is concerned lies deeper. It is not due to fear of the authorities. I have no quarrel with that Past- Master of Censorship, the Postmaster-General. The Government of the United States finds no fault in me. In fact, Government agencies co-operated with me in several undertakings throughout the war. The Federal Government bears no blame. It is the Invisible Gov- ernment that interdicts this book. ROOSEVELT 13 THERE are those who pooh-pooh this assertion. "You," they say, ''court unpopularity. Your egotism (Narcissus Complex, in the parlance of Freud) has offended many." True, I have enemies. But I also have friends. Le Gallienne called me "The mar- vellous boy who perished in conceit." "The marvellous boy who conquered in his pride," rejoined William Ellery Leonard. Self-assertion is no handicap. Im- pudence has its uses. I was not for that reason de- nied a hearing. My faults are assets. They are not responsible for the embargo on legitimate criticism. I have strayed far from the common path to con- found the Philistines. Do you think they ostracized me for that? Oh, no! The poor dears were grateful. I defied their conventions in prose and verse. My "Game at Love," revolutionary even now, was a daring ex- periment in 1906. It is the precursor of many plays that now fill the little theaters, although its miniature dramakins, written like Hardy's "Dynasts" and Byron's "Manfred" for mental performance, were actually pro- duced only in Japan. My Muse need not rouge her lips in order to meet the challenge of Swinburne's. "Nineveh," "The Candle and the Flame," and "Songs of Armageddon," cannot be accused of being anaemic. "Leaves of Grass" may be more starkly naked. It is not more audacious. Per- haps my probe sinks in too deep for the comprehension of middle-class intellects. My vocabulary alone sufHces 14 ROOSEVELT to save me from the fate of Theodore Dreiser, whose masterly novel, "The Genius" is still on the index. The libido of the Comstockians is limitless. Their verbal paucity is astonishing. Their dictionary hardly sur- passes that of infantile mural decorators. My sins against Mrs. Grundy are not held against me. Mrs. Grundy secretly loves me. She absolves me because she does not understand me. **r)ERHAPS," one of my readers urges, ''the writers 1 of America do not forgive you for descendmg from Parnassus into the arena of politics. Poetry and politics are uncongenial companions." In these days even the shoemaker is a syndicalist. He no longer sticks to his last. Must the poet stick to his lyre ? Who shall say that H. G. Wells, Henri Barbusse, and Ro- main Rolland have no share in shaping the destiny of mankind? The typewriter is mightier than the ma- chine gun. Logic, more potent than Busy Berthas. Time turns the old days to derision. An academician in the White House gives a new twist to the history of the world. Two intellectuals, Lenine and Trotzky, are making the most stupendous experiment in the evolution of human freedom, an experiment involving one hundred and fifty million people. A third-rate novelist is premier of France. The greatest living playwright, deserting the boards for the time being, teaches statesmen straight think- ROOSEVELT 15 ing. The world's greatest pianist is molding the fate of Poland. A minor poet, Kurt Eisner, was the first dictator of the Bavarian Republic. A great poet fanned Italy's martial fervor. D'Annunzio did his utmost to embroil his country in war. I, in my humble way, did my utmost to keep my country at peace. D'Annunzio succeeded. I failed. He is proud of his efforts. I am not ashamed of mine. History may 1 grant me a footnote in the annals of the Great War. That is no reason why Literature should not give me a chapter in hers. No, politics is not responsible for the attempt to excommunicate me. TENDER souls may feel aggrieved because, for- sooth, no political movement can be carried on without funds. The most fetching sonnet will not pay for a two-cent stamp. Printers insist on cold cash. In that respect they differ in no way from the China- man. "No money, no washee." The most fiery rhetoric cannot fill one pay envelope. Landlords are singularly unsympathetic. Fighting, almost single- handed, against the greatest combination of political power and finance ever aggregated in one camp, I turned for assistance to those to whose interest it was to help me. Is a reformer insincere because he accepts campaign contributions? Is Billy Sunday a hypocrite if he grants his flock the privilege of contributing 16 ROOSEVELT towards the expenses of his attempt to make the world safe for Jesus? Before America entered the war, as Dr. Edmund von Mach pointed out in a hearing before the Propaganda Investigating Committee of the United States Senate, there was in this country an official German Propa- ganda, exactly as there was an official American Propa- ganda in England during the Civil War, when Lincoln sent Thuriow Weed, Senator Evarts, and Henry Ward Beecher across the ocean to keep our British cousins neutral. Count Bernstorff, like President Wilson, la- bored to maintain peace. In addition, there was a propaganda of American citizens, many, but not all, of German descent, who believed that it was to the interest of America to remain aloof from European entangle- ments. The amount appropriated for the purpose of the so-called German Propaganda was pitiful, compared with the enormous sums lavished by its opponents un- der the leadership of Lord Northcliffe and Sir Gilbert Parker. German Propaganda was a direct descendant of British Propaganda. The relation between the two is that of cause and effect. The one necessarily gave birth to the other. It was a method adopted, for solely patriotic reasons, by many Americans to combat British domination in American life. Some fight the Devil with Holy Water. Others prefer to fight fire with fire A combination of both modes of procedure suggests ROOSEVELT 17 itself to the judicious. British Propaganda is a chronic disease of the American body poUtic. In 1914 it be- came epidemic. It is a subject that thrusts itself upon us again and again in the course of this diagnosis. The so-called German Propaganda almost succeeded, against tremendous odds and wellnigh invincible ob-- stacks, in its object, to keep us out of war. Its failure in the end was due to the inept declaration of unre- stricted submarine warfare by the German Government and to the preposterous Zimmermann note. German Propaganda, in other words, was defeated, not in Washington, but in Berlin. In spite of its restricted expenditures, this campaign had to be financed. I printed and distributed millions of pamphlets. The postage alone would have swal- lowed my royalties. I would gladly have sacrificed my entire fortune to propitiate the powers that made for war. Yet all I have in the world would have hardly sufficed to pay the printer's bill for one week. The other side probably expended ten dollars to our one! These facts are matters of common knowledge. The objection to this phase of propaganda is the rankest hypocrisy. The reason for the grievance against me lies deeper still. WHAT is that? My pro-Germanism? Fiddle- sticks! My championship of Germany did not, at first, tell against me. I never concealed my German 18 ROOSEVELT affiliations. While I was still in my teens the late Pro- fessor Hugo Muensterberg, of Harvard, introduced me to the Boston Authors' Club as ''Germany's first con- tribution to American literature." Julia Ward Howe, the president of the club, did not remonstrate with the professor. Thomas Wentw^orth Higginson, who pre- sided that evening, received me into his bosom; and that oracle of New England, the Boston 'Transcript," proclaimed my talents "a gift straight from the gods." "The splendid heritage of two languages has fallen to me from a German father and an American mother," I proudly proclaimed in the preface to "Nineveh." In the preface to the "Candle and the Flame," I describe at length my first experience as an American Exchange Poet at the University of Berlin. In the "Confessions of a Barbarian," I portray myself as a young American barbarian who for the first time finds himself face to face with Kultur. The book is a panegyric on Ger- many. Nevertheless, it was greeted with shouts of ap- proval from the majority of its American critics. Even my tribute to the Kaiser, "O Prince of Peace, O Lord of War" (published in the "Songs of Arma- geddon"), was widely acclaimed and universally re- printed. Perhaps the public was prepared for my dithyrambic praise of the Kaiser by the rhapsodies of Nicholas Murray Butler on the same subject. May I not here make a belated acknowledgment of my indebt- edness to President Butler? His enthusiasm was in- ROOSEVELT 19 fectious. My Muse merely lisped in numbers the echoes of his strain. This acknowledgment discharges my obligation. Baked, like some hapless antediluvian fos- sil, in the lava of my eloquence, his name may escape oblivion. BUT what of Ireland? Many who would forgive Pro-Germanism in me. resented my solicitude for Irish Independence. They confound American patriot- ism with loyalty to Great Britain. All the little John Bullocks shuddered when I took John Bull by the horns. They deny he has horns. They playfully conceal even his cloven hoof. Uncle Sam employed in one of his bureaus Mr. Blank, a dollar-a-year man, who, in his private capacity, was the publisher of thrilling detective fiction. The war gave him the opportunity to trans- late his grotesque theories into practice. Eagerly he tracked the Pro-German criminal to his lair, according to the most approved methods of the infallible Hawk- shaw. When facts failed him, he drew upon his in- exhaustible imagination. German-Irish plots were his dearest hobby. Eventually the activities of this ama- teur detective became embarrassing to the authorities. He was removed to a field where his talents as a spin- ner of dime-novel yarns were unable to jeopardize the good name of the Government and the lives of his fel- low men. 20 ROOSEVELT Mr. Blank, at an informal hearing where I appeared as a matter of courtesy to the Government, was sud- denly sprung upon me. He had been glaring at me ferociously for over an hour. I consented to answer a few questions from him, but objected to the offensive- ness of his manner. He humbly apologized and prom- ised to be as tender with me ''as a mother with her suckling babe." He succeeded in repressing his natural inclinations until the question of Ireland was raised. **Have you," he roared, "met Sir Roger Casement?" I regretted that I had not had the honor. "But," I said, "I have dedicated a poem to him." "Don't you know that he was a traitor?" he shouted. "No more," I replied, "than George Washington." H Mr. Blank was white before, he now grew whiter. In his rage he surpassed himself. Addressing me in language unfit for a bawdy house, or for quotation, he shrieked: "If you said that to me on the street I would knock you down." Evidently this remark was made with the intention to goad me into an assault upon an officer of the law. The insult itself would have been brazenly denied. Such a lie would have seemed a white lie to the ill-favored gangsters who were determined to "get me." Penetrat- ing their motive, I gazed at Mr. Blank half with amaze- ment, half with compassion. His case, to my mind, was not lacking in pathological elements. Turning to the official under whose auspices the hearing was os- ROOSEVELT 21 tensibly taking place, I remarked with the lift of an eyebrow, 'This is hardly parliamentary language," and demanded protection from insult. Needless to say, the incident was stricken from the record. I choose to pre- serve it here. What is more, I shall also cite my poem in commemoration of Ireland's bloodiest Easter : THE STING In Memory of Padraic Pearse and Roger Casement Not all the blood on Stephen s Green they shed, Thy murdered Pearses, and thy Casement's fate, Can add one fathom to thine ancient hate, Nor make thy gaoler's gory hand more red, For persecution is thy daily bread. Death has no sting, since through thy dungeon's gate Falls the first danm. Ah, thou hast learned to zvait, A crown of thorns upon thy tragic head ! But that this land for zvhom thy sons have bled As for their ozvn, forgetful of her dead, Unto the foe betrayed both thee and them, That one amongst us played the Judas part. Blots out the stars in Freedom's diadem. And drives a knife in every freeman's heart. 22 ROOSEVELT THESE lines were inspired by John Devoy's state- ment that Sir Roger Casement and Padraic Pearse were betrayed to the English hangman by a denaturalized American citizen. The emotion of the poem is genuine, even if the information should prove to be spurious. I hope Mr. Blank will paste this sonnet in his scrap-book. Or, if he has no scrap-book, let him deposit it in his pipe, and smoke it. I am discussing my altercation with Mr. Blank, not because the incident is of intrinsic importance, but because it is typical of the Reign of Terror induced in every part of tlie country by lawless private agencies abusing specious or borrowed author- ity to torture and bulldoze American citizens. Wrapped in the flag the repressed Sadism of generations found its release in brutal persecution. Many months later, I made the amazing discovery that Mr. Blank, the pub- lisher, as distinguished from Mr. Blank, the sleuth, had sold the imprint of his firm for the publication of a German Propaganda book. It was an excellent book. It went straight to the mark. A bull's-eye shot. Perhaps, unconsciously, Mr. Blank was a violent Irish-German sympathizer. Here, too, we may find that element of ambivalence of which we shall hear more anon. For I can hardly believe that the passage of German money, involving about five hundred dollars, would have been sufficient in itself to overcome Mr. Blank's moral scruples. Undaunted by my experience with Mr. Blank, I remained a champion of Self-Deter- ROOSEVELT 23 mination for Ireland. This attitude doubled the num- ber of my foes. It infuriated many Blanks. The green, white and orange flag of the Irish Republic produces on them the psychological effect of a red rag on mem- bers of that family, noted more for its powers of multiple mastication than for its intelligence, of whom Pythagoras slaughtered one hundred when he robbed the hypothenuse of its secret. Since that time, as Heine observes, all bovines tremble when a new truth is discovered. Nevertheless, even my love for Ireland does not account for the rancor of my opponents. NEITHER my Pro-Germanism nor my Gaelic affiliations are responsible for the boycott of my Muse. My real offence, surprising as this may seem, is nothing less than my Americanism. When I adopted the motto, "America First and America Only," my goose was cooked. Cooked? Toasted brown would be more correct. The constant chatter about German Propaganda is intended to distract our attention from another, far more formidable, propa- ganda. This propaganda began in 1776. It has con- tinued to the present day. Benedict Arnold was the first of a long line of propagandists. The torch of Toryism passed from hand to hand. In 1820 a Higginson in Boston headed a movement for the secession of Massachusetts from the Union, with the object of rejoining the ''Mother 24 ROOSEVELT Land." The secret will of Cecil Rhodes* makes definite provisions for a campaign to regain the "Lost Colo- nies." Huge Foundations support this movement with more than a king's ransom. It appears in many pro- tean disguises. Corps of writers, editors, lecturers, university presi- dents, corporation lawyers, professors and poets, all ''dupes and tools of foreign influence," are the mummers in this puppet show. The ebbs and tides of American politics reflect merely different phases of one gigantic purpose. Now silent, now vociferous, now covert, now in the open, it never ceases and never sleeps. If my sins had been seventy times seven, they would have been shriven. What could not be passed over nor con- doned was my reiteration of the Declaration of Inde- pendence. "True," I said, "I am of German blood. I am proud of my ancestry. I desire to interpret what is best in the land of my fathers to the land of my children. But America is first in my heart. The American of to- morrow must not be a Germanized American, and he shall not be an Englishman. Let him take from Ger- many and from England and from all lands whatever gifts there be, but let him place all in the lap of Columbia." * For more information on this remarkable document, consult "The Life of the Right Hon. Cecil Rhodes," by Sir Lewis Mitchel, Vol. I, chapter VI, page 689. ROOSEVELT 25 MY eyes are not blinded by the prejudices of race. I am willing to look beyond the confines of na- tionality. Gladly would I swear fealty to a Parliament of Man, but I refuse to take stock in a close corpora- tion of the nations of the Entente, monopolizing land, sea and air, with John Bull in control of the majority holdings. To preach this doctrine is to commit literary suicide. It is no longer good form to admire George Washington. The power that revises our school his- tories (even if it cannot alter our history) places its iron fist upon the mouths of those who promulgate the gospel of Americanism. Our political life boasts of many apostles, preaching many divergent articles of faith. The Great Silent Government forgives all heresies save one : *Thou Shalt Have No Other Country Above America." The prophet whose sermon runs thus, his name is anathema. William Randolph Hearst, William Jennings Bryan, Robert M. La Follette, Champ Clark, James R. Mann, Daniel F. Cohalan, William Hale Thompson and Samuel Untermyer, no matter how far apart their political poles may be, are equally under the ban. Of late, something of the curse seems to have fallen even on President Wil- son. And I, humble poet though I be, feel its heavy hand. 26 ROOSEVELT THE vengeance of the Invisible Governors reaches far. No less than forty life insurance companies refused to accept me after America entered the war, with the feeble excuse that my political views entailed too great a risk. What a comment on American democ- racy if this were anything but a disingenuous pretext! The Insurance Trust blacklisted me because, long be- fore the United States joined the ranks of the belliger- ents, I protested in my journal against their reckless investments in the war loans of foreign nations. The "War Plotters of Wall Street," by Charles A. Collman, to which I gave circulation, exposed the secret ramifi- cations and interlinking directorates of the insurance companies and the offices of foreign banking interests. My objections against loans by American financial in- stitutions to the Government of the Czar were not forg^otten in this connection. To deny my family the protection of insurance was merely one mode of attack. Every obstacle was placed in the way of my business. Bookstalls, coerced and intimidated, no longer dared to display my magazines or my writings. It was made difficult for me to obtain office space in New York. My publishers, MoflFat, Yard & Co., sullenly requested me to take back my books, the very books to which they owe their original prestige. In five heavy boxes, the plates of my works (both prose and verse), descended upon me. Like so many chickens, my songs came home to roost. ROOSEVELT 27 Mobs were inspired by insidious newspaper cam- paigns to menace my house in a peaceful suburb mis- named Mount Vernon. I heard the tramp, tramp, tramp of many feet. Automobiles, mounted by men in uni- form, were ready to kidnap me. These things were not spontaneous. They were not begotten of war ex- citement. Everything was carefully, skillfully, cau- tiously planned. Officials were found who, prostituting their brief authority for private political gain, poisoned the public mind, not by prosecuting me — there was no basis for prosecution — but by publishing piecemeal the distorted or perjured testimony of dismissed and discredited agents, of scoundrels and scalawags. Bureaus, hardly intended for such purposes, burnt midnight electricity at the expense of the public to encompass my ruin. My employees were alternately threatened with internment and tempted with offers of lucrative situations to bear false witness against me. THE chief object of these machinations was to pro- vide the press with specious charges and sinister insinuations. The Department of Justice, true to its name, resisted the pressure of my detractors. But the desired end, to discredit me, to exclude me from the work of reconstruction on an all-American basis, was, at least, partly, accomplished. My efforts to aid the 28 ROOSEVELT Government, through the instrumentality of the Agricul- tural and Industrial Labor Relief, by finding work for those unfortunates whom the war had deprived of their livelihood, was represented as a diabolical scheme to gather information for the Wilhelmstrasse ! My very success was turned against me. The 6,000 applicants who were indebted to my bureau for the opportunity of earning their bread on farm or factory became 6,000 spies. Did the newspapers believe this preposterous twaddle? Of course not. They could not think so little of our Secret Service, no matter how low they may have rated my patriotism. The actual con- duct of the Agricultural and Industrial Labor Relief was in the hands of an expert, Mr. Gerard M. Hessels, recommended to me by the Federal State Superintend- ent of the United States Employment Service for the State of New York. When the task of the Labor Relief was, in a large measure, completed, Mr. Hessels received a commission from the Department of Labor. However, no interviewer ever sought out Mr. Hessels, for the simple reason that the newspapers did not de- sire the facts. They preferred to obtain their informa- tion from the ex-convicts attached to the staff of a local political officeholder, hankering for notoriety and re- election. The campaign of vilification did not stop here. My personal integrity was questioned. I was portrayed as ROOSEVELT 29 a selfish exploiter, a ravenous wolf in the sheep's clothes of charity. The object of these tactics was to alienate my following. Fortunately, the attempt proved futile. The Agricultural and Industrial Labor Relief published careful financial statements. Our books were open to all. But no newspaper, no official, made the slightest attempt to inquire into the truth of these charges. My replies were ignored. The figures of our expert account- ants appeared nowhere except in my own magazine. My first impulse was to sue my defamers for libel. How- ever, my attorneys had less faith in American justice under the pressure of war conditions than I had. Inci- dentally, it was by no means an easy task when the storm was at its height to obtain legal representation! All this seems now like an evil dream. It will seem in- credible in the future. ' - FORTUNATELY I had an attorney who never deserted me. He was at my elbow day and night. I think that I am responsible for the touch of silver on his youthful head. It is no easy task to keep a man out of jail who insists on free speech even in times of war. The following is a Hteral transcript of an incident in the office of my attorney. I reprint it here not for its literary value, but because of its importance as a historical document. The dramatic rights are not reserved. 30 ROOSEVELT BEYOND REDRESS A Comedy in One Act Time: America Under the Terror. Place: The Office of a Distinguished Attorney. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. Attorney I. Attorney II. An Editor. Editor. {Excitedly.) They accuse me of every crime in the calendar. {Points to a bulging envelope marked "Romeikej") I have robbed the poor and fleeced the rich. They v^ill next accuse me of stealing silver spoons. . . . Attorney I. Your friends v^on't believe these stories. Nothing that you can say will convince your enemies. Attorney II. {Nods wisely.) Editor. But can I not sue them for libel? They at- tribute to me statements that I never made. They saddle me with offenses of which I am unmistakably innocent. I am not a plaster saint, but I have always held my honor inviolate. I want to vindicate it in court. Attorney II. That would be an expensive and, un- der the circumstances, a futile proceeding. Editor. Damn the expense! They credit me with riches beyond my dreams, but if I can collect damages for all the slanders printed about me, I could retire from business. Attorney I. You will not be able to collect six cents. ROOSEVELT 31 Editor. What? Am I not to defend my reputation? My detractors have taken the most patriotic and the most unselfish thing I did in my Hfe and turned it into a club against me. Attorney II. It will be a boomerang. Editor. It may be a boomerang, but what good will that do me if the public merely sees the lump on my head? Attorney II. Suing newspapers is always pretty poor business. In times like these, you have no chance at all. There is an old legal maxim that for every wrong there is a redress. But that isn't true. There is no redress for some wrongs. Editor. You mean to say that I must calmly submit to these villainous persecutions? Attorney I. Supposing you sue. They will put you on the witness stand. They will probe every act of your life. They will go back to the day of your birth. They may go even beyond that. The question of your innocence or your guilt will not figure at all. They will ask you: Are you a German? Editor. I am an American citizen. Attorney I. They will ask you: Where were you born? W^here is your father? Where is your mother? What did you say about the Lusitania? Deny, if you dare, that you once had a cup of tea with von Papen. The ghosts of your editorials will be cited against you. Every fine that ever appeared in your paper will be perverted. Editor. I am guilty of no disloyalty. Like many thousands, perhaps millions, of good citizens of the United 32 ROOSEVELT States, I did not sympathize with our present associates in the war. My allegiance is, was, and always has been, with my country, the United States. Attorney II. {Wearily.) I know. Editor. My accusers spread all manner of false im- pressions by rehearsing accounts of my actions prior to April 6, 1917. But they cannot discover any act on my part that has not been absolutely loyal and patriotic. Attorney I. It makes no difference. They will create an atmosphere. They will introduce the race issue. They will beat the drum in the jury room. Attorney II. If no jury could be found to convict the murderers of Praeger, the young German who was lynched in Illinois, what jury will punish your traducers for libel? Editor. It is perfectly plain that these people are at- tempting to undermine the faith of my readers in me in order to destroy whatever power for good I may possess now and in the future. If I cannot sue them for libel, may I not at least issue a statement that will raise hell? Attorney II. {Puts up his hands deprecatingly.) Editor. {Takes out a voluminous manuscript from his pocket and places it in the hands of Attorney /. The paper audibly sizzles.) Attorney I. {Reads the statement. A broad smile spreads over his features.) Good for you! It's excel- lent! Editor. I am glad you like it. Attorney I. Yes, but don't publish it. Editor. Why not? ROOSEVELT ^^ Attorney I. It is not necessary to howl with the wolves, but at least give them no opportunity for howling at you. The more you have to say, the more chance you give them to get back at you. Attorney II. The channels of publicity are open to your foes. They are not open to you. Their statements are carried on the front page. How much of your state- ment would ever get into print ? Editor. But I must make a statement in justice to my readers, in justice to my followers, in justice to those who are defending my name and who are helpless unless I give them a weapon. Attorney II. {Shakes his head.) Attorney I. {Thinks for a moment, then laboriously writes out a statement. He writes for several minutes. The Editor watches him with pleased expectation. Turn- ing to Attorney II, he hisses.) You see Attorney II. {Looks grimly sardonic.) Attorney I. {Finishes the statement. He hands it to the Editor. It does not sizzle.) Editor. {Reads it with a long face.) Well, it is not exactly a 42-centimeter, but it is better than nothing. May I release it at once ? Attorney II. {Throws up his hands in horror.) Such a step would be extremely injudicious. It is wise to let these attacks die out. The public will take them for their true value in time. Your friends are discounting them even now. Having followed the lies and misrepresenta- tions in the newspapers in the last few years, they will treat the slurs upon you with the contempt they deserve. If not, they are not worth being called your friends. 34 ROOSEVELT Editor. (Looks imploringly at Attorney /.) But I must have my say. I am a fighter. I cannot quit. Attorney I. I am afraid I agree with my colleague. I cannot permit you to make a statement. Stay in your bombproof. This is not the advice you want from an expensive lawyer, but it is the best advice I can give you. Attorney II. (Nods approvingly.) Editor. {Throivs up his hands in despair.) Curtain falls. A Voice from the Audience. What have you to say for yourself? Editor. On advice of counsel, I decline to answer. Voice. What do you think of it all? Editor. On advice of counsel, I refuse to think. The lights go out. Total darkness envelopes the theatre. DAY after day, throughout this period, I was lam- basted in the press as an arch conspirator. Yet, the most cursory examination of my publication would have revealed that, months before the break, I supported the enlightened policies of President Wilson. Mr. Wilson's speech of January 22, 1917, seemed to me a new Sermon on the Mount. I advocated his Fourteen Theses. In fact, Mr. Roosevelt, in a signed statement issued shortly before his death, insisted that, outside of my- self and Mr. Hearst, the President's program had no ROOSEVELT 35 supporters. This was, of course, untrue, but it con- firms my assertion. I frequently championed Mr. Wilson's inspired doctrines even after exigencies of statecraft compelled him to abandon them. I stood up for Woodrow Wilson — even against Woodrow Wilson. Nevertheless, the campaign against me continued merrily. Journalistic strumpets were hired to "expose" and denounce me. The Vigilantes, a band of literary war profiteers, inspired chiefly by hatred of me, issued almost daily bulls and bulletins against me. Even the poets were drawn into the conspiracy. In de- fiance of its own by-laws, the executive committee of the Poetry Society of America, which owes its origin to me, struck my name from its roll, without con- sulting the members and without permitting me to appear in my own defence. The protest of Edgar Lee Masters, Nathan Haskell Dole, William EUery Leon- ard, Conrad Aiken, Witter Bynner, Padraic Colum, Shaemas O'Sheel, Jane Burr, B. Russell Herts, Rose Pastor Stokes, William Marion Reedy, and Harriet Monroe (to name only a few of my champions), were unavailing. My expulsion from the Authors' League preceded the action of the Poetry Society. In both cases those heroic stay-at-homes, the Vigilantes, were the gatherers of the grapes of wrath. Many one-time friends were either paralyzed by fear or pliant tools in the hands 36 ROOSEVELT of the Invisible Government. Now that the peril is past, many of the rats are scurrying back. This, how- ever, is a tribute, not to their loyalty, but to the sea- worthiness of the vessel. My experience in this respect differs in no whit from that of other advocates of unpopular causes. In the great Ark of human life there is room for all creatures. Even rats have their place in the universe. We shall not bar them from our gang-planks, but we shall know them for what they are. Many erstwhile admirers volunteered to rend me when the tide seemed to be turning against me. Charles Hanson Towne, who had hailed my poetry, Gertrude Atherton, who had saluted my prose, vociferously de- manded my literary annihilation. I can understand the psychology of those who, under the influence of rabid racial instincts, lashed into fury by a desire for noto- riety, experienced an infantile regression to barbarism. It is less easy to forgive Americans of German blood who denounced their fellow citizens in order to demon- strate their own loyalty. A CERTAIN Hermann (with two ns) Hagedorn, like myself, the son of a German father, was more ro3^alist than Lord Northcliffe in his devotion to England. Mr. Hagedorn's most distinguished contribu- tion to war literature is his "Portrait of a Rat" which, if I may believe certain anonymous communications, was intended to immortalize me. ROOSEVELT 2n PORTRAIT OF A RAT A Mule greasy, not quite clean, Conceited, snobbish, vain, obscene. Like flying poison are his smiles. And zvhat he touches, he defiles. A Poet, knowing Love and Art, He makes a brothel of his heart; A builder, gifted to build high, He dreams in filth and builds a sty To haggle in zvith foolish kings Over the price of zvit and wings. And zvhen his country calls her men With gun and szvord, zvith brush and pen. He smirks and quotes the Crucified, And jabs his pen-knife in her side. Dubious as I am of the soundness of Mr. Hagedorn's devotion to Jeffersonian principles, I am certain that it is superior to his animal lore. The most pronounced characteristic of the amiable rodent in question is its eagerness, noted above, to desert a sinking ship. Mr. Hagedorn's error may be explicable on the basis of Freud's/ discovery that man frequently attributes to others the fatal weakness that makes his own heart a hell. I may be guilty of many frailties, but it is not my habit to abandon my post at the wheel at the ap- proach of an iceberg or a torpedo. I steered my maga- 38 ROOSEVELT zine straight through the path of the storm without throwing overboard my convictions. Had I been ready to recant, my enemies would have built for me bridges of gold. I refuse to take a blow lying down, even if the odds and the galleries are stacked against me. Knowing something of mental Jiu-jitsu, my reply to Mr. Hagedorn assumed the form of another contribu- tion to zoology. PORTRAIT OF A JACKAL For love of ease he plays the knave; He spits upon his father s grave. Yea, for his masters' sport his tongue Befouls the race from which he sprung- While eager, oily, smooth and kempt, He eats the crumbs of their contempt. A beggar, lacking love and art. He sells his malice on the mart. He casts a eunuch's jaundiced eyes Upon the Prophet's Paradise, And when his country calls for men, Gives, all he can, a — fountain pen. His braise zvords hide a slacker s heart. Informer, sneak, he chose his part, A Jackal, ever on the run. Save when the odds are ten to one! ROOSEVELT 39 MAY I not add that this is not a portrait of Mr. Hagedorn. He is not important enough for me to waste a stroke of my brush. I merely intend to de- pict a type. Let him whom it fits, put this cap on his head. Some Americans of German descent, notably a so- ciety woman who frequently bursts into print, attempt to camouflage their descent, by vicious attacks on Ger- man music and German art. They would deny the Holy Ghost if He were to approach them in German garb or with a Teutonic accent. For such as these, the course of duty is plain. They should emulate the Samurai who disembowel themselves in order to ex- press the intensity of their convictions. Before long Fritz Kreisler, who refused to play for an audience that dubbed his countrymen "Huns," will make the violin sob and sing again. Wagner, returning from exile, will smite us with tonal tornadoes. Richard Strauss, once more, will flagellate and delight our ears. When these things come to pass, the men and women who blush for the race of their fathers should seize the occa- sion for an emphatic demonstration in the fearless Japanese fashion. What an appealing spectacle I What headlines! li the whole tribe were to commit hari-kiri in the Opera House to the strains of ''Lohengrin" as a protest against both German music and their own German blood. 40 ROOSEVELT Who shall sound the perplexities of human nature? A variety of motives, not all ignoble, actuated the war- fare against me. All my antagonists, however, seemed to prefer the poison pen to poison gas. There was perhaps in the psyche of some of my foes an under- current of jealousy, because I occupied no little space in the newspapers, and because my literary labors had not been unrewarded materially. These motives, seizing upon the unconscious, prepared the soil for the seed of intrigue. Stimulated by war psychosis, the basest incentives donned the garb of patriotism. I do not question the sincerity of my foes. I merely analyze them with a knowledge gained from the study of Freud. ONE dear friend whose absence in those days made me catch my breath with pain was Hugo Muen- sterberg. Intellectually and morally he was a pillar of strength. He died a martyr to his convictions. Even his powerful constitution was unable to withstand the con- stant strain of public assault and private persecution. He could give and take a blow, but the betrayal of men whose friendship he had treasured wounded him deeply. For all his worldily wisdom, he had the heart of a child. We who knew him, knew how he suffered. The un- speakable outrages committed against him by men who were his debtors constitute one of the darkest chapters in the academic history of the United States. ROOSEVELT 41 Muensterberg was incapable of understanding base- ness and ingratitude, and yet, with truly Christian spirit, he forgave those who traduced him. His last word to the world was a message of peace and good will in the Christmas number of Fatherland of 1916. I wonder with what feelings of shame and humiliation some of his colleagues at Harvard will remember his prophecy: ''After the war men will look one another in the face with astonishment. . . . They simply will not believe that they could misjudge and maltreat their friends so grossly. The subtle power of our mind to forget will become mankind's blessing.'* Where others preached hatred, Muensterberg preached love. But he made no compact with wrong. Sinister influences con- spired to silence him, but he was the heir of Fichte and Luther. No power on earth could make him afraid. A German to the last he, nevertheless, understood America better than many of those whose ancestors constituted the dubious crew of Britain's younger sons in Colonial days. He had become almost a national institution. He could always make himself heard when the voices of lesser men were drowned in the tumult. His books on America are the most profound inter- pretation of American life. He was equally skillful in interpreting German ideas and ideals to the people of the United States. It was perhaps fortunate that he escaped the tragedy of seeing his life-work go up in the smoke of the world conflagration. The tortures to 42 ROOSEVELT which he was subjected by his colleagues, even before our official entrance into the war, the little meannesses of which only the professorial mind is capable, defy recital. The war would have been his crucifixion. His students loved him. But the Faculty was mediaeval in its intolerance. Every day drove a new nail into his heart. The following verses, written immediately after Hugo Muensterberg's funeral, cannot express the depths of my feeling for him. They are a slight tribute to the great man whose genius for philosophy was equalled only by his genius for friendship. HUGO MUENSTERBERG Because he loved his country he lies slain, Tracked like a lion, for the hounds to rend. New England, gloat above my murdered friend — Stopped is the engine of a mighty brain! Blood of his heart shall leave too dark a stain On Harvard's crimson for the years to blend. Smooth-tongued assassins, mumbling as ye bend Above his wounds, hush! He may bleed again. Marking afar from tender olive tree The milk-white dove, on the blood-sickened sea He cast the bread zuhereby the soul shall live^ In ambush slain, he met a soldier s fate, And, like a strong man, fighting knezv not hate. He has forgiven. But can zve forgive f ROOSEVELT 43 EVERY snub, every averted head, was a dagger thrust to Muensterberg. He found excuses for his detractors, but he lacked the resihency to retort with a smile. My temperament is more sanguine. Abuse rolls off the wings of my Pegasus, like water from the plum- age of that lowly fowl, the duck. Moreover, while poets can be malicious, they cannot hope to surpass the vindictiveness of professors. Ostracism killed Muen- sterberg. I did not take my expulsions tragically. I shall practice poetry even without a license. I shall fol- low the profession of letters even if I am outlawed by the Authors' League. I am consoled by the fact that our greatest American poets, Edgar Allan Poe and Walt Whitman, were not members of the literary coteries of their day. I feel sure that the Authors' League would seriously object to Walt Whitman. His bust in the Hall of Fame is still conspicuous solely by its absence. Poe, like Whitman, was hounded all his life. Even after his death it took a long struggle before he was admitted to the Hall of Fame, although the name of Edgar Allan Poe is synonymous with x\merican Poetry. The final acceptance of Poe aroused the ire of Father Tabb. Burning indignation dictated his death- less lines : Into your charnel house of fame Only the dead shall go, But write not there the living name Of Edgar Allan Poe. 44 ROOSEVELT If Mr. H. L. Mencken's suggestion that the name of the Poe family is derived from the German Pfau, should be authenticated, no doubt the Authors' League of America would clamor for the immediate expulsion of the poet from the chaste seclusion of University Heights, on the charge of Pro-Germanism. Perhaps it would be joined in this attempt by the executive com- mittee of the Poetry Society ! However that may be, I dedicate to the Authors' League of America and divers literary societies the following verses : Go, play your Lilliputian game, Ye lisping scribes and ladies lyric, While brave men die and oceans flame! Your victory at best is Pyrrhic; The Future knoivs your Scroll of Fame But for the expurgated name Of George Sylvester Viereck. Poe, Whitman and Mark Twain suffered because of their rugged Americanism. Mark Twain, in spite of his popularity, was not permitted to express what he felt most deeply. He reserved his scorn for posthu- mous publication and for his correspondence. I am pre- pared to be an outcast in such noble company. But, like Poe and Whitman, I shall not wait until I am dead ROOSEVELT 45 before I voice my convictions. Even that smug heretic, Louis Untermeyer, who combines an erratic critical gift with unerring commercial instincts, in a book alleged to interpret the New Spirit in American literature, shrewdly contents himself with a sneering reference to me. I shall survive, even if I am ignored in anthol- ogies and if little professors teach their scholars that, with the possible exception of Theodore Dreiser's, mine is *'the vulgarest voice yet heard in American litera- ture."* IT may be that the war psychosis will not endure for- ever, that even our Rip Van Winkles, as Shaw has aptly termed the editors of America, may discover, in the course of a decade or two, that the war is over. It may be that the true poets of America will drive from the temple those who betray the Muse into the hands of the moneylenders. It may be that the mon- strous grasp that strangles all those who, while render- ing homage to Shakespeare and to Swinburne, refuse to rise when the band plays "God Save the King," will be pried loose by a miracle ! Fortunately, a writer in the English tongue (and I use more pens than one) is not confined to one con- tinent. Life's paradoxes are more startling than Oscar Wilde's. And, paradoxically enough, war -racked *"On Contemporary Literature," by Stuart P. Sherman. 46 ROOSEVELT Europe is more just in its attitude towards me than my American colleagues. Perhaps her intellectuals have a higher respect for the art of letters. Perhaps they are less swayed by the psychology of the mob. Englishmen of letters meet my arguments without deeming it necessary to proscribe my verse. When I called England "the Serpent of the Sea," the jovial heart of Gilbert K. Chesterton shook with Homeric laughter. His brother, Cecil, who, unlike our Vigi- lantes, sealed his loyalty with his life, challenged me to a debate. We met in honest combat, and after it was over we shook hands and drank large jugs of ale in the tap room of the Prince George. Israel Zangwill confesses, with his tongue in his cheek, in the ''War for the World," that my Father- land was one of the things that kept him pro- Ally; but he does not, because of political differences, abuse my lyrics. H. G. Wells takes me mildly to task now and then, without demanding my blonde Germanic head on a silver platter. And from France, France bled white by the war, Henri Barbusse sends me a message of appreciation! There is a certain poetic justice and poetic irony in the fact that the countries I attacked so bitterly are more generous in judging my point of view than my own countrymen. But, hold! I never attacked the France of Maeterlinck and Barbusse, of Verlaine and Villon. I opposed French Imperialism. I also op- ROOSEVELT 47 posed British Imperialism. German Imperialism ap- pealed to me no more than British Imperialism or French Imperialism. I was fascinated by the romantic figure of William II. I glorified him, but only as the symbol of a nation embattled. I am not a monarchist. How could I be ? Insurgency is bred in my bone. My father shared a German prison with Bebel. Liebknecht the elder and Auer were daily visitors to our house. My grandfather on my mother's side was one of the Germans who came to seek freedom under the Stars and Stripes in 1848. The blows I struck for Germany were not struck in defence of her feudal system. Similarly my shafts at Great Britain were never aimed at that ''lyric England," to which I paid tribute in my first book of poems. Like- wise, I never attacked the England of Chesterton, of Wells, of Zangwill, of Havelock Ellis, of Hardy and of Shaw. THERE is no contemporary whom I admire more than the author of "Caesar and Cleopatra." Shaw is not only a matchless artist, but he is also, like Roose- velt, the mouthpiece of an epoch. I treasure his judg- ment, delivered December 1, 1918. He writes: You backed the wrong horse in 1914, but you have extricated yourself very cleverly; and there is plenty of common sense in your present attitude. 48 ROOSEVELT Of course, I did not back the wrong horse. I backed the right horse, but the wrong jockey. The German people will justify my faith. When Uncle Sam entered the race, I backed both the right horse and the right jockey. I am proud that Bernard Shaw backed the same horse and the same jockey, even against Lloyd George. Of course, we must differentiate between Woodrow Wilson, the politician, and Woodrow Wil- son, the spokesman of the hope of the world. The one may fail us. He may compromise. He may hedge. The other has planted a star in the firmament of man- kind that even he himself cannot tear down from the heavens. It is to this star that we have hitched our wagon.* Theodore Roosevelt, unfortunately, resolutely shut his eyes to the new vision. Though a son of the New World, he made himself the mouthpiece of Old World Imperialism. The very title by which he preferred to be addressed was borrowed from the lexicon of militarism. George Bernard Shaw, who never set foot on American soil, speaks the language of the New World's Idealism. The difference between the two is the difference between the Hebrew prophets and Jesus. Theodore Roosevelt clamored for my expulsion from the Authors' League. George Bernard Shaw, patriotic Englishman though he be, refused to betray the allegi- ♦This was written several months before Mr. Wilson's abject failure in Paris. A MESSAGE FROM GEORGE BERNARD SHAW lO ADELPHI TERRACE W.C.2. ^Y'Xtji. A-X1.-V*' \^6U2^^S^ dH, Ct^ o-mX cUi^c urU <.,alrVif t4-i f<^-i^^ 50 ROOSEVELT ance he owes to the profession of letters. His message of January 19, 1919, needs no comment: If the Authors' League or the Poetry Society or any other organization expels a member because of his political opinions, it thereby constitutes itself a political body and violates whatever literary charter it may have. Literature, art and science are free of frontiers; and those who exploit them politically are traitors to the greatest republic in the world : the Republic of Art and Science. BUT I have wandered far from the subject of my discussion. Enter Theodore Roosevelt, to whom I herewith yield his accustomed place, the center of the stage. I wish, with no undue humility, that I could eliminate the first person singular from my study, but these pages owe whatever value they may possess to my personal relations with Colonel Roosevelt. The psycho-analyst, however objective he may desire to be, cannot obliterate himself. He must register his re- actions. His soul is his sounding board. He cannot illuminate his subject without revealing himself. I have tried to be honest both with myself and with others. Have I succeeded? God only knows — and Freud. GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. New York, 1919. The Bi-polarity of Theodore Roosevelt I. SCAR WILDE says somewhere: ** 'Know thyself was written over the portals of the Old World. *Be thyself* is written over the portals of the New." But it is impossible for man to know himself or to be himself without Psychoanalysis. Psychoanalysis did not exist be- fore Freud. Freud gave us the key to the soul. He teaches us how to know and how to be ourselves. But no one who truly knows himself can possibly wish to be himself. Above the portal of the Future, Psychoanalysis writes the new legend: "Sublimate thyself." It may be that those who live by psychoanalysis shall perish by psychoanalysis. Psychoanalysis robs hate of its sting. Perhaps it also deprives love of its halo. By pene- trating into the innermost tunnels, the deepest galleries of the mind, until it reaches the very root of Self, it may de- stroy those emotions and processes which cannot exist save in the haze of illusion. Under the scalpel of analysis, maybe, art withers and affection dies. It cannot give us the love that passes all understanding but it can give the under- standing that passes all love. 54 ROOSEVELT Psychoanalysis teaches us that Christ's command to love our enemies is no paradox because love and hate are inter- changeable terms. "Odi et Amo," Catullus writes to his inamorata. The heart, like Janus, has two faces. "Each man kills the thing he loves/' says "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." "Each man loves the thing he kills," adds the shrewd psychoanalyst. Even as a boy I must have had some intimation of this great antinomy. "For the mean- ing of love, at the last, is hate," exclaims the lover in one of my earliest poems. For this duality of affection, this contradictory aspect of human relationship, this bi-polarity of the soul, this plus and minus of emotion, one of Freud's first associates, Bleuler, has coined the name of Ambiva- lence. Ambivalence is difficult to define. Ambivalent impulses, Freud says somewhere in "Totem and Taboo," represent simultaneously the wish and the counter-wish. "Am- bivalence," he tells us, "is the sway of coexisting contrary tendencies." The exaggerated regard, the very tenderness which we feel for the objects of our hero worship or our affection are accompanied by "a contrary but unconscious stream of hostility wherever the typical case of an am- bivalent affective attitude is realized. The hostility is then submerged by an excessive increase of tenderness which is expressed as anxiety and becomes compulsive because otherwise it would not suffice for its task of keeping the unconscious opposition in a state of repression. . . . Ap- plied to the treatment of privileged persons, this theory RQOSEVELT 55 would reveal that their veneration, their very deification, is opposed in the unconscious by an intense hostile tendency. . . . The taboo of the dead," Freud states somewhere else, "originates from the conscious grief and the uncon- scious satisfaction at death." Shaw says that our grief over the death of a friend or a near relative is mingled with a certain feeling of satisfac- tion at "being finally done with him." Freud, expressing himself more scientifically, contends (in "Reflections on War and Death") that "primitive man, grieving at the death of a friend, discovered in his pain that he, too, could die, an admission against which his whole being must have revolted, for every one of these loved ones was part of his own beloved self. On the other hand, again, every such death was satisfactory to him, for there was also some- thing foreign in each of these persons. The law of emo- tional ambivalence, which to-day still governs our emo- tional relations to those whom we love, certainly obtained far more widely in primitive times. The beloved dead had nevertheless roused some hostile feelings in primitive man because they had been both friends and enemies. . . . Except in a few instances, even the tenderest and closest love relations," Freud insists, "contain a bit of hostility which can arouse an unconscious death-wish." Every popular hero is both hated and loved by his fol- lowers. Hence the startling somersaults of popular senti- ment. The idol, almost overnight, by some subtle and sudden accretion to the subconscious forces of opposition, 56 ROOSEVELT becomes an object of universal contumely. Aristides is banished because he is just. The lion of to-day is the jackal of to-morrow. Judgment can reverse itself with the rapidity of lightning, because underneath the adoration there is a strong current of hostility and resentment. No man has experienced this sudden reversal more frequently than Theodore Roosevelt. He alternately enthralled and utterly estranged public opinion. His friends of to-day were his enemies of to-morrow. The mortal foe became the dearest friend. Both friend and foe grieve his loss. The world seems empty without him. I am convinced that Brother Barnes and Brother Penrose mourn him even more profoundly than Brother Perkins and Brother Pinchot. Both Taft and Wilson sorrowed at his bier. Not merely because they owed to him both the Presidency and the most anxious hours of their lives, but because of some- thing in the man himself that deeply and powerfully at- tracted those whom he most repelled and, ambivalently, re- pelled those who loved him best. Roosevelt himself is a typical example of bi-polarity. He was at once the Progressive and the Reactionary. He was Sophist and Rough Rider, Simple Simon and Machi- avelli, rolled into one. He was more English than George v., more imperialistic than the London Times; yet he hated the English from the depth of his heart, he despised them, and, to use his own phrase, he patronized them. He was at once the faithful Patroclus and the treacherous Apache. He loved the Germans and bitterly denounced ROOSEVELT 57 them. His attitude toward Wilhelm II. was equally am- bivalent. He admired the Hohenzollern, yet had no kind word for him. The two men were strangely alike in some respects. For the Kaiser is a similar bundle of contradic- tions. Wilhelm, as I explained in my "Confessions of a Barbarian" (written ten years ago), is both rationalist and mystic, Anglophile and Anglophobe. The Middle Ages and the Twentieth Century join in the unstable composition of his character. Yet, as I pointed out, the Kaiser is no hypocrite. We must simply accept him as two personali- ties. Roosevelt, contradictory as this may seem in the light of his inconsistencies, was equally incapable of hypocrisy. We cannot explain him without the theory of ambivalence. The Ambivalent Element in My Relations with Roosevelt 11. IV/IY own relations with Theodore Roosevelt were dis- tinctly ambivalent. I hated him and I loved him, as Catullus did his mistress. His feelings towards me must have been equally contradictory. He was both my generous friend and my relentless foe. If I attacked him bitterly, the arrow intended for him entered my own heart. Praising him, I spoke in strident accents, in order to drown the secret misgivings, the latent hostility, the hidden dis- trust in my bosom. The Progressives who deified him were lacerated by the self-same conflict. Suspicion and adoration alternately dominated their attitude. To Wall Street he was both Devil and Savior. He was the man who wrote to My Dear Mr. Harriman: "You and I are practical men." He was also the man w^ho exalted "the spontaneous judgment of the people" above "the deliberate judgment of the bosses." He was the Nemesis of malefac- tors of great wealth and he made a present of the Tennes- see Coal and Iron Co. to J. Pierpont Morgan ! Preaching neutrality in the beginning of the war, even justifying the invasion of Belgium, he was the leader of those who made it impossible for Mr. Wilson to "keep us out of war." Blind to his own inconsistency, he assailed 62 ROOSEVELT Germany for her breach of international ethics; he de- nounced Mr. Wilson's "high-handedness" in Central Amer- ica: but he never apologized for his own seizure of Panama. Like Wilhelm II., he was the most impulsive of statesmen, yet, again like Wilhelm 11. , the most calculating student of public psychology. He was the most un- scrupulous, the most flagrantly inconsistent, the most shamelessly selfish of politicians; yet his confession of faith made in Carnegie Hall in March, 1912, rings true. "The leader, for the time being, whoever he may be, is but an instrument, to be used until broken and then to be cast aside, and if he is worth his salt he will care no more when he is broken than a soldier cares when he is sent where his life is forfeit in order that the victory may be won. In the long fight for righteousness the watchword for all of us is spend and be spent. It is of little matter whether any one man fails or succeeds, but the cause shall not fail, for it is the cause of mankind. We, here in America, hold in our hands the hope of the world, the fate of the coming years; and shame and disgrace will be ours if in our eyes the light of high resolve is dimmed, if we trail in the dust the golden hopes of men." His hands shook with emotion as he delivered this solemn creed. Dramatically leaf after leaf fluttered from his hand. Seated behind him on the platform, I was en- thralled. Yet the voice that pronounced these ringing sentences had an almost feminine treble. The most mas- culine man in America, the prophet of the strenuous life, ROOSEVELT 63 was distinctly feminine in many of his psychic character- istics. He was a great and inspired orator; he was also a vixen and a scold. The first phase in my relations with Theodore Roosevelt was one of antagonism. With the sophistry of eighteen I detested his championship of the Simple Life. I was made furious by his attempt to throttle freedom of speech when he started his famous libel suit against the New York World at the expense of the Government. It was the first mtroduction of the theory of lese majeste into American jurisprudence. I wrote a violently vindictive sonnet against him, so violent that the New York World refused to print it. It appeared, I believe, in The Call. THEODORE ROOSEVELT Those who bore Rome's imperial crown, they say, Felt a strange sickness work in brain and blood, Till ever spreading like some monstrous bud Their arrogance umbraged all the world. Yet they Were ground to dust and dynasts swept away, Whose grander madness rocked on ages stood, By just men's anger rising like the Flood, O boastful Tyrant for a Little Day! Thou art not strong backward to swing the gate Of speech made free through Milton's high renown! Thine might have been the enviable fate Of one whose foot trod Mammon's altar down: Heed, lest— a braggart in a prophet's gown— The night engulf thee with a nation's hate! 64 ROOSEVELT My dislike for Roosevelt (justified in this case — but justice never regulates human relations!) was perfectly natural. It arose, as I explained to him later, from a spirit of filial opposition, presumably implanted in my soul (to render unto Freud that v^hich is Freud's) by some obscure mani- festation of the Oedipus complex. My father was one of Roosevelt's staunchest supporters. He is the historian of Roosevelt's school year in Germany; he made a pilgrimage to the house of the good Dr. Mink- witz in Dresden, where young Theodore spent many happy days. He also collected reverently from the maiden daugh- ters of the Teuton educator characteristic anecdotes of the engaging lad. My father is the possessor of a long letter from Theodore Roosevelt, written during his gubernatorial campaign, in which he sings the praises of his German American friends, and proudly calls attention to his Ger- man descent. This letter was resuscitated many times by Theodore Roosevelt. It did duty in every campaign. Roosevelt Intrigues My Imagination III. TN 1909 Roosevelt intrigued my imagination. I find ^ several references to him in the "Confessions of a Barbarian." In Chapter III (The State Idea), I said: We have compared ourselves to the Romans. I, myself, have endorsed that comparison. But I am afraid we flatter our- selves. We are undeniably resourceful and mighty. Our do- minion is wider than Rome's. We can match the Appian Way. We even have a sort of Caesar. That it what the French call him, and not without justice. Caesar was Rome. America, through Europe's glasses, is Roosevelt. We, recognizing the real master in his dual disguise, bow to Rockefeller and Mor- gan. On the Continent Rockefeller's memoirs met with scant success. Roosevelt's books went. Like Caesar, Roosevelt is a historian. The future will speak of both as popular leaders. Greek students will perhaps em- ploy the Greek equivalent of the term. Perhaps every states- man must be a demagogue and every prophet a charlatan. Theodore, like the great Julius, is intensely theatrical, and in- tensely—convulsively—dynamic. Both men believed in their star. Both men, after startling domestic exploits, submerged themselves temporarily in the African jungle. Roosevelt, like Caesar, has hunted big game. But not so big as Caesar's. He has founded no kingdom by the Nile; nor followed the river to its mystical sources. [This was written before his expedi- tion to the "River of Doubt."] And there was no Cleopatra. That would take more imagination than Mr. Roosevelt pos- sesses. He has slain lions, instead, and penned laborious arti- x cles at a dollar a word, for the Outlook and Scribner's. 68 ROOSEVELT And there was no Cleopatra. The absence of the Cleo- patra complex constituted my chief grievance against Roosevelt. I was a poet of passion. A great man without a romance to his credit seemed to me strangely inhuman. My youth clamored for sex. In Roosevelt, no doubt, to use the Freudian dialect, the sex impulse was either re- pressed or sublimated. David Jayne Hill, then Ambassador of the United States in Berlin, presented a copy of the "Confessions of a Bar- barian" to His Majesty the Emperor. He also gave a copy to Theodore Roosevelt, together with a letter from me. I received a courteous reply from the Colonel in which he expressed the desire to meet me on his return to this coun- try. I think it was at the Outlook office that I first met Theodore Roosevelt. I am sorry that I made no record of the occasion. Unlike Frank Harris, I was not born with a note-book. When I meet the great, I sometimes forget my fountain pen. This could never happen to Harris. George Moore goes Harris one better. He carries his typewriter or his memorandum pad into his lady's bed- room! Mr. Roosevelt was altogether fascinating. He told me that he was an admirer of my verse. (O praises sweeter than manna!) His daughter Alice had given him a copy of "Nineveh." The poem deeply impressed him. "I was a pretty busy man in the White House," he said, "but I have not forgotten that poem." (I was in seventh heaven.) "You make New York out to be rather wicked," he remarked with a smile, "but you are right, it is wicked." ROOSEVELT 69 "You," I had the presence of mind to answer, "as a former police commissioner, are in a position to know." Never- theless, I gasped. For while I employed the language of Isaiah in the poem, my intent was purely artistic. Moral indignation is not part of my mental equipment. The reproach I heaped upon the city was a token of my affec- tion (and affectation) ! To-day I would characterize my attitude as "ambivalent." NINEVEH I. r\ NINEVEH, thy realm is set ^^ Upon a base of rock and steel, From where the under-rivers fret High up to where the planets reel. Clad in a blazing coat of mail, Above the gables of the town Huge dragons with a monstrous trail * Have pillared pathways up and down. And in the bowels of the deep. Where no man sees the gladdening sun, All night without the balm of sleep The human tide rolls on and on. T^HE Hudson's mighty waters lave ^ In stern caress thy granite shore, And to thy port the salt sea wave Brings oil and wine and precious ore. Yet if the ocean in its might Should rise, confounding stream and bay, The stain of one delirious night Not all the tides can wash away ! 70 ROOSEVELT 'X'HICK pours the smoke of thousand fires, ^ Life throbs and beats relentlessly— But lo, above the stately spires Two lemans : Death and Leprosy. What fruit shall spring from such embrace? Ah, even thou vi^ould'st quake to hear ! He bends to kiss her loathsome face, She laughs — and whispers in his ear. Sit not too proudly on thy throne, Think on thy sisters, them that fell ; Not all the hosts of Babylon Could save her from the jaws of hell. IL T^HROUGH the long alleys of the park ''' On noiseless wheels and delicate springs, Glide painted women, fair and dark, Bedecked with silks and jewelled things. In peacock splendor goes the rout, With shrill, loud laughter of the mad- Red lips to suck thy life-blood out. And eyes too weary to be sad ! Their feet go down to shameful death, They flaunt the livery of their wrong. Their beauty is of Ashtoreth, Her strength it is that makes them strong. DEHOLD thy virgin daughters, how ■'-' They know the smile a wanton wears; And oh ! on many a boyish brow The blood-red brand of murder flares. ROOSEVELT 71 QEE, through the crowded streets they fly, ^ Like doves before the gathering storm. They cannot rest, for ceaselessly In every heart there dwells a worm. They sing in mimic joy, and crown Their temples to the flutes of sin ; But no sweet noise shall ever drown The whisper of the worm within. TTHEY revel in the gilded line *• Of lamplit halls to charm the night, But think you that the crimson wine Can veil the horror from their sight? Ah, no — their staring eyes are led To where it lurks with hideous leer; Therefore the women flush so red, And all the men are white with fear. A S in a mansion vowed to lust, '**■ Where wantons with their guests make free, 'Tis thus thou humblest in the dust Thy queenly body, Nineveh! Thy course is downward ; 'tis the road To sins that, even where disgrace And shameful pleasure walk abroad. Dare not unmask their shrouded face ! Surely at last shall come the day When these that dance so merrily Shall watch with terrible faces gray Thy doom draw near, O Nineveh ! 72 ROOSEVELT III. T TOO, the fatal harvest gained ■''' Of them that sow with seed of fire In passion's garden — I have drained The goblet of thy sick desire. I from thy love had bitter bliss, And ever in my memory stir The after-savors of thy kiss — The taste of aloes and of myrrh. And yet I love thee, love unblessed The poison of thy wanton's art ; Though thou be sister to the Pest, In thy great hands I lay my heart ! And when thy body, Titan-strong, Writhes on its giant couch of sin. Yea, though upon the trembling throng The very vault of Heaven fall in ; And, though the palace of thy feasts Sink crumbling in a fiery sea — I, like the last of Baal's priests, Will share thy doom, O Nineveh ! Roosevelt the Lovable IV. IN those days my father published Der Deutsche Vor- kaempfer {The German Pioneer), a monthly devoted to keeping alive a knowledge of German in the United States. Nowadays it would be regarded as "German Propaganda." Ponce de Leon sought the fountain of youth in the Western hemisphere. My father, reversing the Spaniard's steps, turned to the medicinal waters of Germany for his rejuvenation. I decided to continue the Vorkaempfer under another name. It was to be published as a German edition of Current Literature, and was to be the intellectual organ of the "culture exchange so ardently fostered by the German Emperor and Mr. Roosevelt." Current Literature insisted upon certain financial guaran- tees. I turned for aid to Count Bernstorff and Theodore Roosevelt. Mr. Roosevelt generously promised to say a good word for me with a number of wealthy German Americans, if I would provide the occasion. I arranged a luncheon at the National Arts Club, inviting Professor Hugo Muensterberg ; the German Consul-Gen- eral; and a number of distinguished German Americans. Roosevelt appeared, ruddy and blustering. He was in splendid form. He shook everyone by the hand. He dominated every one. He held the attention of all from beginning to end, shouting across the table, if necessary, l(y ROOSEVELT to bring back those who strayed from the fold. The room resounded with his vitaHty. The walls trembled with his indiscretions. He did not take a cocktail, but he drank several glasses of champagne. Liquor, however, did not influence him. He was in no need of alcoholic stimulants. He was always drunk with his eloquence, drunk with exuberance, drunk with the wine of God. I never saw a man who could eat so quickly and talk so quickly at the same time. Yet he was careful of his health. I noticed that he took saccharine in place of sugar. And he talked as no man ever talked before. Empires, kingdoms, world policies, state secrets he whirled at his audience and caught them up again with the dexterity of a juggler. To me there was something Napoleonic in Roosevelt's colossal activity. I told him so. He only half relished the compliment. The moralist in him condemned the Cor- sican. Perhaps the egotist in him could not forgive him his fame. Mr. Roosevelt told us his reason for sending the fleet around the world, an action which, he averred, had prevented war with Japan. He spoke of his trip to the continent, of kings and "little kings." Here the Con- sul-General audibly shuddered. "But," he continued, "of all the monarchs I have met, the Kaiser is the only one who could have carried his own ward if he were an Amer- ican politician." He pounded the table with his fists. "Of all the European royalties," he exclaimed, "the Kaiser is the only one whom, morally and intellectually, I would care to meet as an equal." ROOSEVELT 77 Mr. Roosevelt's references to England (in the pres- ence of a German Consul-General) were little short of amazing. "When I became President," he said (each word remains seared in my brain), "I so detested the English that I had to make a vow to myself not to permit my prejudice to interfere with my duties." He described his more recent experiences in England, recalling gleefully the advice he had given John Bull on the government of his colonies. "Most Americans," he said (I am willing to vouch for this under oath, if needs be), "either detest the English or fawn upon them. I gave them a new experi- ence. I patronized them." And he laughed the hearty laugh of a boy. "I am proud," Mr. Roosevelt continued, "that there is not in my veins a drop of English blood." Even in those days, when I looked upon the Colonel through the glasses of my admiration, this remark seemed to be lacking in taste. I do not know if it even coincides with the facts. The blood of many races surged through that ruddy form of his. Psychologically he was a Viking. So fast the swift blood coursed that, unwittingly, it destroyed the channels through which it traveled. Roosevelt's blood pressure, even in his best years, was phenomenally high. It was a clot of blood in the brain that killed him. I some- times wonder if it was perchance a clot of that German blood of which he so often boasted, that, rebelling against the master's denunciation of his own antecedents, finally burst the vessel assunder. But under the Viking strain. 78 ROOSEVELT another element, far more elusive, entered into his com- position. One of his biographers informs me that the Roosevelt family is of Dutch- Jewish descent. If this ac- _ cords with the truth, the East Side politicians who ex- horted the children of New York's Ghetto to vote for "Theodore Rosenfeld" stumbled unawares upon a discov- ery that, to the world at large, is nothing short of amazing. Perhaps the Oriental admixture accounts for his subtler moods and for the astonishing vivacity of his mind ! I cannot recall all he told us, but his remarks on England are engraved in my memory. They altered my political "orientation." Until that time, I was a great admirer of the English. The very first sonnet in the "Nineveh" col- lection is a salutation to England. Mr. Roosevelt's words profoundly affected my attitude on Anglo-American rela- tions. Here was a man I worshipped, a former President of the United States, frankly avowing his anti-British bias ! From that day on antipathy against Great Britain seemed to me the quintessence of Americanism. How could I know that underneath Roosevelt's hatred of Great Britain there slumbered, ambivalently, the heart of an Englishman, who was willing to concede without question to Great Britain the mastery of the seas? Of the German language Mr. Roosevelt spoke in glow- ing terms. I do not remember his words, for he said exactly what I expected. He wound up with an earnest appeal on my behalf. Unfortunately, so much time had been consumed by him in various recitals that my friends ROOSEVELT 79 hastened back to their offices without pledging support to my undertaking. The financial harvest of the luncheon was scant. However, eventually $10,000 was collected. Hardly anyone, with the exception of myself, was able to say a word at the luncheon. Roosevelt absolutely monopo- lized the conversation. Men gladly listened to him because there could be no question of his fascination. When he said good-bye to us, he thanked us for having had "such an instructive time." I wonder if his humor was entirely unconscious ? Perhaps when God created him, he omitted the funny-bone. Three or four times during Mr. Roose- velt's discourse, I gently attempted to interrupt him in order to guide his thoughts into channels conducive to my plans. But each time, his hand, like the huge paw of a lion, descended upon my shoulder, and pushed me back into my seat. And each time I was thrilled anew. Roosevelt compelled attention by sheer physical mag- netism. William Bayard Hale, in his brilliant study of Theodore Roosevelt, entitled, *'A Week in the White House," dwells on this aspect of his personality. ''Roose- velt," Dr. Hale insists, "is first of all a physical marvel. He radiates energy as the sun radiates light and heat, and he does it apparently without losing a particle of his own energy. It is not merely remarkable, it is a simple miracle that he can exhibit, for one day, the power which emanates from him like energy from a dynamo. Once we all be- lieved in a beautiful law known as that of the conserva- tion of energy. No force, so went the dream, was lost. It 80 ROOSEVELT was only transformed; it underwent metamorphosis; the sum of energy in the universe was always the same. It was the discovery of radium and the radioactive substances which wrought the discomfiture of that law. It is Mr. Roosevelt who discredits it entirely. He never knows that virtue has gone out of him. He radiates from morning until night, and he is nevertheless always radiant." This was written in 1908. To-day we know that the cosmic law is inexorable. The dusk of doom envelops even the gods. Even the virtue of radium exhausts itself in the end. However in 1911 Roosevelt was still all-radiant! It seemed sacrilege to think that it could ever be otherwise ! When we expressed surprise at his candor, he told us his confidence had never been violated. He always talked frankly, exuberantly, to the newspaper men who were con- stantly swarming around him, yet he had never reason to regret this policy. Indiscretion was the better part of his popularity. If any man quoted him, contrary to the implied gentlemen's agreement, he calmly consigned the culprit to the Ananias Club. Roosevelt thus had the privilege of al- ways being himself. He availed himself of it by being consistently inconsistent. Now that Mr. Roosevelt's death has released newspaper men from the tacit pledge of secrecy, startling revelations may be expected. In the first number of Rundschau Zweier Welten ap- pears the following carefully-worded letter from Theodore Roosevelt : © International News Service. BEFORE ARMAGEDDON Note the Rundschau Zzvcicr Wcltcn on Mr. Roosevelt's desk. ROOSEVELT 81 THE OUTLOOK, 287 Fourth Avenue, New York. Office of Theodore Roosevelt. December 23d, 1910. My Dear Mr. Viereck : — I am much pleased to learn that you are to help start an international magazine, intended to por- tray and develop both German and American culture. I have, as you know, heartily believed in the culture exchange move- ment as being of peculiar importance to both countries. I feel that in America there is especial need of keeping alive a thor- ough knowledge of German ; and I believe that your magazine will not only help in this direction, but will help in the converse way, by interpreting American events to your readers beyond the ocean. Wishing you good luck, I am, Sincerely yours, Theodore Roosevelt. Mr. George Sylvester Viereck, Current Literature Publishing Co., New York City. Before this I received the following personal note : THE OUTLOOK, 287 Fourth Avenue, New York. Editorial Rooms. November 22d, 1910. My Dear Mr. Viereck : — I appreciate your letter, and I want now to take the opportunity of saying how greatly I enjoyed the lunch you were so kind as to give me. I do hope that your magazine project will succeed. Faithfully yours, Theodore Roosevelt. Mr. George Sylvester Viereck, The German Current Literature, 134 West 29th Street, New York City. •THERE IS ESPECIAL NEED OF KEEPING ALIVE A THOROUGH KNOWLEDGE OF GERMAN" T^? Outlook 287 Fourth Avenue New York Office of Theodore Roosevelt December 23rd, 1910, My dear Mr. Vlereck; I am muoh pleased to learn that you ia>e to nelp start an International magazine. Intended to portray and develop both German and American culture. I have, as you know, neartily believed In the culture exchange move- ment as Deing of peculiar Importance to both countries. I feel that In America there Is especial need of keeping alive a thorough knowledge of German; and I believe that your magazine will not only nelp In tnls direction, but will nelp In the converse way, by Interpreting American events to your readers beyond the ocean Wishing you good luck, I am. Sincerely yours Ji'-^^jz.^crr^CcW /Urr^r^t^-^'*^-- Mr George Sylvester VlerecK, Current Literature Publlsnlng Co New York City. ROOSEVELT 83 No doubt Mr. Roosevelt would have liked to expunge these messages from the record, together with his one-time approval of the neutrality of President Wilson and the German invasion of Belgium. I speak without bitterness, for I cannot forget Mr. Roosevelt's kindness to me. In 1912 the Rundschau Zweier Welt en ardently championed the cause of Theodore Roosevelt (at the expense of its circulation). Over my desk at this moment hangs a picture of Theodore Roosevelt, holding in his hands a copy of the Rundschau. Then came the stirring days of Progressivism. Onward, Christian Soldiers V |\/[ Y enthusiasm for Roosevelt rose to a high pitch in Chicago. We Progressives had great difficulty in obtaining tickets for the Republican Convention. I facetiously wrote to Victor Rosewater, doughty fighter and gentleman, albeit the man whose gavel crushed the hopes of Theodore Roosevelt: "Shall it be said to the shame of the Republican Party that the greatest American poet vainly knocked for entrance at its gate ?" I frankly added that I was not on his side, but "on the side of the angels." Victor replied: "If you come out to Chicago, it will not be said that the 'greatest American poet' will be refused ad- mission so long as his admirer, and friend, is chairman of the National Committee." At the Convention, I shouted myself hoarse for Roosevelt day after day. Then the great moment came. Roosevelt broke with his Party. "Gentle- men," announced someone — I think it was Hadley, of Mis- souri — "a message from Colonel Theodore Roosevelt." The message was heard in silence. The rest is history. At the Progressive Convention that nominated him for the Presidency Roosevelt made his great speech: "We stand at Armageddon and battle for the Lord." The sen- tence (as he freely admits in a subsequent letter to me) was an unconscious reminiscence of an ode by Brownell. I was carried away by the fine hysteria of those brave days. I discovered my "Social Conscience." "The Hymn of Armageddon embodies this mood: 88 ROOSEVELT THE HYMN OF ARMAGEDDON ''And I stood upon the sands of the sea, and I saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads. . . . And he gath- ered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon. , . . And the great city was divided into three parts." — The Apocalypse. A POCALYPTIC thunders roll out of the crimson East: The Day of Judgment is at hand, and we shall slay the Beast. What are the seven heads of him, the Beast that shall be slain? Sullivan, Taggart, Lorimer, Barnes, Penrose, Murphy, Crane. Into what cities leads his trail in venom steeped, and gore? Ask Frisco, ask Chicago, mark New York and Baltimore. Where shall we wage the battle, for whom unsheath the sword? We stand at Armageddon and we battle for the Lord! Though hell spit forth its snarling host we shall not flinch nor quail, For in the last great skirmish God's own truth must prevail. Have they not seen the writing that flames upon the wall, Of how their house is built on sand, and how their pride must fall? The cough of little lads that sweat where never sun sheds light, The sob of starving children and their mothers in the night, These, and the wrong of ages, we carry as a sword. Who stand at Armageddon and who battle for the Lord! God's soldiers from the West are we, from North, and East and South, The seed of them who flung the tea into the harbor's mouth. And those who fought where Grant fought and those who fought with Lee, And those who under alien stars first dreamed of liberty. ON ELECTION DAY T^? Outlook 287 Fourth Avenue New "York Theodore"'Ro°osevelt November 4th 1912. Dear Viereck: Let me thank you no* for all you have done for itie , Many a leader must fall at ^rma;?eddon before the long fight is won. Faithfully yours. 90 ROOSEVELT Not those of little faith whose speech is soft, whose ways are dark, Nor those upon whose forehead the Beast has set his mark, Out of the Hand of Justice we snatch her faltering sword, IVe stand at Armageddon and we battle for the Lord! The sternest militant of God whose trumpet in the fray Has cleft the city into three shall lead us on this day. The holy strength that David had is his, the faith that saves, For he shall free the toilers as Abe Lincoln freed the slaves. And he shall rouse the lukewarm and those whose eyes are dim. The hope of twenty centuries has found a voice in him. Because the Beast shall froth with wrath and perish by his sword, He leads at Armageddon the legions of the Lord! For he shall move the mountains that groan with ancient sham, And mete with equal measure to the lion and the lamb, And he shall wipe away the tears that burn on woman's cheek. For in the nation's council hence the mothers, too, shall speak. Through him the rose of peace shall blow from the red rose of strife, America shall write his name into the Book of Life. And where at Armageddon we battle with the sword Shall rise the mystic commonwealth, the City of the Lord! I made stump speeches for Roosevelt. I recited my poem. I was a delegate to the Progressive State Conven- tion that nominated Oscar S. Straus. I attempted to corral the German American vote for T. R. Roosevelt knew of these activities. A letter in his own handwriting ad- dressed to "Dear Oscar" (Oscar S. Straus) bears witness to this fact. Then tragedy stalked in Milwaukee. Roose- velt was shot by a crank. The world grew black for me. FROM THE SICK BED After the attempted assassination in Milwaukee. T^? Outlook 287 Fourth Avenue New Itbrk Ti, ^°^^*^^°' ,, February 29th, 1912, Theodore Roosevelt ' ' DearMr. Vlereck: I have only time to send tnis one line of thanka and appreciation for all your kindness, Faithfully yours , y Mr. George Sylvester Vlereck, 134 West 29th Street, Kew York City. 92 ROOSEVELT I sent him a telegram placing the responsibility for the deed upon the broad shoulders of Taft. I trembled as his life hung in the balance. I learned by heart the noble speech he made with a bullet in his body. Theatrical — perhaps, but surely tremendous ! On his sick bed Mr. Roosevelt did not forget me. He sent me the following letter dated February 29th : Dear Mr. Viereck : — I have only time to send this one line of thanks and appreciation for all your kindness. Faithfully yours, Theodore Roosevelt. The campaign drew near the end. I believed in a miracle — the election of Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt evidently did not share this belief. On Election Day, before the result of the election was known, he found the time to send me this message: Dear Viereck : — Let me thank you now for all you have done for me. Many a leader must fall at Armageddon before the long fight is won. Faithfully yours, Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt the Man of Letters VI. A FTER the election Roosevelt's mind turned from politics to literature and adventure. I was still a strong Roosevelt man. The Colonel's pronounced an- tipathy against Wilson poisoned my own pen. It influenced my editorials in The International and the early policy of The Fatherland. Between 1912 and 1914, my own inter- ests were predominantly literary. I transferred my ad- miration from Roosevelt the leader to Roosevelt the man of letters. I admired the rhythmic swing of his sentences. I realized that America had lost a poet in Theodore Roose- velt, His dynamics lacked only verse to make him greater than Whitman. He would have made literature if he had not made history. I reviewed his book, "History as Litera- ture," in The International shortly before my trip to Europe in 1914. Before me lies a copy of the book with this inscription: **To George Sylvester Viereck with all good wishes from Theodore Roosevelt." Appended to the book is a letter, dated May 27th, from Roosevelt's secre- tary, Mr. Frank Harper. He says : Mr. Roosevelt has just read your review of his essays which appeared in a recent number o£ The International. He asked me to say that there is no review of any of his works which he has seen recently which has given him so much pleasure as this one. It is one of the best things he has ever seen, and shows a keen appreciation of what Mr. Roosevelt tried to convey. 96 ROOSEVELT Whatever we may have said about each other in the last few years, there was a time when appreciation was mutual. In spite of his robust mentality, Roosevelt was not (am- bivalently) lacking in subtlety. If he had been only an ex- ponent of the strenuous, he would not have remembered "Nineveh" with pleasure. He would have been distressed by my second collection of verse, "The Candle and the Flame," to which my friends fondly refer as "The Scandal and the Shame." (I think the phrase was invented by the heroic Charles Hanson Towne.) I mislaid Mr. Roosevelt's letter of acknowledgment. It contained praise. It also conveyed criticism. One phrase especially clings to my memory. "I liked everything in the book" (I quote from my recollection) "except the reference to Wilde. Perhaps this is due to some atavistic Puritanism in me. . . ." Ata- vistic Puritanism! What a delightful phrase! The man who can speak of his own Puritanism as atavistic is no longer a Puritan in his brain. The Storm Clouds Gather VII. T DO not remember the date of my first visit to Oyster Bay. Mr. Roosevelt had invited my parents and me to be his guests at luncheon. He received us with charming rustic simplicity. His main living-room, littered with lion skins and books, was a little museum filled with Roosevelt trophies. He showed us the books on German art pre- sented to him by the Kaiser. (He did not value Wilhelm's judgment as an art critic.) Of course, he quoted the Nibelungenlied. He always quoted the Nibelungenlied. He also showed us the famous photograph under which the Kaiser had written, "From the Commander-in-Chief of the German Army to the Colonel of the Rough Riders." I may not remember the wording exactly, but it was some- thing to that effect. He told us of vain attempts made by the German Foreign Office to recapture a number of Imperial snapshots from him. Mrs. Loeb, the wife of his former private secretary, presided over the luncheon in the absence of Mrs. Roose- velt. The mind is curiously constituted. Often it cannot recall matters of real importance while a trivial incident impresses us vividly. I remember that at lunch we had a dreadful pink lemonade, a sort of mint julep with the julep omitted. One of Mr. Roosevelt's guests on this occasion WB3 Governor Whitman, who had made the journey to 100 ROOSEVELT Sagamore Hill in order to obtain the Colonel's indorse- ment. His pilgrimage proved in vain. Roosevelt had lost the sure political instinct of his former years. He never, since his own defeat, indorsed a winning candidate. Every candidate bearing his stamp seemed to be foreordained to defeat. In the summer of 1914, I went to Europe. Before my return the war clouds began to gather. I came back by way of Boston in order to spend a few days with Pro- fessor Muensterberg. In the three days I stayed under his roof, history moved with Seven League Boots. Ultimatum was succeeded by ultimatum. Ten days after the German mobilization the first copy of The Fatherland appeared on the streets of New York. I asked Mr. Roosevelt for a contribution to the first number. He replied as follows: THEODORE ROOSEVELT 30 E. 42d Street, New York City. August 8, 1914. Dear Viereck: — I am very glad to hear from you and to know what your plans are. But, of course, as you say, my desire is at present to avoid in any way saying anything that would tend to exaggerate and inflame the war spirit on either side and to be impartial ; I simply do not know the facts. It is a melancholy thing to see such a war. Faithfully yours, Theodore Roosevelt. George Sylvester Viereck, Esq., Editor, The International, New York, N. Y. ROOSEVELT 101 In those days, Mr. Roosevelt was neutral. Yet neutrality was contrary to his nature. If he had not been head over heels pro- Ally, he would have been violently pro-German. He could not see a fight without "throwing his hat in the ring." With Dr. Dernburg in Oyster Bay VIII. 'y HE waves of public excitement rose almost as high in America as in Europe. The German point of view was without an accredited spokesman until the arrival of Dr. Dernburg. Little recking of the gigantic forces that were unleashed against them, the pro-Germans attempted to win America to their point of view by argumentation. This was, of course, entirely mistaken. Reason never won heart of fair lady or public opinion. Remembering Roose- velt's dislike for England, I expected him to champion the German cause. At first I was chagrined by his silence. His growing Pro-Ally proclivity stabbed me to the heart. Hearing Dernburg week after week, I did not see how anyone could resist his relentless logic. His powerful per- sonality was no less dynamic than Roosevelt's, although touched perhaps more obviously by the old world's sophisti- cation. A meeting of the two intellects, it seemed to me, would be an epic occasion. The temptation was irresistible. I arranged for an interview between the two men. Mr. Roosevelt graciously invited us to Sagamore Hill. I shall never forget our trip to Oyster Bay. The car bore us swiftly, but no more swiftly than speech flowed from the lips of Dernburg. He possessed a wonderful gift of mar- shalling facts and figures convincingly. His mind, travel- ing like a searchlight, illuminated in rapid succession the most diverse and abstruse economical problems. 106 ROOSEVELT Roosevelt received us at the door. He was a courteous host. He at once brought up a book which Dr. Dernburg had presented to him years ago in Berlin. Dr. Dernburg had forgotten the incident. He was deeply touched by Mr. Roosevelt's remembrance. Mr. Roosevelt's memory was not the least of his assets. In politics a good memory is more important than a good cause. The man in the street is not impressed by reason, but he is profoundly affected if some great man remembers that he once shook hands with him on a railway station. Mr. Roosevelt was con- scious of this power. He used it to the utmost. Flattery is the most potent weapon of rulers of men, irrespec- tive of sex: it serves equally the statesman and the hetaera. Mr. Roosevelt's memory was evidently untouched by his South American fever. But I was shocked by the change in the man. There was no question of his physical deterioration. The malady that eventually killed him was already devouring his strength. The Rough Rider was only a shell of his former self. He himself sadly, quizzically, referred to his gout. . . . As he turned his tortured face upon me my only sensation was pity. At dinner we discussed many things. We reserved Belgium for the dessert. Woman Suffrage bobbed up during the conversation. Roosevelt did not seem over-enthusiastic on the subject. He believed that it made no real difference, because there is no fundamental difference between women and men. Feminine suffrage ROOSEVELT 107 merely increases the number of voters. After dinner came the trial of strength. I am sorry that I was the only wit- ness of the intellectual wrestling match between Theodore Roosevelt and Bernhard Dernburg in the Trophy Room at Sagamore Hill. Both men were powerfully equipped mentally. Roose- velt's physical suffering had not impaired his power of dialectics. Both were, as all great men must necessarily be, colossal egotists. Egotism, in the parlance of Dr. Tannen- baum, one of the keenest interpreters of Freud, is the de- fensive measure erected by genius against its environment. Without this protective armor, the man of genius would be not the captain of his soul but the helpless victim of mediocrity and of circumstance. Roosevelt spoke. He spoke cuttingly. His voice, although high-pitched, seemed to fill the room. He stated the case against Germany with eloquence and precision. Once Dr. Dernburg wished to interpose an objection. Down came that arm as it did on me at my luncheon. Mr. Roosevelt brooked no interrup- tion. At last he paused. Availing himself of the oppor- tunity. Dr. Dernburg now pleaded his cause. He seemed to have the better of the argument logically. He quoted resolutions passed by the United States Senate that were unknown even to Mr. Roosevelt. His facts, like so many tin soldiers, marched before us in orderly procession. Where Roosevelt had been brutal at times, Dernburg was subtle. His very subtlety militated against him. At one time, Roosevelt wished to interrupt him. This time Dr. 108. ROOSEVELT Dernburg protested, and for the first time in his Ufe, the Colonel was silenced. It must have been almost midnight before both men had completed their argument. I chirped in now and then. However, this duel of two minds equally matched taught me the utter futility of controversy. Neither man had con- vinced the other. Their real convictions were fed by deep racial roots, hidden in the subconscious, beyond the probe of argument. Dr. Dernburg left, believing that his visit had not been entirely in vain. Perhaps Mr. Roosevelt imagined that he made a convert of Dr. Dernburg. I know that neither had made the slightest impression upon the other. I saw that the chasm between the two states of mind (or of heart) could not be bridged. Freud (in his little book on "Reflections on War and Death") gives us the explanation for the spiritual blindness which in times of emotional crisis necessarily shuts out the other man's point of view. "Even science," he says, "has lost her dis- passionate impartiality. Her deeply embittered votaries are intent upon seizing her weapons to do their share in the battle against the enemy. The anthropologist has to declare his opponent inferior and degenerate, the psychia- trist must diagnose him as mentally deranged. The lack of insight that the greatest intellectual leaders on either side have shown, the obduracy, their inaccessibility to the most impressive arguments, their uncritical credulity concerning the most debatable assertions, all these phenomena," he tells us, "are easily explained." He goes on to say: ROOSEVELT 109 "Students of human nature and philosophers have long ago taught us that we do wrong to value our intelligence as an independent force and to overlook its dependence upon our emotional life. They say intellect can -vork reliably only when it is removed from the influence of powerful emotional incitements; otherwise it acts simply as an instrument at the beck and call of our will and brings about the results which the will demands. Logical arguments are, therefore, powerless against affective interests; that is why disputing with reasons which, according to Falstaff, are as common as blackberries, are so fruitless where our selfish interests are concerned. Whenever possible psycho-analytic experience has driven home this assertion. It is in a position to prove every day that the acutest thinkers suddenly behave as unintelligently as defec- tives as soon as their understanding encounters emotional re- sistance, but that they regain their intelligence completely as soon as this resistance has been overcome. The blindness to logic which this war has so frequently conjured up in our best fellow citizens is, therefore, a secondary phenomenon, the result of emotional excitement and destined,, we hope, to disappear simultaneously with it." In the hall, as we said good-bye, I remarked to Mr. Roosevelt that he was losing many of his old-time sup- porters. "That consideration," he replied quickly, "cannot sway me. I know that I am finding myself increasingly out of touch with the majority of my fellow citizens. I never," he added (though the exact phraseology has es- caped me), "was the spokesman of anything but a minor- ity." "But your election — " I remarked. "That," he re- plied, "was an accident. I accidentally found myself tem- 110 ROOSEVELT porarily in agreement with the majority." The visit to Oyster Bay led to a lively exchange of shots between Saga- more Hill and 1123 Broadway, the headquarters of Dr. Dernburg. One of the Colonel's thundering epistles was no less than twelve pages in length. Dr. Dernburg's broad- sides were equally voluminous. But, alas! all correspon- dence was futile. The two points of view were irreconcil- able. It is impossible to argue with the unconscious. The Brea\ IX. LJUMAN beings are carried, swept away, by irresistible psychic eddies. My break with Roosevelt was inevita- ble. I saw him once more after this. In response to an impetuous letter, he invited me to see him. He told me that he wanted me to understand him, that I was the only one of his German American friends to whom he was will- ing to confide some of the underlying reasons for his anti- German attitude. He spoke fiercely, impressively. But his eloquence failed to convince me. "Germany," he reiterated, *'is a nation without a sense of international morality." I had England's innumerable violations of international law at my finger-tips. The Germans, he assured me, were plotting against us. He referred to Ger- many's alleged plans for invading this country. I replied that the German Army could not even swim across a nar- row strip of the Channel ! Deploring our "softness" and lack of preparedness, Mr. Roosevelt made the astonishing observation that it might be a good thing for Uncle Sam to receive a licking at the hands of the Germans. I could not agree with his point of view. I did not believe in German intrigue. The Department of Justice had not made its revelations. The Zimmerman note — the deadliest blow against Pro-German sentiment in the United States — slumbered still in the deepest recesses of the war-crazed brain of a German Geheimrat. A 114 ROOSEVELT I ceased to look upon Theodore Roosevelt as a friend. My secret animosity was ready to leap forth, or, to speak more scientifically, the other pole of my ambivalent atti- tude towards the Colonel deflected the needle of my affec- tion. **Many impulses," to quote Freud once more, "appear almost from the beginning in contrasting pairs ; this is a re- markable state of affairs, called the ambivalence of feeling, and is quite unknown to the layman. This feeling is best observed and grasped through the fact that intense love and intense hate occur so frequently in the same person. Psychoanalysis goes further and states that the two op- posite feelings not infrequently take the same person as their object." I was beginning to hate Theodore Roose- velt. Yet, strange to say, this hatred in no way diminished my love for him. In fact, my love intensified my recoil. Crossing Swords X. /^N February 25th, 1915, I wrote Theodore Roosevelt a letter that was a challenge. It was hot-tempered, in- judicious, perhaps, but it represented my feelings. To-day I know that I am a better poet than a prophet. I no longer claim infallibility as a historian. I have been mistaken too often. Even at the risk of courting offense, I shall print the correspondence in full, to keep the record straight. OFFICE OF GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK February 25th, 1915. My Dear Mr. Roosevelt: — I take pleasure in sending you the text of my debate with Cecil Chesterton. I certainly regret that you have taken a point of view so unfair to Germany. You have said many things which you ought to know to be at variance with the facts, especially in connection with Belgium. I think you have lost every German-American friend you had, with the exception of myself. Even I admit that I am deeply disappointed. They would not have objected to your attitude that all treaties should be enforced, but they do object and justly so — to your continuous insistence upon the violation of the so-called "neutrality" of Belgium, while ignoring the violation of the neutrality of the Suez Canal and ignoring the violation of the neutrality of China. In fact, the violation of the neutrality of China is of more importance to us than one hundred Belgiums. Belgium never was a neutral nation. The neutrality of Bel- gium was like the virtue of a cocotte. You need not take my word for it that Germany was justified in her course, but perhaps you will accept the word of the British Foreign Office. 118 ROOSEVELT For that reason I call your attention to page 14 of my debate, in which I quote a passage from a statement issued by the English Foreign Office which may have escaped your attention. Another cause for the just grievance of the German- Amer- icans against you is that, in spite of your reputed friendship for the Kaiser, you did not have one word to say for him personally when this obscene campaign of vilification was started against him in the American press, and when the man, whose guest you had been, was decried by British press-agents and their American emissaries as "the mad dog of Europe." Now Germany no longer needs apologists nor sympathizers. Her sword has won the war. But I do not think that the Germans will forget the attitude of their fair-weather friends on either side of the ocean. Faithfully yours, George Sylvester Viereck. Theodore Roosevelt, Esq., Oyster Bay, L. I. To this letter, I received the f ollov^ing reply : THEODORE ROOSEVELT, 30 E. 42d Street, New York City. March 4th, 1915. My Dear Sir : — Mr. Roosevelt directs me to say that the tone of your letter, and especially of the last paragraphs, is such that he does not desire to answer it. Yours truly, John W. McGrath, Secretary to Theodore Roosevelt. Mr. George Sylvester Viereck, 1123 Broadway, New York City. ROOSEVELT 119 My answer, dated March 9th, follows : OFFICE OF GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK March 9th, 1915. My Dear Mr. Roosevelt : — I received a note from your secre- tary which somewhat surprised me. In view of all that I have done for you in the past, giving unstintingly of my enthusiasm, my personality, it seems that I have earned the right to speak frankly to you. I presume the sentence to which you object is the reference to the "fair-weather" friends of Germany. It seems to me indisputable that in your entire public career you have always spoken of yourself as a friend of Germany and the Germans. Yet in the one great crisis of her existence you are not even neutral, but you openly range yourself among her enemies. You repeat without thorough investigation the English charges against Germany and you do not seem to take the trouble to read the German rejoinder. I think that in this matter you are utterly in the wrong. For " — when the angels fall they fall so far." My Progressive training has made it impossible for me to see wrong and remain silent. For that reason I must speak out even at the loss of your friendship, which, as you know, is very dear to me. Sincerely yours, George Sylvester Viereck. Theodore Roosevelt, Esq., 30 East 42nd Street, New York City. 120 ROOSEVELT Six days later, Mr. Roosevelt replied. His answer is a masterpiece of invective. His tributes to my understand- ing, to my loyalty, to my intellectual accomplishments, are forgotten. His pen splutters venom. So, at least, I thought at the time. Re-reading the letter now, I feel that he would not have written at all if his anger against me had not been hitched to the wraith of an old affection. Both dwelled simultaneously in his bosom. One also catches in his letter an echo of his controversy with Dr. Dernburg. THEODORE ROOSEVELT Oyster Bay, New York. March 15th, 1915. My dear Mr. Viereck: — In view of your second letter, I think it probable that your first letter was not intentionally offensive and that your sending it was due to mental and not moral shortcomings : therefore I answer your present letter. I referred to the tzvo last paragraphs of your former letter. Had you taken the trouble to read my book, "America and the World War," you would have seen that I spoke in defense of the Kaiser and with appreciation of him. It is of course not excusable on your part to criticize what I have written without reading it. In your last paragraph the insinuation was that I was merely a fair-weather friend, whose misdeeds would be remembered by the Germans on both sides of the water. [This is of course a, no doubt unconscious, distortion of my remark,] Your present letter shows that this insinuation, which you did not venture to state frankly, was aimed at me ; your basis being that until this war I had always "professed friendship for Germany and ROOSEVELT 121 the Germans." You of course cannot be ignorant that I had equally "professed friendship" for France and Frenchmen; for England and Englishmen. I not only professed it but in each case I felt it. What I have said about Germany because of her outrageous conduct toward Belgium, I would have said exactly as quickly of France and England if they had been guilty of similar conduct. Apparently you regard it as fair- weather friendship to feel good-will toward a nation and yet to condemn that nation when it is guilty of iniquity. Such an attitude on your part is of course unutterably silly; if not silly, it would be unutterably base. You say that I have paid no heed to the facts produced on the German side of the case. I have read these "facts" care- fully; and I am astounded at the effrontery of those who produce them. They establish beyond possibility of doubt that Belgium had no intention of permitting any violation of neutrality by France or England if Germany did not invade her; but that she had grown to feel it likely that Germany would do as Germany actually did, namely, break faith, and, against every rule of right and of humanity, invade her and try to subjugate her; and that of course under these circum- stances she was anxious to know whether there would be any effective protection for her by the other nations that had guaranteed to give this protection. The original statement by Bethmann-Hollweg was frank and manly. It admitted that Belgium had been wronged and put Germany's case upon the only plea, that of national self-preservation, which could give it even a semblance of defensibility. The subsequent at- tempts to justify Germany by blackening the character of poor, unoffending, deeply-wronged Belgium have been peculiarly ig- noble. THE STORM CLOUDS BURST Oyater Bay, New York, March 15th, 1915. My dear Mr. Viereck: In view of your second letter, I think It probable that your first letter was not intentionally offensive and that yo^^^senv.t ■b eea ' UBO -&-P- mental and not moral shortcomings: there- fore I answer your present letter. I referred to the two last paragraphs of your former letter. Had you taken the trouble to read my book, "America and the Forld War", you wovild have seen that I spoke In defense of the Kaiser and with appreciation of him. It Is of course not excusable on yo\jr part to criticise what I have written without reading it. In your last paragraph the insinuation was that I was merely a fair-weather friend, whose misdeeds would be remembered by the Germans on both sides of the water. Your present letter shows that this insinuation, which you did not venture to state frankly, was aimed at me; your basis being that until this war I had always "professed friendship for Germany and the Germans\ You of course cannot be Ignorant that I had equally"professed friendships^ for France and Frenchmen, for England and Englishmen. I not only professed it but in each case I felt it. What I have said about Germany because of her outrageous conduct toward Bel- gium, I would have said exactly as quickly of France and England if they had been guilty of similar conduct. Apparently you re- gard it as fair-weather friendship to feel good will toward a -2- nation and yet to condemn that nation when it Is guilty of In- iquity. Such an attitude onyour part is of course UM>^*^un- uttcrably silly, im\ unutterably base. You say that I have paid no heed to the foots pro- duced on the German side of the case. I have read theM caro- ls fully; and I am astounded at the effrontery of those who produce them. They establish beyond possibility of doubt that Belgium had no intention of permitting any violation of neutrality by France or England if Germany did not Invade her; but that she had grown to feel it likely that Germany would do as »£i~acTually did, namely, break faith and, against every rule of right and ol" hvunanity, invade her and try to subjugate her ; and that of course under these circumstances she was anxious to know whether there would be any eflective protection for her by the other nations that nad guaranteed to give tnis protection. The origin- al statement by Pethmann-Hollweg was frank and manly. It admitted that Belgium had been wronged and put IH upon tne only ftf^v.^^ ^^., ^ plea, that of national 6*617- preser^^lcn.^ The subsequent attempt^ to Justify Germany by blackening the character of poor, unoffen- ding, deeply-wronged Belgium have been peculiarly Ignoble. As you have written to me in such a tone, i g-ive you a piece of advice in return. No man can retain nis self-respect If he ostensibly remains as an American citizen while he Is really doing everything he can to subordinate the interests and duty of the United States to the interest* of a foreign land. You have -3- made It evident that your whole heart is with the country of your preference, Germany, and not with the country of your adoption, the United States. Under such circumstances you are not a good citizen here. But neither are you a good citizen of Cermany. Vou should go home to Germany at once; abandon your American citizen- ship. If, as I understand, ycu possess It; and serve In the army, if you are able, or. If not. In any other position In which you can be useful. As far as I am concerned, I admit no divided allegiance in United States citizenship; and my views of hyphenated- Americans are, those which j»ere once expressed by the Emperor himself, when he said. that he understood what Germans were; and he understood what Americans were; but he had neither understanding of nor patience with those who called themselves German-Americans. Very truly yours. /K o~-