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Full text of "Drawn From Life"

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PUBLIC LIBRARY 

Kansas City, Mo. 
Keep Your Card in this Pocket 




BBRKOWITZ ENVELOPe CO., K. C., HO. 



KANSAS CITY, MO PUBLIC LIBRAFT, 




D OOD1 




o M 

LIFE 




Mark Twain 



DRA 





FROM 
LIFE 



by 

S. J. Woolf 



WHITTLESEY HOUSE 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 



by 

WOOLF 

4 ^lf lights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, 

**** not be reproduced in any form without 

permission of the author. 

FIRST EDITION 



Published by 
WHITTLESEY HOUSE 

A Division of the 
MCGRAW-HILL BOOK COMPANY, INC. 




Printed in the United States of America 



Acknowledgments 

GRATEFUL acknowledgment is made to the New York 
Times for the right to use such material as has ap 
peared in its columns. Thanks are also due to the New 
York Herald Tribune, Mrs. Henry Moskowitz, George C. 
Smith, Jr., Esq., Samuel Finley Thomas, Esq., the German- 
town Friends School and the Schwartz Galleries for permission 
to reproduce some of the drawings, and to Harlow MacDonald 
& Company who own the copyright of the lithograph of 
Mark Twain. 



Contents 

i 

Introductory 3 

II 

<z3xCark Tivain 10 
Oliver *&Dendell Holmes 14 

III 

(jfeorge ^Bernard Shais> 19 

IV 
in stein 30 

V 

42 



VI 
^Alfred . Smith 5 i 

VII 

60 



VIII 

Sir James Jeans 70 

IX 

80 

fi* I 



X 

*Aristide e Briand 88 

XI 
*3xCurray "Butler 97 

XII 
Wilbur <. Cross 1 06 

XIII 
William . Borah 1 1 6 

XIV 
Qeorges Clemenceau I 24 

XV 

Winston Spencer Churchill 132 

XVI 

Henri <^fCatisse 141 

XVII 

Ignace ^Paderefjoski 151 

XVIII 
Gfeorge T^ussell (^E) 159 

XIX 

Ramsay <z3XCac f Dona/d 167 

XX 

hito <&Cussolini ,177 



XXI 

Toscanini < 1 8 8 

XXII 

QustaiJ Stresemanh 198 

XXIII 
Glihu c R^pt 205 

XXIV 
Charles S"vans Hughes 214 

XXV 

<^ndreiv W. tJXCellon 22 3 ^ 

XXVI 
Charles <:JfrC. Schivab 232 

XXVII 
Julius l^osennva/d 243 

XXVIII 
Arthur ^Brisbane 251 

XXIX 
John 2X Itgckefeller, Jr. 263 

XXX 

William H. Welch 272 

XXXI 

John J. ^ershing 283 



XXXII 
Charles (?. Daives 293 

XXXIII 
Herbert Hoover 303 

XXXIV 

Sinclair J^eivis 312 

XXXV 
Cyilbert J^ Chesterton 321 

XXXVI 
Sir Thomas J^ipton 3 30 

XXXVII 
Walter 5P. C^ry s ^ er 339 

XXXVIII 
Walter C* T eagle 347 

XXXIX 
Walter fDamrosch 356 

XL 
Franklin 2). f Rooseve/f 364 

XLI 

^Booth T arkington 371 

XLII 
Charles <^f. J^indbergh 382 

f*. TI 
xujf 



List of Drawings 



MARK TWAIN 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW 
ALBERT EINSTEIN 
CALVIN COOLIDGE 
ALFRED E. SMITH 
ROBERT A. MILLIKAN 
SIR JAMES JEANS 
PAUL CLAUDEL 
ARISTIDE BRIAND 
NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER 
WILBUR L. CROSS 
WILLIAM E. BORAH 
GEORGES CLEMENCEAU 
WINSTON SPENCER CHURCHILL 
HENRI MATISSE 
IGNACE PADEREWSKI 
GEORGE RUSSELL (AE) 
R,AMSAY MACDONALD 
BENITO MUSSOLINI 



Frontispiece 
IS 

21 

3 1 
43 
53 
61 

71 
81 

89 

99 
107 

1*7 
125 

133 



153 
161 
169 
179 

fxiiif 



ARTURO TOSCANINI 189 

GUSTAV STRESEMANN 199 

ELIHU ROOT 207 

CHARLES EVANS HUGHES 215 

ANDREW W. MELLON 225 

CHARLES M. SCHWAB 233 

JULIUS ROSENWALD 245 

ARTHUR BRISBANE 253 

JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER, JR. 265 

WILLIAM H. WELCH 273 

JOHN J. PERSHING 285 

CHARLES G* DAWES 295 

HERBERT HOOVER 305 

SINCLAIR LEWIS 313 

GILBERT K. CHESTERTON 323 

SIR THOMAS LIPTON 331 

WALTER P. CHRYSLER 341 

WALTER C TEAGLE 349 

WALTER DAMROSCH 357 

FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT 365 

BOOTH TARKINGTON 373 

CHARLES A. LINDBERGH 383 

frivj 



DRAWN 

FROM 

LIFE 



I 

FOR some years I have been hunting the great. With 
portfolio and charcoal and with pad and pencil I have 
been making not only lineal impressions of them but 
also verbal ones. In New York as well as Washington, in 
Berlin, London, Rome, Paris, and Prague I have pursued 
those whom the world holds in esteem. 

A long procession of shadowy figures passes before me and 
a host of memories attends them. Statesmen and authors, 
painters and poets, financiers and scientists are all in the 
ranks. As the procession has passed, from time to time I have 
halted it and out of the crowd have picked one here, one there, 
and from these I have made this book. 

In writing about a man one has met, certain restrictions 
impose themselves. Confidences must be respected, while 
personal opinions must be subordinated if an impartial portrait 
is to be presented. Moreover, men long prominent become 
more or less fixed figures in the public mind. Often the 
impression that is firmly rooted, though very different from 
the man himself, has become so identified with the individual 
that it takes more than one article to dispel the false picture, 
if indeed it can be dispelled at all. 

I have found the taciturn Coolidge talkative, the domineer 
ing Mussolini docile, the satiric Shaw sympathetic. Under 
Italian skies the cold, cruel former Crown Prince of Germany 
has been kindly and humorous, and Einstein, remote and 

[3} 



absorbed in theories, has dunked his coffee in homely style 
before me. No man is said to be a hero to his valet, but while 
the valet lays out the clothes for his partially dressed master, 
the artist also has an opportunity of really seeing his subject 
despite the apparel which In most cases does not proclaim the 
man. 

There is no surer way of getting to know a person than 
by drawing his picture. The silence that Is broken only by 
the scratch of charcoal upon paper or brush on canvas seems 
to remove restraint. The artist has his sitter at an unfair 
advantage. One is working; the other sits quietly self-conscious. 
It rarely happens that the subject does not relax and as a 
usual thing in a short time he starts to talk. In this respect the 
man who also draws has an advantage over his less fortunate 
brother who only writes. His victim is disarmed* Nothing makes 
for taciturnity or at least care in what Is said so much as a 
writer s pad and pencil; nothing Is so likely to make even a 
shy person talk as the quietness of a room la which some one 
else is working. 

And so, sitting in their offices, In their homes, or in their 
workshops, these men have talked to me while I have been 
drawing their portraits. The light and shade falling upon their 
heads brought out their features and I tried to reproduce what 
I saw, while at the same time I jotted down the high lights of 
their conversations on the margin of the paper. 

In both cases I have endeavored to give the Impression 
that the subjects made upon me. My drawings are not photo 
graphs nor are the articles phonograph reproductions. A broad 
sweeping line may better portray the contour of a face than a 
narrow halting one which delineates distracting details, and 
the same is true of quotations. A man s speech, in both manner 



and subject, has as many characteristics as his nose or eyes or 
mouth. In a drawing the artist seizes upon those forms which 
to him appear vital and perhaps exaggerates them in order 
to convey the impression that his sitter makes. I have done the 
same thing in words that I have done in line. 

Yet it has been purely as an observer that I have met these 
men and drawn their pictures. There has been no attempt to 
delve into their innermost selves from a psychological point of 
view, nor to interpret what they said. That has been left for the 
reader. Yet despite the desire to draw what is seen and to write 
what is heard, it is impossible not to permit one s own feelings to 
enter into whatever one does. I have tried to keep mine in the 
background as much as possible so that they would not distort 
the pictures I have drawn, either by line or by word. 

It goes without saying that some of the subjects appealed 
to me more than others. Some of the drawings almost made 
themselves; some of the articles required little work on my 
part; they took form in my mind before I had put a word on 
paper. Other subjects were more difficult, probably because I 
was not so much in sympathy with them. But the strange thing 
connected with this is the fact that the professions or occupa 
tions of these diverse personalities apparently played no part 
in the Interest they evoked. I have found men presumably 
absorbed in business who were much more interesting than 
some of those who had devoted their lives to the pursuit of 
the muses; on the other hand I have seen business men 
to whom nothing but money meant anything, 

By and large, men who have achieved success are about as 
interesting or as dull as the same number of individuals who 
have not. Some waiters are more diverting than some writers, 
some laborers more engrossing than some leaders of industry. 

{[si 



Men who are supposedly brilliant often were boring; others* 
presumably colorless, sometimes were entertaining. Some have 
gloated over their success and others have attributed it to any 
thing but themselves. Some have liked to talk, others have 
been silent. They are as varied as their appearances^ as 
different as their pursuits. 

This is to be expected, and yet one unconsciously looks 
for some common element in all who achieve eminence, some 
characteristic which all possess. I hate to be trite. "Self Help" 
is a book which has done much harm. Picking up pins in a 
crowded London street is not a particular quality that goes 
to making successful bank presidents, The use of midnight 
oil is as likely to cause the conflagration of a city as to produce 
a burning success. And yet, looking back on all the men whom 
I have drawn, I am inclined to think that none of them reached 
the pinnacle with his eyes sometimes turned In another direc 
tion. No half-hearted attempts succeeded. Each one of them 
was absorbed in his particular calling. 

This does not imply that they are of necessity narrow- 
minded, that nothing apart from their own particular activities 
holds any interest. There are scientists who love music, and 
musicians who dabble in science. Paderewski has been in 
j politics, but he compares statesmanship to piano playing. 
i His country has been a keyboard on which he performed the 
I overture of a nation. Even this is no exception, for his service 
to his country was not given until years after his reputation 
as a musician had been made. Einstein s violin playing is but a 
diversion and plays no greater part in his life than does the 
bricklaying of Churchill. 

v And although no one comes to mind who has not apparently 
striven with all the energy of which he was capable to achieve 
{61 



his position, nevertheless, in addition to purposeful concentra 
tion, another element has entered. Another force over which the 
individual himself had no control has also been at work. Over 
and over again while drawing I have wondered if there were 
not something, call it luck or chance or opportunity, which 
has not also played an all important part. More and more 
have I come to believe that toil and toil alone is not enough, 
and that ability unattended by this other factor is not sufficient 
to reach the goal. Of course, opportunity probably knocks at 
all doors; the sense to open is requisite. Still, there is something 
that is more than just opportunity, When you hear of a man 
who through a mistake directed his letter to a wrong firm, and 
as a result obtained a position which he did not set out for, 
and which ultimately led to his becoming president of one 
of the largest companies in America, while you cannot deny 
his ability, you must still wonder what would have happened 
had he not misaddressed his letter. That, incidentally, is the 
story that Walter S. Gifford, president of the American Tele 
phone and Telegraph Company, told me himself. It is uncer 
tain what David Sarnoff of the Radio Corporation would be 
doing if by mistake he had not applied at a Postal Telegraph 
office for a job on a newspaper. Had there not happened to be 
a vacancy in the Physics Department of Oberlin College, 
Professor Millikan to-day might be teaching Greek instead 
of delving into the make-up of the universe. The examples are 
so countless that one wonders how many Michelangelos there 
have been who never chanced to meet those popes who were 
decorating Sistine Chapels. 

I am not trying to tear halos from any one. I do not think 
the halos exist. I am not endeavoring to detract one whit 
from the genius of great men in any field. I do not for one 



minute attempt to imply that men achieve reputations without 
tremendous capacity. But I assuredly believe that more 
geniuses have been born and died unsung than have ever been 
heard of. Capability, by itself. Is not sufficient. It must be 
accompanied by luck and it must secure recognition. Post 
humous fame, though poetical to read about, is comparatively 
rare. The days of building mousetraps in the middle of a 
forest, if Indeed they ever existed, are surely over now. With 
so many good roads men no longer have the time to beat 
paths through dense underbrush- To-day even great men 
must let the world know of their greatness. 

But shrinking from publicity Is something that Is an un 
certain and indefinite quality. I have heard much about it, 
but seldom encountered it. In most cases where I have, It 
has always seemed to me that perhaps It was but a more 
subtle way of securing publicity; for after all mystery Is 
interesting. At heart the majority of people are much alike. 
It is a human failing to like to see one s name In print. If this 
were not so, such a large number of clipping agencies could 
not exist. 

I remember trying to obtain a meeting with Sir TTiomas 
Lipton. His personal secretary was not only abrupt but 
absolutely rude. I left the hotel at which they were stopping, 
having expressed my opinion. Within an hour I was called 
by another representative who, having arranged matters, 
laughingly remarked, "Some people are dreadful fools. We 
are paying a thousand dollars a week for less space than you 
are willing to give us free." 

But merchant princes are not the only people who need 
publicity. Statesmen soon wither and die without It as quickly 
as actors; even poets and other writers require It, much as 
C8] 



many profess to run from it. However, this is to be said: that 
many a man sincere in his desire to avoid notice has never 
theless consented to pose for his portrait. To see ourselves as 
others see us appears to be a most common human trait and to 
gratify it very often even a shy man will fall. 



19} 



II 

-f-N LOOKING back on the ways that many of these meetings 
I were obtained, I think I can honestly say that the 
JL greatest obstacles that had to be overcome were private 
secretaries. Whether they are naturally stupid they may 
be spoken about collectively, for with few exceptions they are 
alikeor whether they have some strange desire to shield 
their employers from unknown dangers, It Is hard to say. 
They are kind, they are courteous and most encouraging In 
their conversation. There they stop and In the majority of 
cases, like Cerberus, bark at any further approach. Many a 
telegram sent to a man s home has secured a meeting which I 
had been informed by a secretary was out of the question. 
As I write these words, the figure of one woman comes back 
to my memory. She was Mark Twain s secretary, and though 
it is years ago that I made a picture of him I can still remember 
her suave manner and the way she laughed at everything he 
said whether It was really humorous or not. She guarded him 
too well for my purposes. I had to go over her head and 
obtained an appointment through a friend. 

Mark Twain was living then in an old red brick house at the 
corner of Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue In New York City. I 
was very young and he was the first celebrity who had ever 
posed for me. My heart was in my throat when I rang the bell 
and I can distinctly recall my embarrassment as I dropped some 
of my drawing materials on entering the long dreary parlor^ 



with its tremendous melancholy organ. And then came the great 
man himself; and I was disappointed and disillusioned. He was 
so much smaller and more human than I had expected. The 
remaining spell was broken when he ran his hands through his 
bushy mane, which still retained a canary tinge, and asked 
whether I thought he had better go down to the Brevoort 
which was at the next corner and get a haircut. As I said, I 
was young at the time. It was not until years later that I saw 
a famous general in beleaguered Paris send his orderly up 
stairs for a mirror so that he might see if his hat were on at the 
proper angle for me to draw. When I drew Mark Twain I still 
thought that all eccentricity existed without premeditation. 

It was shortly after his "Life of Joan of Arc" had been 
published. On the mantel in the front parlor prominently 
displayed was the bronze laurel leaf which a young girl dressed 
as the Maid of Orleans had placed on the humorist s brow but 
a few weeks before at his seventieth birthday dinner. 

For the painting which I did of him he sat in the large 
bow window of one of his rooms. But my lithograph was made 
from a pencil sketch which I drew one day when he was 
not feeling well and had received me while he was still in 
his huge bed with its carved cherubim in the room on the 
second floor. 

There was something ^iLabout him at all times. Occasion 
ally he would flash some witty remark, but for the most part, 
he seemed to be living witkliia^Qwn thoughts. During most 
of the time he was posing his secretary played the organ a 
. mechanical affair but I gathered that his interest in music 
was not an artistic one, for the pieces which apparently pleased 
him most were the sentimental ones connected with some 
event in his own life. 



Despite the fame which he had attained, I carried away with 
me the feeling that he was a disappointed man. Perhaps it was 
his domestic griefs that had embittered him; perhaps it was 
his long struggle once more to regain his feet after he had 
been overwhelmed by financial disaster, but at all events 
it was hard to believe, as this old man with the beetled 
brows sat before me, that here was a writer who had made 
two continents laugh. It would have been easier to have 
imagined him as the author of "War and Peace w than of 
"Huckleberry Finn." 

His thin, nervous hands constantly twisted a cigar* He 
was an inveterate smoker and the edge of his mustache about 
his mouth had that yellowish nicotine color, which in those 
days was so common but which to-day is as rare as the sulphur 
matches which were then used. 

When I drew him with a book in his hand, he looked at the 
picture for a few minutes, and then quizzically remarked, 
"I suppose the book looks better, but a cigar would be more 
like me." 

His voice was thinner than his leonine head would have 
led one to expect and about it was a suspicion of a southern 
drawl He spoke slowly and almost weighed his words, and Ms 
conversation had none of the wit or sparkle that one would 
have imagined. He produced the impression that his humor 
was not spontaneous, that It was the outcome of logic and 
reason, rather than of sudden inspiration* 

Of course, he was past seventy when I met him, and he had 
lived a full and sad life. The sun was already beginning to sink 
behind the clouds in the west when he posed for me, so perhaps 
the brilliance which I had looked for in vain had been dimmed. 
Memories appeared to overpower realities for him most of the 



lo 



time, though occasionally he would apparently tear himself 
away from the past. 

Into that Fifth Avenue parlor with its Victorian respecta 
bility he brought a breath of the spirit of the pioneer South- 
west. For notwithstanding a long residence in the land of the 
r~ Yankee he seemingly bore a resentment against the effete 
cP affectations which to his mind surrounded the culture of the 
p larger eastern cities. The artificiality of civilization palled upon 
jfl him and he had more respect for the opinion of the man in the 
^ street than he had for book knowledge gathered in libraries. 

"I remember, 5 he said, "when the play which I wrote with 
Warner was first produced. How the critics damned it! But 
there was a human quality about Colonel Mulberry Sellers 
which the people recognized, and they came to see the show in 
spite of what the paid critics said. 

"A critic," he drawled, "never made or killed a book or a 
Oplay. It has always been the people who have been the final 
?[ judges it is their opinion which does the job they are the 
arbiters. 

"After all, the final test is truth. But the trouble is that 
most writers realize that truth is their most valuable possession 
and they are extremely economical in its use." 

A great part of the time I was working he sat smoking and 
said little. At one of the sittings Robert Reid, the artist, came 
in with his young nephew. Reid was well over six feet tall, and 
his nephew was as big. Mark Twain got up and took one by 
each arm and remarked, "One day the three of us will have 
to walk down the Avenue this way and people will say that 
Clemens is the cross bar of a capital H." 

Much of his conversation was cursory. The most revealing 
episode that occurred in all my meetings with him was when 

113} 



one of the newspapers telephoned asking him for an interview. 
At first he refused. Then he relented and said that he would 
give it providing the paper would donate one hundred dollars 
to some charity. His offer was accepted and he immediately 
named an organization which looked after children. It was then 
that he seemed most like the Mark Twain whom 1 had pic 
tured. It was then that his face lost its grim expression and 
the kindliness that was his came to the fore. 

It was this meeting, now almost a quarter of a century 
behind me, which was one of the factors that turned my life 
into the channel in which it has run. But before it did this 
years passed years in which I painted portraits and tried to 
make my sitters look like what they thought they were, I 
think it was Sargent who remarked that a portrait was a 
painting in which there was something wrong with the mouth, 
Only those who have made their living out of portrait painting 
fully realize the depth of the truth in that observation. Unless 
three-months-old babies clap their hands and say "Goo 
goo" before the canvas, unless pet dogs bark, and If every 
friend and acquaintance does not agree in saying the likeness 
is perfect, then the portrait must be altered. 

Of all the people who sat for me In those early days only one 
stands out in isolated memory* That is Mr* Justice Holmes, 
I hesitate to put down more than a sketchy outline of the man* 
for it has been some years now since I made that drawing. 
I have had many sitters since, presidents and prime ministers, 
philosophers and mathematicians. And yet out of the whole 
number the tall, slightly bent figure looms* I can still see him 
greeting me in the second floor back room of his home la 
Washington, a courtliness and culture about him that are 
indissolubly associated with men who grew up in an earlier day. 

I H] 




\ 



Wendell Holmes 



I have often felt that the men active in public life in 
Europe have a fuller outlook, a more rounded education, a 
scholarliness that is absent in our men of public affairs. One of 
the few exceptions has been this white-haired, pink-faced old 
gentleman. Surrounded by etchings which he loved and which 
he had collected, he spoke of art and life. Modernism to this 
octogenarian was a most absorbing subject. But though he was 
enthralled by the psychology of it, he still got his pleasure from 
the lines that Rembrandt and Van Dyke and Whistler had 
bitten on copper plates. Yet he did not close his eyes to the 
struggles that were going on among contemporary artists for 
a new mode of expression. While he respected their efforts, 
he acknowledged that he could not understand them. But he 
pointed out that it was only through movements such as this 
that the world progressed. 

"The same thing," he said, "is true of every branch of 
human knowledge. The desire to get away from old ideas is a 
human trait. So is the clinging to them. Youth seeks to express 
itself in new ways. Age clings to what it knew in youth. 

"This does not mean that youth is necessarily right or 
wrong. Nor does it mean that age is as a matter of course 
reactionary. It is the impulsiveness of the young, tempered 
by the experience of the old, that makes for progress." 

He spoke of his father and he mentioned the "Autocrat of 
the Breakfast Table." He recalled how his father had written 
that when John and Mary were at the breakfast table there 
were six persons present John as he really was, John as he 
thought he was and John as he appeared to Mary. The same 
was true of Mary. 

"I suppose," he said, "in order to get a perfect likeness 
of me you would have to make me as I seem to myself, as I 



really am, and as I appear to you. I am afraid you have an 
impossible job ahead of you." 

All the time I was drawing him his secretary was in the 



room. 



"You know, Mr. Justice," he remarked, "when the portrait 

was started it looked like Justice [mentioning the name 

of a particularly conservative member of the Supreme Court]. 
But now it looks like you." 

"Well, don t you believe in evolution?" retorted the keen 

old jurist. 

One of my regrets now is that I did not set down immedi 
ately many of the things that he said. However, at that time 
I was only drawing. It was not until some years later, and then 
almost accidentally, that I also began to write. 



{18} 



Ill 

JUST off the Strand, on Adelphi Terrace, stands a row of 
houses built long ago by the Adams brothers. It was in 
one of these that George Bernard Shaw lived when I first 
met him. 

The ground floor of the corner house was taken up by 
offices but inside the first thing that struck the eye was a 
large sign "Mr. and Mrs. G. Bernard Shaw" while at the 
head of a flight of stairs a wooden gate reinforced by iron 
spikes prevented further progress and another sign gave notice 
that the floor above was private. 

Here the visitor, if he managed to elude the wily janitor 
who told every stranger that Mr. Shaw was in the country, 
came to an impasse, and naturally it was here that I met my 
first obstacle. I managed to persuade the maid to permit me to 
speak to Miss Patch, Mr. Shaw s private secretary, who 
behaved in true private secretarial form. She did not find it 
necessary to open the portcullis for she could easily speak 
over the top. This she did and said it would be out of the 
question even to ask Mr. Shaw to pose in fact, most of his 
time was spent in refusing to be a model for any more artists. 
Somewhat dejectedly, I left. 

I could not melt the stony heart of Miss Patch; it was 
vulcanized. I had to get to the great man himself and move 
him not by pity but by humor. What would he have done 
under similar circumstances? Knowing that modesty is one 



of Shaw s salient characteristics, and that his apparent blatant 
conceit is nothing but an inferiority complex combined with 
the keenest wit and humor, I concocted the following letter 
after much trouble. I knew that I had nothing to lose and that 
it might just strike the one unprotected spot In the Achillean 
armor of reserve. On July i, therefore* I wrote to him as 
follows: 

"My dear Mr. Shaw: 

"Years ago I remember you said that the only reason you 
posed for Rodin was because you felt that It was the one way in 
which you would gain everlasting fame. 

"That is quite true as far as Europe is concerned, but as 
for America, with true Shavian modesty I may say that 
immortality will not be yours there until I have drawn you. 

"That is one of the reasons I came to London to obtain 
immortality for you in America* 

"And when you think It will cost you only one-half hour 
of time that is a very small price to pay/* 

When the following note came the neit morning I was the 
most surprised person in the world: 

"I now have considerable experience as an artist s model; 
but my terms about $3,750 an hour are prohibitive. Also, 1 
shall not be disengaged for at least a year to come, G. B. S/ 1 

I now felt sure that the proper response would bring results, 
It was the third of July; the letter had to be timely. It had 
to contain in itself a reason for being written; In other words, it 
must of necessity be a reply to his note, so, on July 4, I sent 
him the following: 

"My dear Mr. Shaw: 

"Your price for posing is acceptable to me. My price for a 
drawing is the same amount. 

{201 




George Bernard Shaw 



"You do not have to be disengaged while I draw. 
"I am leaving on the eighth. When shall I come? 
"If you could pose this afternoon and sign the drawing 
to-day, think what it would mean to the American people 
to have two vital documents signed on July 4." 

That afternoon I received a phone call; Mr. Shaw s name 
could go down in history with John Hancock, Thomas Jeffer 
son, and others. 

After meeting and talking with him, or rather listening 
to him talk, for two hours or more, his surroundings count for 
little in my mind. I dimly remember making a mental note of 
his dining room, furnished under a decidedly Chinese influence, 
with a gorgeous Eastern yellow rug, a wonderful open sideboard 
filled with multicolored Oriental pottery, and on the mantel 
several Chinese dragons. Behind me was a bookcase, contain 
ing, among other volumes, Gibbon s "Rome," Wagner s com 
plete works, and Balzac s novels. 

On the light green wall hung Augustus John s portrait of 
Shaw, which Mrs. Shaw told me she had not liked at first but 
now felt was one of the best portraits of him in existence not 
one absolutely of the man in flesh and blood, but a monumental 
work of him and his aims. 

It was in Mr. Shaw s living room, out of the windows of 
which one had a long, unbroken view of the Thames, that I 
drew him, while he sat on a large chintz sofa and talked. 

He had a visitor, an economist from Australia, who was 
interested in little theaters. And when the visitor introduced 
himself as an economist Shaw remarked: "That s what 
I am; playwriting is just a pastime." 

He went on: "Of the moderns I particularly like Pirandello 
and Strindberg. Their plays are not logical developments of 

123} 



themes and, after all, I am such an old hand at the business that 
a logically developed play cannot possibly contain any surprises 
for me. I know what will happen from the beginning and accord 
ingly lose interest. But when a play goes along without any 
apparent plan and when at first no consecutive development or 
plot appears evident, I am at once Intrigued Into discovering 
the purpose and outcome. Naturally, If the author Is mad the 
play becomes all the better. And as for Strindberg, of course 
he was mad. He had an Idea he was a mortally 111 man. I 
remember visiting Stockholm and 1 felt that it would be an 
act of International courtesy for me to call on him. Accordingly 
I dropped him a line telling him I was In the city and that I 
would not like to leave without paying my respects. I received 
a reply that Mr. Strindberg was too 111 to receive any one. 
But the next day, without any further action on my part, a 
note reached me saying that he would be home that after 
noon. I went. For an hour he was charming. Suddenly he 
pulled out his watch, looked at it for a moment and In a 
fearful voice said, In twenty minutes I shall be a grievously 
ill man.* 

"To this day/* continued G. B. S., * C I do not know whether 
this was the result of my visit or of his diseased mind* 

"Of course, it Is economics that has taken up most of my 
time, though and this may seem strange to you music 
has always played a large part In my life. Both my father and 
mother were musical and I was reared In an atmosphere of 
music. In fact, harmony I have always sought. Classical music, 
Beethoven and Bach, were so much a part of my Infancy that 
it really took me some time to learn to appreciate the lighter 
forms of music, and it was only after an effort that I could 
find pleasure in the waltzes of Strauss. 

(2*1 



"Most people don t know that it was an American who 
really turned me to sociology. When I was a young man Henry 
George came to London and lectured. I was carried away by 
both the man and his ideas. His revolutionary theories appealed 
to me. And I may say I still see the truth in his Single Tax. 

"From George I went to Marx, and his Capital swept 
everything from me and I was a Socialist. Of course, I was 
young. In those days I was ready to grasp at everything 
new. It s strange how men change. At that time I refused to 
believe a word of the Bible and was ready to accept every new 
theory any scientist offered. To-day Pd rather believe the story 
of Jonah and the whale than a fact almost proved by a scientist. 

"But to get back to Marx. I was his devout follower and 
remained so until Jevons showed me certain fallacies in his 
theory of values. Not that I discarded Marx; I accepted him 
with reservations, and it was due to the Fabian Society that 
his theories were made popular in England. Marx was a 
strange chap. I never met him but I have learned much 
about his personality from "people who had. One of the most 
delightful stories I heard about him was told me by a lady 
whose husband had been one of Marx s intimate friends a 
fellow-Socialist. 

"For years they had been close companions. But one eve 
ning, as both were leaving a party, the friend by mistake took 
Marx s hat. It fitted him and Marx, who prided himself on 
the tremendous size of his head, from that day never spoke to 
his former friend." 

Shaw s delightful manner, the charm and sonorous tone 
of his voice with its faint suspicion of a brogue, his interest 
in the subjects on which he spoke, and the amusing twists he 
gave to his conversation made it extremely difficult for me to 

125] 



work. I wanted to drop my charcoal and just listen, but I 
could not. Accordingly, in order to finish my sketch, I had at 
times to concentrate on my work rather than on his conversa 
tion* Various remarks of his come to my mind with the result 
that I am unable to remember the exact way in which he led 
from one subject to another* 

How he came to speak of his religion, I forget, but in some 
way or other religion was touched on and he said * 

"1 have the same religion as Dean Inge. We are both 
Quakers. We don t believe in set prayers. When we want to 
talk to God we use the same language as we ordinarily use, 
not prayers composed for us by other people, and we do not 
need a church in which to hold communion with Him. I remem 
ber that some time ago a movement was afoot to afford more 
protection to St. Paul s against fire. A meeting was held and 
various people attended, some advocating more fire extin 
guishers, others special fire brigades. In fact, countless schemes 
were devised and discussed. When every one had finished the 
Dean had proposed nothing. Some one asked him how he felt 
and he answered : Let it burn. " 

And then in some unremembered way the subject of human 
affection was introduced, and Shaw was asked whether it was 
not the one compelling thing in the world. 

"Human affection/ said he with a quizzical smile, a ls 
the one great curse of mankind, the principal obstruction to its 
progress. Take myself, for instance; all my life affection has 
been showered on me, and everything that I have done I have 
had to do in spite of it." 

The sketch was finished and I prepared to rearrange the 
furniture, for in order for me to be comfortable Shaw had 
removed a picture from an easel that stood In the corner and 

I 261 



wheeled It out for me to use. The economist by this time had 
departed. 

I "fixed" my drawing so that it would not rub, and asked 
him to sign it, which he did, though he said that he felt that it 
was unnecessary as any one could tell who it was without the 
name. But I still delayed my going. Shaw had spoken on 
Socialism, on playwriting and even on religion, but I wanted 
more. 

I had been unable to turn his conversation to the subject 
of art. Behind him on a desk was the bust Rodin had made 
of him years ago the one referred to in my first letter. I 
mentioned it again and asked if Rodin had required many 
sittings. 

"Yes, quite a number," he said, "and the strange part 
of it was that in the course of its making that bust went 
through a complete development of the history of art. At the 
end of the first sitting it was a work of the very earliest Greek 
period archaic smile and all From that it embodied the 
Greek and Roman styles and at one time it was a perfect 
example of the sculpture of the twelfth century, a masterpiece 
of that period, and it kept on evolving from one century to the 
next until it was finished." 

Rodin seems to be one of Shaw s heroes. He showed me num 
berless photographs of him, which he keeps around the living 
room photographs made by Coburn, whom he had sent 
for from London particularly for that purpose. He also showed 
the famed "Nude Photograph" of himself and told how it 
came to be taken. Coburn and he were discussing Rodin s 
"Thinker." He had tried to assume the pose but he could not, 
so he undressed to see if he could get into the pose unhampered 
by clothes. Coburn snapped him. But Shaw told me he was 

{27} 



not leaning forward far enough and that the absolute pose 
cannot be assumed by anybody. 

There were other photographs, some thirty or forty years 
old. The thing that struck me was the apparent change in 
his skull formation, which I mentioned. He assured me 
that it was a fact that as a young man his head was 
broad, rather than long, but that in later years his entire 
skull had lengthened. 

At last I ventured, "And, Mr. Shaw* what do you think of 
modern art ?" 

"What do I think of modern art? I have been practicing 
it seventy years," he replied with a delightful smile, "but 
seriously I suppose that there must be something good in it. 
I do feel that any number of incompetents are using it as a 
cloak for their shortcomings. But take Matisse for instance; 
from the surety and beauty of his line I know the man can 
draw in an academic way should he so desire. I will acknowl 
edge that at first his works seemed strange to me, but I have 
looked at them so much that now I see their beauty without 
permitting their apparent strangeness to interfere with my 
appreciation of the part that appeals to me. I don t think 
the goal has been reached, but there must be forerunners to 
every great movement. It doesn t matter whether it is religion 
or art. Cezanne, Van Gogh, Matisse may be only prophets or 
John the Baptists. 

"But the thing you must admit whether you want to or 
not look at these pictures often enough, have them in your 
home, and they will make you feel that the work of their 
predecessors is dull, drab, monotonous and lifeless." 

As I was going he asked me if I would leave the drawing 
and call for it later, for Mrs. Shaw was out and he wanted 



her to see it. Here was the man who had laughed at all human 
Institutions anxious for his wife to see a drawing of himself. 
There was a simplicity and hominess about the entire 
place that did not seem to square with one s ideas of what his 
household would be like. It was the same spirit which I after 
wards found in the comparatively small apartment in which 
Professor Einstein lives. 



129} 



IV 

HOMINESS was more to be expected from the dreamy 
German philosopher who remains at heart the simple 
bourgeois and does not attempt to startle with an 
epigram or surprise by a phrase. 

He was no easier to get to than was Mr* Shaw. I had 
tried numerous leads, none of which went anywhere. I had 
even wired Emil Ludwig who at that time was in Switzerland, 
but received a reply that he did not know Einstein well 
enough to give me a letter of introduction and suggested that I 
see the Professor s son-in-law. I did this and the young man 
acted much as a secretary would. He was very discouraging 
but asked me to leave a portfolio of my drawings which he 
promised to show to his distinguished father-in-law. When 
they were returned to me the next morning with word that the 
scientist would not pose I noticed that the package had not 
been opened. 

My chances of approaching the propounder of relativity 
seemed very remote as I stood in the courtyard of the building 
that houses the printing firm for which Professor Einstein s 
son-in-law works. There was no one else to whom to turn who 
knew him, and I decided there was but one thing left for me ? 
to go to his house direct and try to see him* A man s privacy 
is to be respected, but there seemed no other way out, or rather 
in. I felt, too, that even if a door were slammed in my face, 
it would not be the worst thing that might happen to me, 
130} 




7."* -" 



Albert Einstein 



and accordingly I took a taxi to Haberlandstrasse. It is in a 
comparatively new part of Berlin, a section built up within 
the last twenty-five years. About it no halo of history glows. 
It is a residential quarter of the upper middle class broad 
streets, well-kept trees and apartment houses, with vine and 
awning-covered balconies jutting out here and there in hap 
hazard fashion. There is a home-like atmosphere about the 
vicinity, a feeling of substance, well-being and contentment, 
but it can boast of nothing else. The neighborhood does not 
fulfill one s ideal of the surroundings of a man who has over 
turned the fundamental ideas of the universe. There is some 
thing entirely too tangible about the place; no remoteness, no 
suspicion of fourth dimensional incomprehensibility. 

Einstein s house is surrounded by the homes of well- 
to-do people, satisfied with the world as it is. Even the 
statue of St. George and the Dragon which stands tem 
porarily beside its broken pedestal in the center of the 
small square on which the house fronts, is a Teutonic St. 
George wearing a smile of complacency, with no hint of 
prophetic vision a smile reflecting the feelings of the people 
of the neighborhood. 

In fact, the apartment breathes no more of the extra 
ordinary than the neighborhood in which it is situated. The 
dull-looking porter in the blue denim jacket and apron who 
turns the key in the lock and sends the crawling elevator up 
to the top floor is like hundreds of other attendants in similar 
flats. The polished brass plate above the bell with "Professor 
Einstein" on it is identical in every respect, except for the 
name, with others in the same building. And even within there 
is nothing about the place that differs essentially from the 
majority of German homes. 

C33] 



Had a maid opened the door to my ring I am quite con 
vinced that I would never have succeeded in getting either my 
drawing or my article. As it was, one of Einstein s daughters 
answered it and to her I was able to make my purpose clear. 
She was interested in my drawings because she herself is a 
sculptor, and she promised to do what she could. When I left 
her I felt that perhaps I was on the way to obtaining the sitting. 
Next morning, however, when I called up it was Mrs- Einstein 
who came to the phone and she told me that she was very 
sorry but although the Professor liked my work he would not 
give me the time. He abhorred publicity, she said, and It 
was this that made him refuse. When I replied that even if 
he desired to avoid newspaper notice, I could not believe 
that a man credited with having such a kind heart as the 
Professor would refuse to see some one who had traveled over 
three thousand miles to meet him, she weakened. She asked 
me to hold the wire, and the Professor himself came to the 
phone. After a little preliminary talk he finally consented 
to pose, but I had to promise him not to publish the drawing. 

I arrived very early the next morning in fact, owing to 
the German method of designating the time, I was half an 
hour too early. There was a smell of wax throughout the 
apartment and the maid was still going over the polished 
floors with a heavy brush. 

The library, with the green wallpaper and porcelain stove, 
with its built-in bookcases, ornate and filled with novels, his 
tories, and two gigantic copies of the Bible; the corner cabinet, 
on which stand two statuettes and a half model of a sloop that 
Einstein s friends gave him; the desk, primarily a home piece 
and evidently used by the entire family none of these 
things gives any evidence of being the surroundings of genius. 



Nor does the living room reflect anything of the personality 
of the head of the house. It is livable and cheerful, but it might 
be the home of any one of millions of Germans, for there is 
something decidedly Teutonic about it. Its flowered yellow 
wallpaper, its family pictures prominently displayed, the 
portrait of Frederick the Great with his two dogs, the piano 
with its stubby legs, the three violins in cases under it, and 
also the heavy wood music stands these things, together with 
the Biedermeyer furniture, are characteristic of a nation 
rather than of an individual. 

It was Mrs. Einstein who greeted me a sweet, motherly 
woman, whose attitude toward her distinguished husband is 
that of a doting parent toward a precocious child. 

"I am so glad," she said, a that you have managed to get 
him to pose. He does not want publicity. Last week there were 
a few photographs of him in the paper and he was so disturbed 
that for two days he did no work. 

"Have you ever seen him?" she asked, and before I could 
answer she added: "Has he not a wonderful, head ?" And as 
she spoke of him there was a suspicion of a tremor in her voice. 

"Look at this," she said, and going to the bookcase drawer 
she pulled out a thin volume, a collection of Einstein s sayings 
and poems which his friends had collected and had bound as a 
souvenir of his fiftieth birthday. 

There was the sound of bare feet, and, holding a black and 
white bathrobe about him, apparently oblivious of his sur 
roundings, Einstein entered. 

Although he is about average height, his head with its mass 
of gray hair appears large for his body. His forehead is not 
high but is distinguished by its curious formation, and his 
eyebrows grow, not as usual on the upper part of the orbits of 

I 351 



the eyes, but above, thus giving a perpetual quizzical expres 
sion to his face. His mustache remains almost black, as does a 
fringe of hair about the back of his neck. 

His eyes are large and dark and soft, and in them there 
is a note of sadness which remains even when he smiles, which 
he does often in a quiet embarrassed way. In fact, about his 
entire manner there is a bashful and malleable quality that is 
almost childlike, and this is accentuated by his wlfe*s attitude 
toward him 

Though he loves the outdoors and spends what time he 
can spare in the country, his appearance is that of a man who 
has passed most of his life indoors. He is physically flaccid, 
in fact, almost fragile, and even his handshake, though cordial, 
leaves one wondering as to whether there are bones in his hand. 

As he stood there, saying he would be ready in a few 
minutes, it was easy to understand why his home showed so 
little of his personality. It is doubtful if he even knows what is 
in it. Detached and remote, he is one of those persons whom it is 
impossible to comprehend fully. 

Talking, he appears to be thinking of other things; gazing, 
he does not appear to be seeing the object at which he looks. 
In fact, these peculiarities are so marked as to appear almost 
abnormal. His mind apparently works of its own accord along 
certain lines, and when his attention Is diverted to something 
external, one can almost feel the effort that is required on his 
part to interrupt his natural train of thought. 

Patting him on the back, his wife told him to get dressed, 
and as he left the room she said with a smile: a He is terribly 
hard to manage." 

In a few minutes he returned. His brown suit needed press* 
ing and on his feet he wore, over wool socks, a pair of open- 
{361 



work sandals. His coat collar was half turned up in the back, 
and when we started to go upstairs Mrs. Einstein fixed his 
collar and arranged his hair. 

As we walked up the one flight of short steps that led to 
the top floor, he said: "Remember, I have your word that this 
picture will not be printed. You may use it for exhibition 
purposes, but I am heartily sick of my portraits being pub 
lished. That is all right for a theatrical prima donna who 
wants advertising. 

"The people are so inconsiderate in their demands. For 
months a photographic company was after me to pose playing 
my violin. The next thing is that they will be wanting me to 
pose standing on my head." 

We reached a door, a wooden one painted white, which he 
unlocked. At the end of a passage of four or five feet was 
another door. This he likewise opened and I was in his study 
an attic room about fifteen feet square. Under the sloping 
alcove window is a table which stands on a dais as does an 
upholstered armchair with an antimacassar on its back. A 
round table, covered with a red and white cloth, is littered, as is 
the other one, with papers and pamphlets. Two ladderback 
chairs, with straw seats, and bookshelves filled with pamphlets 
complete the furnishings. There are no pictures on the white 
washed walls, no more evidence of observance of surroundings 
than on the floor below. 

Professor Einstein seated himself in the chair on the dais, 
and before I had arranged my materials, he had taken from his 
pocket some scraps of paper on which there were figures, and 
also a black fountain pen, and, as if he were absolutely alone, 
he began jotting down notes. As far as he was concerned, I 
was not there. 

{371 



His legs were crossed and the paper rested on his lap. 
In his mouth was a small meerschaum cigarette holder, not 
the kind that is used to-day, but one of the old-fashioned type 
which holds the cigarette perpendicularly, and which he 
removed every little while, holding it pipe-fashion, 

The previous night I had been in a chess room, of which 
there are a number in Berlin, and, as he sat slowly puffing, 
but not inhaling the smoke from his cigarette, now and then 
changing a figure on the paper before him, or else twisting 
one of the curls on the back of his head, he reminded me of the 
men whom I had seen bending over the chessboards, trying 
to solve problems which they got from the newspapers. 
It was impossible not to feel that he was engrossed in working 
out a puzzle and that the ultimate results of the solution did 
not interest him at all. 

To talk to him would have been out of the question. He 
was too far away, and it was not until he looked up and asked 
how the picture was progressing that I had an opportunity of 
speaking to him and asking him something of the history of 
the development of his theories. 

"The general trend of my thinking," he said, "was present 
in my mind from the beginning, but as I went on the later ideas 
came to me gradually. Twenty-four years ago I published my 
first pamphlet and two years later I formulated the general 
theory of relativity. Since then I have been constantly working 
on developments." 

In reply to the question as to how he came to work along 
the particular lines he did, he replied: 

"First I was struck by the fact that experiments showed 
that the velocity of light is constant; that it travels at the same 
rate of speed whether sent out by a source at rest or la motion. 
I 38 I 



It was while thinking over this that my first theory of relativity 
came to me. 

"The experimental fact that the material mass of a body 
is the same as its gravitational mass set me thinking along lines 
which ultimately resulted in my later work." 

According to Professor Einstein an infinite number of 
theories can always be devised that will describe natural 
phenomena. 

"We can invent," he said, "as many theories as we like, 
and any one of them can be made to fit facts. But that theory 
is always preferred which makes the fewest number of assump 
tions. Among the innumerable theories which can be con 
structed to fit the facts of science we choose, naturally, the 
theory which starts off with the fewest of these assumptions." 

His smoke was finished, and as he laid his holder on 
the table beside him, without speaking I offered him a 
cigarette. 

"No," he said, "I have just finished one, and everything, 
including smoking, must be done slowly." Then he went on: 

"Of course there are several kinds of theories in physics. 
Most of these are what I should call constructive, for from 
some relatively simple propositions they build up a picture of 
complex phenomena. Thus when philosophers say they under 
stand any certain group of natural phenomena, they mean 
that they have evolved or built from simpler propositions a 
theory which explains and embraces the complex ones." 

He uncrossed his legs and looked down at the paper in his 
hand. With his fountain pen he added several figures. Then 
he looked up again and in his soft voice continued : 

"The theories which I have worked out are of a different 
character. They are theories of principles and are the result of 

139} 



an analytical rather than a synthetic method. Their starting 
point and foundations are not hypothetical constituents but 
empirically observed general properties of phenomena, no 
matter how complex, from which mathematical formulae were 
deduced, formulae of such a kind that they apply to all cases 
which present themselves/ 

I realized that very shortly I would be beyond my depth 
and when he stopped I referred to his violin playing. 

"Yes/ he replied, "I get a vast amount of pleasure from it. 
When I am too tired to read or work I find that music rests me. 
Much has been said of my playing but I am sure that I am the 
one who gets the most amusement from it." 

When the drawing was finished he got up to look at it. 
From his expression I knew he was pleased, and among other 
things, he said that I might use it anywhere I saw fit, and then 
he asked if he might have a photograph of it. Two or three days 
later I returned with the photograph. Mrs. Einstein was 
entertaining some relatives, some of whom were back on a 
visit from their homes in America. Around a small side table 
in the dining room they sat and in a few minutes the professor 
entered, wearing the same unpressed brown suit, and with the 
same far-away look in his eyes. Abs^frjjundedly he ate a 
sandwich, and then the subject turned on America and he 
spoke of its yastness and of the deep impression it had made 
upon him when he had visited it. 

The conversation became general and turning to me he 
asked to see the photograph. He looked at it for a few minutes 
and then got up and left the room, walking much quicker than 
usual. Suddenly from the other room came noises, and Mrs. 
Einstein quickly arose asking me to come with her. "I know 
what he is doing/ she said. 

401 



As we entered there he was in the library trying to take 
down from the wall a tremendous painting of himself. 

"I have told you a number of times to take that down and 
now I am going to do it." This was said in an excited tone, a 
tone that no one would suspect he could use. The calm pro 
fessor, the quiet, removed, methodical thinker had disappeared 
and in his stead was the temperamental artist. 

"And what s more, if I see it around I ll put a knife through 



it." 



I had to help him but finally he got it down, put it into a 
corner and once more with his usual quiet manner he returned 
to the dining room. 

It was time for me to go and as he saw me to the door I 
asked him what he considered the best formula for success in 
life. He smiled, that same awkward bashful smile and thought 
for a minute. 

"If A is Success in life," he replied, "I should say the 
formula is^ = JT+ F + Z, X being work and Y being play." 

"And what," I asked, "is Z?" 

"That," he answered, "is keeping your mouth shut." 

As I left him and jumped into a taxi with my portfolio his 
last remark rang in my ears. The association of ideas is curious. 
There was I driving through the streets of Berlin but I did not 
see them. My mind had gone back to a little snow-covered 
town in New England where I had heard somewhat the same 
thing. 



V 

GENERAL CLARENCE EDWARDS lived in Dedham, Massa- 
chusetts. During the war he had commanded the 
Twenty-sixth Division, with which I had been for 
some time. While passing through Boston, it was but 
natural that I should visit the old commander in the near-by 
suburb, 

Edwards was a blunt, matter-of-fact soldier with absolutely 
no tact. Whatever came into his head was immediately 
said, and it was due to this outspokenness that shortly 
before the Armistice he was relieved of his command and 
sent home. This very fact, coupled with his fatherly solici 
tude for his boys, had made him extremely popular in New 
England, and when Calvin Coolidge was running for governor 
of Massachusetts, he had asked the former commander of 
the Yankee Division to accompany him on some of his speak 
ing tours. 

"On one of our trips," the General told me, a we had to 
travel about thirty miles by motor. Mr, Coolidge was in one 
car, I was in another. When we reached our destination I 
jumped out of my machine and went over to the automobile 
in which the candidate for governor and his wife were. Mrs. 
Coolidge looked bored. 

" What s the matter/ I said to her as a joke. "Has the 
Governor been talking you to death ? 

10} 




Calvin Coolidgf 



"Mr. Coolidge looked up at me. It was evident what was 
in his mind. Well, General/ he said, the things I don t say 
never get me into trouble. 9 " 

But Mr. Coolidge never seemed a silent man to me. The 
first time I saw him he was spending the summer in the Adiron- 
dacks. I had made a hot night journey in a sleeper in order to 
reach Paul Smith s the next morning. 

The President s camp was six miles or so from the hotel and 
its surrounding cottages. One of these had been con 
verted into a summer executive office. Here the President 
came every morning and here he saw the representatives of the 
press two or three times a week. On one of these days I arrived 
and I met a number of newspaper men whom I knew. The 
general talk was that he had been particularly short with 
them. About the entire place was a feeling of repressed 
awe, which was intensified when I met Everett Sanders who 
told me that he could not possibly ask the President to 
pose for me but that I might make some sketches when 
he was holding his public talk. Accordingly, I was prepared 
to catch him, as it were, on the wing, while he answered 
the questions of some thirty or forty men who were covering 
his doings that summer. 

A few minutes after he had entered the room, he saw me 
sketching. He turned to me and said, "Don t do that now. 
Wait and I ll see you afterwards." 

"Afterwards" turned out to be an hour or more, despite 
interruptions by nervous secretaries who entered the room 
every now and then, for the evident purpose of bringing the 
sitting to a close. 

During that time he spoke of art, he mentioned the names 
of painters little known to the public, and in every way dis- 



played a side of himself that as far as the public was concerned 
never existed. 

This drawing of the President, however, was not what I 
had really gone after. At that time he was first displaying his 
interest in fishing and what I wanted was a sketch of him at his 
favorite pastime. Moreover,, even photographers had been 
banned from the camp, so except for one or two pictures 
that had been taken before he had moved in, the public did 
not even know what the place looked like. 

After I had been working for fifteen or twenty minutes 
he left the room to see a senator and told me to wait as he would 
be able to get rid of him quickly. On his return I broached 
the subject of going to the camp to make some drawings. He 
looked at me with a quizzical expression. 

"You know I have kept all reporters out of the place," he 
said. Then he arose and came over and looked at my drawing. 

"Would you like to make a picture of Mrs. Coolidge?" 
he asked. "If you were to come up to do that and should 
happen to make other sketches, I do not think any one would 
stop you." 

That afternoon I went there. The President took me over 
the place and showed me the various rooms. Then he said that 
he was going fishing and led me on to a dock. While he stood 
and cast from a bridge I sketched him. 

Later, on an eminence that overlooked a lake, I made my 
drawing of Mrs. Coolidge. At the time a well-known publicity 
seeker was staying at the hotel with his new wife. At every 
opportunity he spoke to the reporters who were "covering" 
the summer White House and even handed out photographs 
of himself and his young bride with the hope that they would 
find their way into the papers. 

(461 



While I was drawing Mrs. Coolidge the newly weds were out 
on the lake in a canoe and she displayed great interest in 
them. 

"Do you think/ 5 drawled Mr. Coolidge, "that if you 
persuaded them hard enough, you might be able to get 
them to consent to pose for a picture to be published in 
the papers ?" 

The name of a certain statesman came up and a visitor 
who was there remarked: 

"You know, Mr. President, he is really a very able fellow. 
He went off on a tangent about Socialism but he has com 
pletely recovered from it." 

"When did he come into money? 5 inquired the President. 
His humor is sharp and dry but is always in evidence. 
I remember that once when I was drawing him he suddenly 
turned to me and said: 

"I am afraid I am hard to draw. You know I think I 
would be a much better subject if I had chin whiskers like 
the Smith Brothers." 

He is very particular about his personal appearance. He 
is one of those people who even on ff the hottest day appear cool 
and immaculate, one who looks as if he had just stepped 
out of the bathtub. Despite the fact that he was born and 
brought up on a farm, he seems to be more in place 
in offices than in rural surroundings, and his well-pressed 
double-breasted suit was much more appropriate behind a 
desk than when he stood on a bridge with a fishing rod 
in hand. 

His hands, small and well kept, do not look as if they had 
ever handled pitchforks. He is proud of them. He told me that 
when he was posing for the portrait by Laszlo which now hangs 



In the White House, the painter at the end of one sitting had 
said the picture was finished. 

"But," explained Mr. Coolidge, "I did not like the hand 
and so I sent him a note telling him that I would be glad to 
give him a couple of hours more to work on it. 

"I got a note back from him thanking me but telling me 
that there was nothing more to be done on it." 

He told me the story because he admired the artist s 
independence. He was amused at his writing that way, not to 
Calvin Coolidge, but to the President of the United States, 
and expressed regret that many men in public life were not so 
sure when they had finished their jobs. 

In addition to his humor there is a kindliness and considera 
tion that most people do not realize. I have been ushered into 
the President s office in the White House and found him 
sitting with his feet on the desk. In that office he has asked 
me to remove my coat because it was a very hot day, and he 
has regaled me for half an hour or more with all the details of 
the last sickness of one of his white collies. 

All in all I found him to be one of the most human people 
I have ever met. He is reserved, yes but it is the same reserve 
that one finds among most of the natives of New England. 
And with this Yankee quality goes an extraordinary softness 
of heart. 

He demanded respect, but instinctively one felt that it 
was for the office which he held rather than for himself person 
ally. Indeed, about him Is an almost old-fashioned point of 
view in his regard for the nation. One of the first things he 
showed me at his camp was the flag with its marine guard* 

Of course, he is peculiar. Who is not? It amused me to 
see him take a leather key case from his pocket, open a drawer 

|48l 



in the desk in his office in the White House, take out a long 
black cigar, carefully insert it into a cardboard holder, put the 
box back and again lock the drawer. Suppose he has a certain 
New England thrift; he has also the same keenness and clear 
understanding about things that go with it. It is those very 
peculiarities that made him so popular with the men who had 
to write about him. Will Rogers has chuckled with me about 
them. Yet that shrewd observer of human nature loves him 
for his very foibles. 

There are a few more memories of Coolidge that remain 
vivid to me. 

"How is the drawing coming ?" he said to me one time when 
he was posing. 

"I am pleased with it," I answered. 

"Well," said he, "when I do a job and please myself one 
person is satisfied anyway and when I try to please other 
people the chances are that no one is satisfied." 

My last drawing of him was done shortly after he had made 
his "Do not choose to run" declaration. No one had succeeded 
in getting him to amplify it and considerable uncertainty 
existed as to exactly what it meant. As he sat for me we were 
frequently interrupted by his secretary entering with papers 
for him to look at. 

Probing, to find out for my personal benefit for the 
President cannot be quoted how he felt on the matter, I 
asked him if he would not be glad when his term of office 
expired and he could retire to private life. 

He looked at me very keenly and for a few minutes said 
nothing. Then the Coolidge that the public knows came to 
the fore and his answer was "No." But the monosyllable was 
full of meaning. 

(491 



I have always felt that his statement was taken too 
literally to please him, that though he did not "choose/* he 
could have been persuaded to run. However, perhaps I put 
too much store on that one word which he said to me while 
he was still in office. 

He is such a clever politician that it is hard to believe 
that had he really desired another term he could not have 
managed to obtain it. 



f 50 



ppi in "*ffliJlEK.E 

I Cooli 
JL distir 



VI 



is but one man who seems almost to approach 
Coolidge in political strategy. Yet their methods are 
distinctly different. Coolidge is reserved; Al Smith is 
effusive. The former president weighs his words; the former 
governor "speaks out." Both are acute, but one s wits were 
sharpened amid the cracker barrels of the village store; the 
.other learned his lessons on the city s streets. 

Politics for Governor Smith has been no passing fad, no 
relaxation from other affairs. Brought up in poverty, the 
welfare of the poor, particularly of widowed mothers and of 
orphans, became almost a fixed idea with him. But with the 
sincerity of this champion of the unfortunate and oppressed goes 
an inborn keenness and a surprising care for minute details. 

Some years ago I was with him when a talking movie was 
being made and a pitcher of water was placed on the table 
beside him. Dr. de Forest, who was making the picture, sug 
gested that in the course of the speech he stop a minute and 
pour out a glass of water and drink it. 

He made the speech before the camera and microphone, 
but took no drink. When he was finished he remarked: "Did 
you notice I did not pour out the glass of water? Do you know 
what would have happened had I done that? When they were 
showing the film some one in the gallery who had had a drop 
too much would have yelled out: Say Al, ain t you sorry that s 
not beer? and that would have queered the film." 



When I observed that he had to think of everything, he 
replied: "In this line of business nothing Is too small to be 
thought of." 

This "infinite capacity for details 59 and a genius for quick 
appreciation of circumstances are two of the strong attributes 
which he brings with him Into business life. I remember one 
occasion after he had retired as governor. There was a stack 
of letters on his desk to be signed, the ever-present cigar was 
in his mouth. When I asked whether he liked business he took 
up a round silver lighter and set the cigar going again. 

"Sure I like it," he replied. "I like anything that requires 
the working out of some problem. It does not matter whether 
it is the question of a budget or of amalgamating two or more 
state departments or finding the best methods of raising a 
bond issue or putting up a big building. So long as there are 
difficulties to be overcome, plans to be worked out, I am inter 
ested. The harder the solution, the more interested I am. 

"There Is no use in going off half cocked in anything. But 
after your plans are made, sailing becomes easier. Now, to 
my way of thinking, running a family, a business, and the state 
have many points in common. There has to be a head to each 
of them and problems come up upon which decisions must be 
made. But before any conclusions can be arrived at in any walk 
of life, a clear understanding of the confronting problems must 
be grasped. 

"Here I have taken up what Is to me a comparatively new 
business and I have to make a thorough survey of It before I can 
go. ahead. Previous to my becoming Governor I had been In the 
Assembly and I had also been a member of the state convention 
for the revision of the Constitution. So I was just called upon to 
execute the laws which I had had a part In making." 

152! 




Alfred K Smith 



I asked him once whether he thought politics was good 
training for business. 

"I can t answer that question, for it all depends on the 
individual," he said. "Politics may be for some and for others 
it is not. In my long experience in politics I have seen business 
men take up public affairs and become tremendous successes. 
On the other hand, I have seen them flat failures, and, vice 
versa, I have seen politicians turn into successful business 
men. That s all personal." 

While Mr. Smith had been talking he had been signing 
letters, his long cigar in a corner of his mouth. Rarely was it 
removed. His voice is harsh, almost gruff, but as he spoke he 
looked up every now and then and his eyes twinkled through 
the tortoise shell-rimmed glasses which he uses when he reads. 

His smile is contagious and his expression continually 
changes as he speaks. In order really to appreciate what the 
man says it is as necessary to see him as to hear him. That is the 
reason his campaign talks over the radio were not successful. 

Humorous as he can be, his manner is ordinarily earnest. 
One feels that he takes life very seriously. Speak to him but a 
few minutes and it is easy to understand why practical workers 
for social improvement have gathered around him, why 
professors of economics and government have regarded him as 
a leader. Intensely practical, he has the faculty of reducing 
complex problems to comparatively simple ones, of making 
academic questions popular ones. 

I asked how the duties of a business executive compared 
with those of a governor. 

"The business executive has a cinch," he pointed out. 
"It s much easier to run any organization by common sense 
than it is by law. The head of a business makes up his mind to 

155} 



do something. He says Go ahead and shoot/ and the thing is 
done. But it s a very different thing in public office. 

"A certain friend of mine, employed by a big corporation, 
came up to Albany while I was Governor and put up an entire 
building while the State was digging foundations for one that 
was absolutely needed to carry on the Stated business. Why 
was that? Because every time he wanted to do something 
he did not have to send over to the Attorney General s office 
to find out whether he had a legal right to do it. In business 
every one is working for the benefit of the concern; there are 
no legislators of a different party who selfishly retard measures 
for improvement in order to advance their own ends/ 

A sincere strain of sentiment explains many of his actions. 
In his office hangs a large, engrossed resolution which, deco 
rated with faded photographs, names him " Commodore " of the 
Ned Harrigan Club. Beside this relic of an older New York, 
there is an early lithograph of State Street, Albany, and a dim, 
framed newspaper clipping with a picture of his mother. 

All that is in evidence of thirty years of public service 
is a high-back mahogany desk chair with a silver plate on it, 
the chair that he used for the years that he was in Albany, 
Nothing else gives an inkling of the fact that the man with 
the tanned complexion, the hair that is rapidly becoming 
white, and the Qpl^blue eyes, Is the man who has had more 
stanch supporters and more bitter enemies than any other 
man in public life in a generation. 

His faculty of remembering the past, with his eyes looking 
toward the future, is characteristic of him. As he plans the 
latest skyscraper on Fifth Avenue he does not forget South 
Street and Dover Street and Oliver Street. As he whizzes up 
in an elevator to his modern office, the creaks of the wooden 

[56] 



stairs that led from the little grocery and candy store his 
mother kept in a basement still sound in his ears. 

These memories of the past the hardships, the squalor, 
the patient suffering of the poverty-stricken, the primitive 
conditions under which many of them lived, the constant 
struggle for the barest necessities were a mainspur in his 
actions to secure the welfare legislation which was passed 
while he was in Albany as Assemblyman and Governor; they 
prompted him to accept the chairmanship of the Housing 
Association of New York. 

I have been with him in his office when he has stood at 
a window which overlooked the city and pointed out changes 
that he thought would occur. It has been dramatic to see this 
product of the city speak with an almost prophetic vision 
of its future growth. But though he indicated great develop 
ments in business structures, it was the improvement in the 
living conditions of the poor in which he was most interested. 

There was real feeling in his voice as he said one day: 
"Here we have the greatest city in the world, with the latest 
improvements in every branch of the mechanical and building 
arts. We give billions every year for philanthropic purposes. 
We spend hundreds of thousands to study crime and delin 
quency and disease; yet we do nothing to remove what has 
been pointed out again and again as the fundamental cause 
of them bad housing. We have foundations for orphanages 
and schools and colleges, and do nothing to provide wholesome 
homes from which the students are to come. 

"Why, we are building new skyscrapers, great factories 
department stores, and although the employees go to work 
in new subways, or over new bridges and along newly widened 
streets, many of them, through the stress of financial condi- 

1571 



tions, are compelled to live in unwholesome dark rooms, In 
unsanitary conditions that are beyond description. 

"The people of this city have hearts, and this makes it more 
of a surprise to me that for so many years our municipality 
has permitted such conditions to exist as obtain in many of 
our tenements," 

He resumed his seat. A fresh cigar was in his mouth. 
"But," he continued, "after all, that s New York. It s always 
on the go and always changing. The novelty of to-day is the 
. ash, heap of to-morrow morning. When I think of what I have 
already seen in the way of changes, it s almost foolish for me 
to make predictions. 

"Thirty-five years ago I saw a cow grazing at Nineteenth 
Street and Fifth Avenue. To-day there is block after block 
of large apartment houses in sections of the city where, when 
I was serving jury notices, there were rocks with squatters 
living on them. Had any one at that time predicted the changes 
that have taken place up to now, he would have been looked 
upon as a visionary. 

"Yes, New York has changed in many ways since I was a 
boy. There s no more swimming in the East River, or hitching 
of sleds on the backs of wagons. The old neighborhood spirit 
is gone. You can live for years in an apartment and not know 
the man who lives on the same floor." 

"What about bringing up children in the city?" I asked. 

"A great many people have done it," he replied with a 
smile. "As a matter of fact, I do not think it is such a bad 
place to do that. There is a lot of talk of how much better 
off youngsters are in the green fields and the open air. 

"About fifteen years ago, if you remember, we had an 
epidemic of infantile paralysis. At that time I was In the 

{581 



Assembly and represented one of the most crowded districts 
not only in the city but probably in the entire world. In my 
district we had exactly two cases of the disease. 

"And the people over in that part of town had a hard job, 
for no matter how clean the housewife is, many of the old 
buildings are so dirty that there is a constant struggle to keep 
the flats clean. 

"There has been a lot said, too, about the danger of im 
morality that exists in crowded conditions. Well, I would be 
willing to back the young people in those crowded tenements 
any day against those living in villages and towns." 

I have seen Governor Smith under many circumstances. I 
first met him when his presidential aspirations were dim and 
hazy. I saw him at the Democratic Convention in New York 
when John W. Davis was nominated for the Presidency, 
and when Smith, entering that hot, sweaty Convention Hall, 
proclaimed his allegiance to the party. I was with him when 
he himself was running for the highest office, and I have sat 
with him after it was denied him by the votes of the people. 
Out of countless meetings one little incident comes to the fore. 
Perhaps I am somewhat sentimental, perhaps I read thoughts 
into things where they do not exist. But it seems to me that 
his remark when I spoke of a photograph of one of his grand 
children is most revealing of the real man. 

"You ought to see him," he said, "a natural blond one 
of the finest looking boys you ever saw. Why, a couple of 
weeks ago I had him down on the beach and we took a stroll 
and would you believe it everybody turned around to look 
at him." 

I am sure that it never occurred to him that it was he at 
whom the crowds looked. 



VII 

IT HAS often struck me how frequently the public fails to 
recognize in the flesh even the most famous people. 
I remember distinctly riding on a Sixth Avenue horse 
car (which in itself tells how long ago it was) with Chauncey 
Depew. He was a senator at the time, and it was on a Christ 
mas Eve. He got on with his arms filled with bundles, for life in 
those days was simpler in New York, Though his face adorned 
a cigar box, hardly one person in the car recognized him. 

I remember also walking through the Capitol with Mrs. 
Longworth when a very provincial looking woman stopped us 
and asked her if she knew the way to the Senate Chamber. 

Again another picture comes to my mind. I have had a 
number of talks with Professor Robert A. Millikan. Once I had 
to see him as he was passing through New York and he wired 
me to meet him at the Commodore Hotel There we sat for 
fully an hour in the crowded lobby while not a soul paid the 
slightest attention to him. In a way, this is not so surprising, 
for, eminent as he is, his portrait has not been universally 
printed and, besides, he looks like a successful business man. 

About him are none of the eccentricities which are usually 
attributed to men whose lives are devoted to abstract sciences. 
His white hair is closely cropped, his face is smooth shaven, 
and no one upon meeting him would suspect that he is the 
man who literally smashed to pieces the entire atomic theory, 
upon which a large part of modern science Is based. For doing 
f60][ 




Robert A. Millikan 



this, by isolating and measuring the ultimate electrical unit, 
the electron, he was awarded the Nobel Prize. 

His experiments, however, have not been confined to this 
little world of ours; the entire universe has been a subject for 
him, and it is in his blue eyes that one sees the far-off look of 
a poet, an imagination to fathom not only the most hidden 
secrets of the earth, but also the mysteries of the stars. 

Dr. Millikan was born of New England ancestry and it is 
probably that lineage which accounts for the peculiar combina 
tion of practicability and poetry that seems to be his prime 
characteristic. He is a Coolidge and an Emerson rolled into 
one. There is the calm, cool New England thoroughness, and 
there is likewise the prophetic, seerlike sensitiveness. This may 
be accounted for by the fact that his father, who was a Congre 
gational minister, was descended from a long line of farmers 
whose lives had been spent in getting a scanty livelihood 
from the stony soil of New England, while his mother, an 
Andrews, a common name in that section of the country, 
came from a family who for years had sailed the Seven Seas. 

They met in Oberlin College where both were students, 
and when his father obtained a church in Morrison, Illinois, 
they married and settled there. It was there that Robert 
Millikan and his five brothers and sisters were born. 

"We lived there/ he said on one occasion, when he was 
posing, "until I was about seven years old, when we moved to 
Maquoketa, in Iowa. It was there that I first went to school. 
That was about fifty years ago, and it is interesting to look back 
and see how much more universal knowledge is to-day than it 
was at that time. I went to primary school there, and also to 
grammar and high schools. Naturally reading and writing were 
both taught well, as was mathematics; but the man from whom 



I first learned the rudiments of physics in the summertime, made 
extra money by locating wells by means of a forked stick. 

"When I was graduated, my parents wanted me to go 
through college; in fact, they saw to it that all their children 
had good educations, and it was but natural that they should 
send me to the college to which they had both gone. 

"At Oberlin I was especially good in Greek, but at that 
time had absolutely no idea of specializing In physics. 59 It was 
then that he told me it was an accident that he had made physics 
his life work. 

"It came about," he said, "through the instructor of 
Greek asking me at the end of my sophomore year whether I 
wanted to teach physics. At that time all I knew about it was 
what I had learned from the gentleman with the forked stick. 
But I had to help pay my way, and that was as good as any 
other method. So that summer I gathered together all the 
textbooks I could find and studied the subject in order to be 
prepared to teach it the following term. 

"While there are facts of heredity against which it is 
utterly futile to inveigh, on the other hand I am a great believer 
in the fact that eventually man gets to love what he is com 
pelled to do. I became absorbed in the work. Up to that 
time I had read Aristotle on account of my fondness for Greek; 
now I read him on account of my interest in physics." 

During his last two years at college Dr. Millikan continued 
to teach and likewise study physics; then he went to Columbia 
and studied there for his Ph. D. and from there, on the advice 
of Dr. Pupin, he went to Germany and spent a year at Berlin 
and Gottingen. 

"Upon my return from abroad," he continued, "I was 
appointed to the Chair of Physics at the University of Chicago, 

[6*1 



where I remained five years, and from there I went to the 
California Institute of Technology, where I still am." 

I was interested in Dr. Millikan s ideas on religion, and 
accordingly I asked him whether his scientific studies had 
shaken his religious faith. 

"Religion/ he replied, "is one of the most striking possi 
ble examples of evolution. In so saying I am uttering nothing 
that is in any way heretical, nothing that Is not said or implied 
in every theological seminary of importance in the United 
States. For no fact stands out more clearly, even in Bible 
history, than that religion, as we find it in the world to-day, 
has evolved up to its present state from the crudest beginnings. 

" Religion, as I use the word, has always dealt with two 
groups of ideas, first with one s conception of the meaning of 
existence that is, with one s conception of God, and second 
with the conception of one s own responsibility in this world. 
These two ideas have always been associated in all religions. 
But these conceptions of God and of duty change as man learns 
more and more and gets farther from the earliest stages of his 
development. 

"Primitive man finds himself on the one hand surrounded 
by human enemies, who kill and enslave him, to whom if they 
are stronger than he, he is obliged to surrender the best that he 
has. On the other hand, he also finds himself surrounded by the 
forces of nature, which seem to him as capricious as his human 
enemies. 

"Under these conditions, what does he do? The only thing 
possible for a man in his stage of development. He personifies 
nature. He sees a spirit in the storm, a god like his powerful 
enemy in the thunder, a nymph in a stream, a Pan in the woods, 
and every mysterious happening in nature he attributes to the 

[651 



caprice of these spirits, or if he happens to be a believer in one 
god, to the caprice of one Great Spirit. 

"He begins to appease Nature, to try to get his god or gods 
in a favorable mood. To do this he begins to sacrifice. 

a Then comes the first forward step in the evolution of 
religion. Somebody arises, somewhere, somehow, who begins 
to do a little reflecting on his own account. In the Bible it was 
Abraham who began to wonder whether Nature was after all 
just a powerful cruel vengeful brute, whether the real God 
was a being who could be propitiated by the sacrifice on the 
part of a father of his only son. And he answered *NoP and de 
cided then and there to break with the past. 

"The Bible says, God spoke to Abraham/ How he spoke 
we know not. I cannot explain that fact. But the amazing 
thing is the fact that a mind to hear God has got here at all. 
* Created out of the dust of the earth this is the Bible phrase 
and science can find no better one a mind that begins to 
think for itself. Where do our ideas come from ? Science does 
not know. All that we know is that we are here and that new 
conceptions lead us on to better things. And so with the aboli 
tion of human sacrifice the first stage in the evolution of religion 
is passed. 

"Time goes on, millions of people have lived in the world, 
and though they no longer believe in human sacrifice, their 
conception of God is still extraordinarily manlike. Their God 
is a being who takes pleasure In the smell of the sacrifice of 
beasts, a being who can condemn whole families and nations 
to destruction." 

Dr. Millikan arose from his chair; he put his hands in his 
pockets and walked up and down the small room in the hotel 
in which he was staying. Then he continued : 



"And then a divine event occurred divine just the same 
as the last. A new idea comes into human thought and life. 
It came in a limited way through Mohammed, in a much 
larger way through Buddha, in a big swelling tide through 
Jesus a new conception of God. 

"Jesus struck the most mortal blow that has ever been 
struck at all childish literalisms, when he changed the inter 
pretation of the Jewish scriptures, the anthropomorphic con 
ception of God prevalent up to his time, and saw in God no 
longer a powerful human being, but a being whose qualities 
transcended all human qualities; when he cried *It hath been 
written . . . but I say unto you ; when he taught God is a 
spirit, when he said The kingdom of heaven is within you 5 ; 
when he for the first time in the history of the Jews conceived 
a God who was not interested in Israel alone, but whose sym 
pathies, whose benevolence stretched out through all the 
world; when he also changed man s conception of duty, for 
this must always change with the change in the conception 
of God, and when he focused attention on the Golden Rule 
rather than on sacrifices and burnt offerings." 

I interrupted to ask whether science played any part in 
the development of religious ideas. 

"About fifteen hundred years after Jesus/ 5 he replied, 
"another new step begins to be taken. If one is to connect this 
step with any one name, it is with the name of Galileo that we 
must associate the introduction as a ruling principle in life 
of the scientific mode of thought. 

"Remember, he lived in an age when people altogether 
naturally followed the teachings of Aristotle with respect to the 
relations of force and motion, but Galileo, like Abraham, began 
to question the correctness of the conventional belief. That is how 



he came to make the famous experiment at the Leaning Tower 
of Pisa, as a result of which the formula which had been accepted 
for two thousand years could be accepted no longer. 

"But not content with disproving, he sought to replace 
the old erroneous conception by a correct one, and did so as 
the result of a lifetime spent in patient research. 

" Jesus had gone a long way toward destroying or refining 
man s primitive idea of God. Galileo s method, worked out 
through the following centuries, took a step in the same 
direction. It began to show a universe of orderliness and of 
beauty, a universe that knows no caprice, in a word, a uni 
verse that works through God. 

"Here was another divine event in the evolution of man s 
conception of God, and as an inevitable consequence, of his 
conception of duty. The monasteries of the Middle Ages 
testify to the old idea of God and duty; the insistent activity 
of a Maxwell, a Pasteur or a Kelvin to find out the laws of 
nature and to turn them to the amelioration and enrichment 
of human life, testifies to the new. 

"The new God was the God of law and order, the new duty 
to know that order and get in harmony with it. 

"Of course," he continued, "the thoughtless and undis- 
cerning are divided into two great groups. One is the conven 
tional crowd which passes on without change, and the other 
is the red mob, the devotees of the next, easiest and cheapest 
philosophy, the philosophy of knock.* 

"Religion is affected by it. There are immense crowds that 
hang behind, that cannot break from the past, and there are 
others who want to break completely with it, who call it a 
pack of lies. Neither of them has any conception of what it is 
all about. 



"It seems to me there are but two possible points of view 
to be taken with respect to the entire question of religion. 
One is that of the dogmatists, and the other is that of the open- 
minded seeker after truth. 

"Personally, if I were compelled to be a dogmatist, it 
would be easier for me to be a fundamentalist than an atheist, 
for I believe with Voltaire that if God did not exist it would be 
necessary to invent Him. 

"Charles Darwin, against whom some religious dogmatists 
rage, said, No man can stand in the tropic forests without 
feeling that they are temples filled with the various productions 
of the God of nature, and that there is more in man than the 
breath of his body. 

"Fortunately I am not obliged to be either a fundamentalist 
or an atheist, for there is another kind of religion a religion 
which keeps its mind open to new truth, which realizes that 
religion itself has continually undergone an evolution, that 
as our religious conceptions have changed in the past so they 
may be expected to change in the future, that eternal truth 
has been discovered in the past, that it is being discovered 
now and will continue to be discovered. That kind of religion 
adapts itself to a growing, developing world. It is useful in 
such a world, while both kinds of dogmatic opinion seem to 
me useless. 

" Such a religion will be with us so long as man hopes and 
aspires and reflects upon the meaning of existence and the 
responsibilities it entails." 



|69| 



VIII 

IT is hard enough to get the Englishman on his native 
heath. It is doubly hard when he happens to be a scientist 
who comes to this country for short stays in many 
cities. 

I had thought it was difficult to see Bernard Shaw, but at 
least I knew where he was to be found. When Sir James Jeans 
was here, I could not even locate him. Telephone calls and 
frantic interviews with his publishers failed to unearth him. 
It was only when some one suggested that I try sending a 
wire in care of his brother-in-law, Senator Bingham, that I 
managed to get on his trail and obtain his consent to give me 
an hour just before he sailed. 

Now at last I sat with him in his hotel room. As he talked 
about intangible things, the magic of his words made them 
seem more real than the gaudy furniture and silken walls of 
his Louis XVI drawing room. Puffing clouds of smoke from 
his briar pipe, he pointed out that for three thousand years 
man has been attempting to find an answer to the mysteries 
of his being and his surroundings; three million years hence 
man may still be on the quest. 

As I sketched and he spoke, it was inevitable that the 
pictures of two others workers along the same lines whom 
I had also drawn should come to mind: Professor Einstein 
in his attic room in Haberlandstrasse in Berlin working on 
equations which have shaken the beliefs of years; Professor 

70 




Sir James Jeans 



Millikan at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, 
delving into the mysteries of cosmic rays. 

There is a remoteness about Einstein that is almost mystic. 
Though Millikan s eyes are turned toward the heavens, his 
feet are firmly planted on the earth. Jeans, the Briton, com 
bines the poetry of the German philosopher of mathematics 
with the rationality of the scientist of New England descent, and 
Pegasus always accompanies him on his mathematical flights to 
the farthest realms of the universe. Though his handshake is as 
unresponsive as Einstein s he has not the abstraction of the 
dreamy-eyed professor, and despite the fact that he is as keen 
as Millikan, he has not the latter s businesslike manner. 

In appearance Jeans is typically British, rugged and solid, 
and mingled with his evident tenacity of purpose is something 
that recalls gardens filled with flowers, thatched roofs, and 
wide stretches of countryside. Into dull but learned institutions 
he brings with him the air and joyfulness of the huge rhodo 
dendrons that surround his home "in Dorking. He is a simple, 
unostentatious man about whom a note of boyishness still 
lingers. 

Of Scotch descent, he was born in Lancashire; when he was 
three years old his family moved to London. After entering 
school he expected to make the study of the classics his life 
work. But a new era of discoveries in science was dawning, 
a decade which he has called greater than the period begun 
by Galileo or that which Newton inaugurated. It was the epoch 
which saw the isolation of the atom, the discovery of radio 
activity and cosmic radiations and also the Einstein theory of 
relativity. 

Perhaps it was the ancient philosophers who first interested 
him in science; perhaps, like Millikan, who had also intended 



to become a classical scholar, he first read Aristotle for his 
language and later became more absorbed in his theories; or 
again, perhaps it was the rumble of the fall of Victorian mate 
rialism which resounded in his ears. At all events, before he was 
graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, he had determined 
to give up Latin and Greek in favor of mathematics and science. 

While still a fellow at college he began his teaching career. 
Over a quarter of a century ago he came to this country to 
occupy the chair of applied mathematics at Princeton at the 
Invitation of Woodrow Wilson, then president of that uni 
versity. He was here for five years and married an American 
woman, the niece of Donald Mitchell who, under the pen 
name of Ik Marvel, wrote the "Reveries of a Bachelor " 
and "Dream Life/ 5 books that were extremely popular in the 
sentimental ^eighties. 

However, when his alma mater called him, Professor Jeans 
returned to Cambridge and taught mathematics there. Later 
he was appointed secretary of the Royal Society, but he has 
resigned from that post and is now spending all his time on his 
own scientific problems. 

"It is but a natural step," he explained, "from applied 
mathematics to astronomy, but what many people do not 
understand is how a man who is an astronomer can find ample 
occupation outside of an observatory. If I am asked where 
my observatory is, my usual reply is Mount Wilson, for as a 
research associate of that observatory, a position which I value 
very highly, I have access to all of the data collected there. 

"The day is gone when the astronomer s work is carried on 
only at the eyepiece of a telescope. Naturally, observations 
must be made, but these must be recorded by men who are 
trained for the purpose and I am not one of them. Photo- 



graphs are taken from which valuable knowledge is obtained, 
but many of the astronomers of to-day are mathematicians 
whose work consists of handling mathematical equations 
rather than telescopic instruments. 

"For instance, Percival Lowell accurately predicted the 
existence and position of the planet Pluto long before it was 
actually discovered. It is possible that he was not quite correct 
in his estimates of its weight, but that will not be positively 
known for perhaps fifty years, when its position will be such 
as to make it possible to determine that. 

"To take another example, Professor Einstein is not an 
observing astronomer and none of his work has resulted from 
any observations which he himself has made. His contribution 
to our changing ideas of the universe has been the working 
/out of mathematical problems. Nature s great book is written 
in mathematical language 5 these are Galileo s words and they 
are so true that in my opinion no one except a mathematician 
need ever expect fully to understand those branches of 
science which hope to unravel the fundamental nature of the 



universe." 



As he has explained in his books, Professor Jeans holds 
that the Great Architect of the universe begins to appear 
to be a pure mathematician a controlling power which has 
something in common with our own minds, though, so far as 
we can at present see, it is without emotion, morality, or 
esthetic appreciation. I asked him how this conception 
affected his feelings concerning the universe. 

Sir James smiled and drew from a sheaf of papers one sheet. 

"Here," said he, "is a poem that I heard but a day or so 
ago. It is by Walt Whitman and it so impressed me that I 
made a copy of it. It answers your question: 



"When I heard the learned astronomer; 
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before 

me; 
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide 

and measure them; 
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with 

much applause in the lecture room, 
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; 
Till rising and gliding out, I wandered off by myself, 
In the mystical moist night air, and from time to time, 
Looked up in perfect silence at the stars" 

Sir James s voice is deep, and as he read he put the expres 
sion of an actor into the poem. 

"The mathematician," he continued, "does not only see 
nature through the mathematical blinders which he has 
fashioned for himself; indeed he can often find a real note of 
poetry and reverence in his abstract studies of the universe. 
Moreover, astronomy is a science in which exact truth is 
stranger than fiction and about which one could hardly be 
prosaic if one tried. 

"Of course, scientific ideas have radically changed. In a 
radio talk in England I pointed out that fifty years ago the 
universe was generally looked upon as a machine. It was held 
that the final aim of science was to explain all the objects 
in the world, including living bodies, as machines, as mere 
jumbles of atoms which would perform mechanical dances 
for a time under the action of blind purposeless forces and then 
fall back to form a dead world. 

"Modern science gives but little support to such mate 
rialistic views. When we pass to extremes of size in either 
direction to the cosmos as a whole or to the inner recesses 
I 761 



of an atom the mechanical interpretation of nature fails. 
We come to entities and phenomena which are in no sense 
mechanical. To me they seem less suggestive of mechanical 
than of mental processes. The universe seems to be nearer a 
great thought than to a great machine. Such is the view I 
feel inclined to take at present, while fully conscious that at 
any time the pendulum may swing back again as our scientific 
knowledge increases." 

Asked if this meant that the universe is one of thought, he 
replied: "I would say, as a speculation, not as a scientific fact, 
that the universe and all material objects in it atoms, stars 
and nebulae are merely creations of thought of course, not 
of your individual mind or mine, but of some great universal 
mind underlying and coordinating all our minds. The most we 
can say is that scientific knowledge seems to be moving in this 
direction. For myself I find almost any system of idealistic 
philosophy preferable to the materialistic and mechanistic 
views held two generations ago; but who knows how things 
may look two generations hence ?" 

I inquired if this were not a rather uncertain stand. He 
got up and looked for his tobacco to refill his pipe; then he sat 
down again and replied: "Yes, it is; and there is a reason. We 
on earth have been thinking seriously about these things, for, 
shall we say, three thousand years. After three million years 
our descendants will still probably be thinking about these 
same things. If they make equally good use of their time 
they ought to know a thousand times as much then as we 
know now. Yet even then, so far as we can foresee, human 
life on earth will only be in Its infancy. Our race cannot expect 
to understand everything in the first few moments of its 
existence. 

{77} 



"Our ancestors of a century ago read their origins in the 
Book of Genesis, with 4004 B.C. printed in the margin against 
the account of creation. To-day we trace our origins back to a 
far greater antiquity. We believe that the earth is merely a 
tiny fragment of the sun, which got splashed off, almost by 
accident, something like two thousand million years ago. 
For hundreds of millions of years it remained uninhabited, 
until at last life arrived and, after passing through many forms, 
culminated in man. The upward ascent was a devious one; 
life followed many dead ends before finding its final road which 
led to man. We know that man is an absolutely new arrival on 
earth and has possessed and governed it for less than a thou 
sandth part of its existence. 

"The early Christians believed that the world would end 
in their lifetime; their founder had said so, and they devoted 
their whole attention to the living generation. To-day, few, 
even of our religious teachers, expect the world to end in our 
time. For more years than we can imagine, it is likely to remain 
in much the same physical condition as now, and so will 
provide a suitable home for the human race. 

" Whatever our views on a future life in another world, we 
recapture the old Jewish concept of an immortality in this 
world or something which is effectively as good as immor 
tality enjoyed not by us but, through us, by our posterity. 
Our problem is no longer merely to muddle through for a few 
more generations. We see ourselves as the architects of a 
tremendous future, with science giving us the power to build 
for good or eviL 

"I do not worry overmuch about abstract philosophical 
problems, nor do I trouble much about questions such as 
finding a logical or rational basis for ethics or morality. 



Sayings of Christ It is better to give than to receive 5 and 
What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose 
his own soul ? take one into regions where logic and science 
are at present unable to provide any guidance. 

"We of the present age know very little almost nothing; 
we are rather pioneers setting out to explore a new country. 
We have the thrill of ever-changing views; now and again we 
reach a ridge or summit which opens up new and unexpected 
vistas; of necessity our point of view* must change. Those 
who come after us will live in a very different world, which 
they will understand far better than we understand our world 
to-day. They may find it far more wonderful than anything 
we can imagine; on the other hand, it may prove unspeakably 
dull. ~ 

" In either event, they will not know the thrill of the pio 
neer. And, unless human nature changes vastly in the mean 
time, we may be sure they will regret the good old days in 
which we are now living. They will think of our age as the 
golden age, the glorious morning of the world. And I, for one, 
do not regret the fate that has cast my life in it." 

As I left him the porter was taking out his luggage to have 
it sent aboard a ship which would reach England in less than 
five days. The telephone had rung and Sir James was speaking 
to some one in California. Outside, the streets were crowded 
with motors, and the plane from Boston passed overhead. 

His words, "the glorious morning of the world," were 
fresh in my mind and I could not help wondering what its 
midday would be like. 



I 79} 



IX 

ONE encounters many religions. Scientists, explorers, 
business men and artists have talked to me of their 
beliefs. Yet ordinarily one does not expect to find 
dogmatic fervor in a diplomat. Perhaps the fact that this 
diplomat is a poet as well explains the apparent incongruity. 
I am thinking of Paul Claudel as I write this, a Frenchman 
whose conversation is as whimsical as Shaw s without the 
Irishman s striving; whose aphorisms are as unusual as Wilde s 
without their artificiality; but beyond, and as a basis for all, 
is Paul Claudel s almost childlike trust in a Greater Being, 
a devoutness which accepts without questioning and casts a 
charm of simplicity over him. But the French Ambassador s 
belief neither warps nor twists; it has its foundations in the 
apple tree covered slopes of Picardy where he was born and it 
found itself on Christmas Day eighteen years later in Notre 
Dame, when in an instant his heart was touched and he be 
lieved believed so firmly, so convincingly, he himself said, that 
no reasoning or vicissitudes could shake or even touch that 
belief. 

It was in an artificial, amorous and agnostic Paris that 
Claudel found his faith the Paris of Zola and the younger 
Dumas, of Gerome the painter and Bernhardt the actress; 
a Paris in which Banville a Horace and Maecenas combined 
wrote his criticisms, and in which Verlaine sat at the "Soleil 
d Or" or before the doors of "Frar^ois Premier" and sipped 

I 80 I 




\ 



Paul Claudel 



his absinthe with Rimbaud at his side. It was here also that 
Claudel, a boy from the Aisne. studied at the Ecole des 
Sciences Politiques. 

Veiled and occult as his writings are, the man in his 
personal appearance has nothing of the esoteric poet. Of 
middle height, with a tendency toward heaviness, his florid 
complexion, gray mustache, and broad but not over-high 
forehead give no inkling of the faculty that has produced 
free verse comparable with that of Chateaubriand and 
Rimbaud. 

Nor in his clothes does M. Claudel display any of those 
affectations so characteristic of poets. A stiff collar, a plain 
four-in-hand tie, and a conservatively cut suit, all go to make 
the Ambassador look more like a healthy French bourgeois 
than the diplomatic representative of a great European 
nation and the author of dramas of mystery and poetry of 
imagination. 

Indeed, it is difficult to accept M. Claudel as either a 
diplomat or a poet, for he at once displays a sense of humor so 
keen and so incisive that it is impossible to imagine him taking 
even himself seriously a seemingly necessary requirement in 
the profession of either a poet or a diplomat. But his humor and 
his conversation are subtle. He glides almost imperceptibly 
from one subject to another; he states facts in so unusual a 
form that they seem almost fantasies; and he so presents 
fantasies that they seem to be facts. He mixes truth with 
romance, and does it in a language in which he is not altogether 
at ease, thus showing that it Is the power of his ideas and not 
the play of his words that captivates. 

"My first diplomatic post," he told me as he sat in a room 
high up in one of New York s towers, "was as vice consul in 

I 83 I 



Boston; and after a few years there, I got my first taste of the 
Orient. For fifteen years I was in China. 

"And, incidentally, speaking of China reminds me of one 
of the strangest portraits that was ever made of me. It was done 
by a native artist. He sat facing me, and surely and quickly 
with a brush loaded with water color he drew one-half of my 
face; then he deftly folded the paper in half and the wet paint 
was transferred to the other side of the paper and completed 
the portrait. It was Oriental efficiency, but it was more than 
that it was evidence of that love of conventionalization that is 
so characteristic of Chinese art." 

From China M. Claudel was sent to various European coun 
tries, then to Brazil. Later he became Ambassador to Japan, 
where, as in China, he learned the language. Incidentally, he 
wrote two Japanese ballets, collaborating with a native 
musician in writing the incidental music and with an artist In 
designing the settings. 

"Too few people," he said, "know anything about the 
Japanese art of to-day. Hokusai and a number of his contem 
poraries are well known, but they are dead, and the great 
artists who are working there are not appreciated In the West. 
They still retain the old method of drawing that gives such 
charm to the older pictures; but from the West has come a 
certain influence that has made itself felt and introduces a new 
element into their works. 

"Those artists of the East have a clear Idea of art; they 
realize that it is not imitative, that it must be the expression 
of an emotion an emotion that in a sense may result from a 
rational idea. What they put down on their paper they put 
down quickly, but they do not begin until they have thought 
out carefully what they are going to do. 

C84I 



"I think this is true of most good art. The actual result is 
achieved quickly, no matter how long the tortures of creation 
have previously endured." 

As he was speaking, the telephone rang, and he answered it; 
but though he speaks English well and understands it pej^ectly, 
he had difficulty In finding out what the person at the other 
end of the wire wanted, and asked me to talk. It was a photo 
graphic news agency that wanted to take a photograph. 

M. Claudel refused to pose he said he hated photographs, 
and inadvertently I thought of Al Smith who, when I told him 
I wanted to make a drawing of him, said: "What good are 
drawings anyhow ? Photographs are better." 

"That is the trouble with the world to-day," the Ambas 
sador continued, as he resumed his place in the chair. "We are 
all becoming too mechanical in our ideas. The advantages 
that we gain from our great mechanistic inventions make us 
lose sight of the real beauty and worth of those things that are 
not purely utilitarian and labor-saving. 

"If I want to see what the men and women of an earlier 
period looked like, I do not get out a lot of photographs. I can 
gain more knowledge of a man s character from a drawing or 
painting or bust of him than I can from all the photographs of 
him that were ever made. 

"Do you know the work of Carpeaux?" he asked. "Have 
you seen any of his portrait busts ? He did that group of dancing 
girls to the right of the entrance of the Paris Opera House, and 
the bust of Garnier, architect of the building, is also by him. 
His busts give you a better impression of the people than any 
photographs; they embody the spirits of his subjects. 

"You know," he continued, "they show, too, that our idea 
that the height of the forehead is a token of intelligence is not 



altogether right. The eyes, the nose, the mouth or the chin can 
show mental capacity as well as the brow. 

a Most statesmen, for instance, have long noses/ 9 he went 
on. "But I suppose that is very lucky, because most of them 
cannot see further than the length of them, so that a statesman 
with a short nose is handicapped by nature. 95 

He chuckled. 

"But, seriously, there is a strange fact that always im 
presses itself upon me whenever I look at the portraits of any 
number of men of one particular epoch; and that is, that for 
some reason or other there is a certain resemblance among 
all of them. 

"Do you remember how many men looked like Lincoln 
during the period in which he lived ? You do not see any to-day. 
It is the same about other periods in the world s history. There 
is always a predominant type. 

"Have you ever noticed the spirit of Bismarck that is 
present in most of Lenbach s portraits I mean those of other 
people? That fact interests me. The reason for it does not. 
If it is because at that time God felt that that type of man was 
essential for the welfare of Germany, that is beside the ques 
tion. The same thing that is true of all the men painted by 
Lenbach is just as true of any other period of the world s 
history. How many old Roman busts have you mistaken for 
Julius Csesar? Don t you recognize an epochal resemblance 
among all the Dutchmen painted by Hals or Rembrandt? 
And assuredly all the men drawn by Ingres have something 
in common in their looks." 

I asked how he accounted for this. 

"I do not know," he replied. "And, moreover, as I said 
before it does not interest me. That is the trouble with the age 

186} 



in which we live. Scientists are ruining the world searching for 
causes. An artist has no desire to find them out. He is contented 
with the results. 

" When I look out of this window and see the sun glowing on 
the huge piles of masonry that rear upward into the sky, I 
am satisfied with the majesty of the scene. The reasons for 
which the buildings were erected, their cost and their housing 
capacity do not interest me. Nor do the causes that were at 
work to produce a fine painting hold any attraction for me. 
A scientist looks at a painting, and for him it is certain earth 
or chemical colors dissolved in water or oil, and laid on a oiece 
of canvas; his eyes do not see the soul of the picture/ 

As he spoke about these things I could not understand 
why he had given up the greater part of his life to diplomacy. 
I mentioned this to him. He smiled. 

"You Americans also have had authors who did the same 
thing. There was Irving and also Hawthorne, and in France 
we have had many men who have combined literature with 
government work. There are Chateaubriand, Lamartine, 
and Morand, to mention only a few of them. 

" After all, art and by art I mean painting, sculpture, 
music, literature and the allied crafts as well in a way binds 
all people together, and makes for a better understanding 
among the various peoples upon this earth; so that even those 
artists who did not go in for diplomacy have done their part in 
cementing friendships and smoothing away miscomprehen 



sions." 



[871 



X 

PAUL CLAUDEL S words had seemed strangely familiar 
to me as he spoke of peace. They recalled for me another 
Frenchman and a warm summer day in Paris three 
years before. The bookstalls on the walls of the quay were 
all open and doing a lively business; the floating baths in the 
river below were crowded; and as I passed the Chamber 
I noticed a throng of serious, stiff-collared Frenchmen, inter 
spersed here and there with tourists, waiting for admission to 
hear the proceedings of the Deputies. A soldier directed me to 
the almost hidden, steep staircase in the courtyard which 
leads to the waiting room of the then Minister of Foreign 
Affairs, the office of Aristide Briand. 

This room is bare save for a row of chairs along one wall 
and a table with periodicals, in the center. I had come in from 
the bright sunlight and it was a few minutes before I discovered 
the source of the low rumble that I heard as I entered. In the 
shadow, at the head of the table, sat, or rather reposed, an 
attendant. As gently as possible I tried to waken him. I moved 
a chair but the rumble continued. I coughed. I dropped one 
of the magazines on the table. There were no results. Undis 
turbed, he continued to sleep. At last, becoming desperate, 
I shoved the table. This had the desired effect and, waking, the 
attendant smiled guiltily, assuring me that it was very warm. 

When I explained that I had an appointment with M. 
Briand he stretched himself, got up in a leisurely way and 




Arlstide Briand 



went to the closet in the corner of the room. From this he took 
out a tail coat edged with gold braid, on the front of which 
hung a number of medals. Carefully he brushed it. Then he 
removed the worn garment he had on and got into the gorgeous 
one that he had taken out of the closet. With a knowing wink 
he left me alone, but returned in a few minutes and ushered 
me through a labyrinth of halls into the presence of the Min 
ister of Foreign Affairs of the French Republic. 

Although he comes from Brittany, there is something of the 
southern Frenchman or even of the Spaniard about Briand s 
appearance. His wavy black hair, now mixed with gray, his 
brown, crinkly mustache, his dark skin, with decided redness 
in his cheeks, through which tiny blood vessels can be seen, 
all tend to make him resemble a portrait by Velasquez. As a 
matter of fact, there is a certain resemblance between him 
and the portrait of the Admiral by that painter that hangs 
in the National Gallery in London. 

His prominent eyebrows are not mates, one being con 
siderably higher than the other, and from beneath them gleam 
two dark blue eyes that are so deep in hue as to appear black. 
A deep cleft between his eyes and a mustache, drooping at 
the corners, give a formidable expression in repose, though 
when he is speaking this expression rapidly changes and his 
face is suffused not only with kindness but also humor. 

To his personal appearance he apparently pays little atten 
tion. In fact, there is a story current in Paris that when he was 
Premier he went on a walking trip in Brittany and was arrested 
as a vagrant. At Geneva he was the most carelessly dressed 
man in the Assembly. 

No less vital a personage than Clemenceau, Briand 
radiates a note of sincerity that seemed lacking in the older 



man. Compared with him Poincare looks flabby and soft. 
Poincare is more interested in theories than in humanity. 
And it is humanity that appears to be the one thing in which 
Briand is completely absorbed. It is for humanity that he has 
acted the part of the peacemaker of Europe. He has great 
political ideals coupled with indomitable courage, but he is 
politician enough to realize that at times those ideals must be 
compromised, not abandoned, for the sake of peace. 

As a young man Briand worked as a journalist. After 
service on several papers he finally became editor of La 
Lanterne. In those days he was an ardent internationalist, 
and although some of his ideas have changed since then, 
nevertheless to-day one discerns in his appeals for the unity 
of nations the same ideals that he preached and wrote about 
in his early years. At Locarno, turning his back on Chamber 
lain so that he might look directly at Luther and Stresemann, 
he said: "Our people have fought against each other with 
equal heroism. Has not the time now come for us to work 
together for European peace ?" 

He likes to talk about his early days; his law studies, 
his contributions to the anarchist journal Le Peuple, how he 
founded L Humanite with the Socialist Jaures. Those were 
wild days days of studying, writing, and founding labor 
unions; nights of card playing, when if luck was against him 
he would take off his shoes and put them on the table, hoping 
that they might bring him better fortune. 

In speaking of that period he told me a rather amusing 
story of the time he was connected with La Lanterne. One 
column of that paper was reserved for scandals involving the 
Catholic clergy. It happened that one day, through the care 
lessness of the man in charge, there appeared under the head- 



ing, "A Contemptible Padre/ a story of how a priest had 
rescued two little boys from drowning. That oversight cost 
the editor his job. 

"But," said Briand, "it was an accident that it was ever 
discovered. For I am an old enough newspaper man to know 
that the thing that counts in a newspaper is the headline, not 
the text beneath. 

"That is the great trouble with the press," he continued. 
"Very often the hastily written words of an incompetent 
reporter will sway public opinion. I remember after Locarno, 
the English, the German, and, yes, the French papers also, 
all acted in practically the same way. In Germany there were 
headlines saying that the Germans had been imposed upon; 
here in France I was looked on as a dupe, and in England it 
was said that I had put Sir Austen in my pocket. Of course, 
Sir Austen wittily replied that my pocket was not large enough 
to hold him; nevertheless, there was chance that these hastily 
written articles might do irreparable harm. 

"What the papers should do is to spread a feeling 
of better understanding among nations that rather than 
enmity." 

It must not be assumed from these remarks that Briand is 
a visionary. To see him slouching in his chair, one shoulder 
considerably higher than the other, his eyes peering from 
under his mismated eyebrows, and the butt of a half-smoked 
cigarette drooping from his mouth, would soon dispel any such 
idea. He is a very real person, keenly alive not only to the 
better qualities of humanity but also to its weaknesses. He 
knows that men are neither as good nor as bad as they 
are painted. Accepting the world as it is, he is confident 
that it can be made better. With the Nationalist he 



has no more sympathy than with the red-flag-waving 
Internationalist. 

"The Nationalist," he said, " declares that Germany is a 
horrible, bloodthirsty country whose sole desire is our destruc 
tion and whose very industrial plants are constructed for the 
sole purpose of furnishing military supplies. Accordingly, we 
must irritate that dangerous country and make it hate us more. 
England is trying to ruin us and, therefore, we should be on the 
worst possible terms with her. Italy is a nation of mandolin 
players and we cannot take them seriously, while as for 
America you can imagine what they say of her. 

"It sounds like a joke, doesn t It? But that is the pith 
of their remarks. They, however, are not a bit more ridiculous 
than is the rabid Internationalist who wants to wipe out all 
boundaries and is willing to commit any atrocity so that the 
lion and lamb may lie down together. 

"There is good and there is bad in all of us, though I will 
acknowledge that it is a little harder for me to see France s 
faults than those of another country. But that is because I am 
a Frenchman. 

"There is only one thing that wipes away boundaries. Look 
around you/ 3 said he, pointing to some Gobelin tapestries. (Is 
it any wonder that Claudel s words called Briand to mind ?) 
"You know who designed them Rubens. The originals are 
in the Louvre. He was not a Frenchman, but his work is as 
dear to us as to the people of his native country. And now let 
me tell you a secret. After one of my mqst strenuous days at 
Locarno I returned to my hotel utterly exhausted. An old 
friend of mine was there waiting for me. I knew that he played 
the piano, and I felt that I must hear some music. Shall I tell 
you what I asked him to play? Wagner s Walkiire. " 

{[941 



When I left Briand that day in his office on the quay I 
did not know that I should see him again amid very different 
surroundings within a few weeks. 

There was a council meeting of the League of Nations at 
Geneva. Into a glass-walled room, that at one time might have 
served as a conservatory, pressed a crowd of hot, perspiring 
newspaper men and a host of intense women intent on improv 
ing the world. So numerous were they that they hardly left 
room for the delegations of the nations of the world: Chamber 
lain, diplomatic and suave; Stresemann, blunt and uncom 
fortable; Scialoja, captious but humorous; Briand, bored to 
death. For two days, hunched in his chair, with his cigarette 
perilously near his crinkly mustache, he said nothing while the 
council listened to reports on "The Settlement of Greek 
Refugees," "The Traffic in Women and Children," "Methods 
to Make It Easier for States to Apply Economic Sanctions," 
and other similar subjects. 

The dowagers in taffetas, with yellow badges on their 
bosoms, sighed: "Marvelous!" Flat-chested females took notes 
in loose-leaf notebooks. The correspondents wrote columns on 
how the world was becoming a better place in which to live. 
But Briand developed eye trouble and left. 

Did that mean that he was not interested in the League of 
Nations ? Assuredly not. But he realized that it was not there 
that he would have an opportunity to play his part of the 
peacemaker. He waited. 

Then came the Assembly Meeting and he saw his chance. 
Above all other things a public speaker, Briand intuitively 
senses the feelings of his audience and puts them into words. I 
shall never forget him as he arose in that meeting. There was 
an expectant hush as he began his address. His voice, resonant 



and under perfect command, rises and falls at will, so that in 
fact he has been called "Old Baritone" and "Gypsy Cellist/ 5 
Using that voice to the best of his ability, and speaking, as he 
does most of the time, without notes, he made another plea 
for the World of Peace. 

"I desire," said he, "to make an act of faith in the name of 
my country and to say that we have faith in the future of our 
work of peace. We are prepared to persevere. We have suffered. 
France has been crucified in the past. We cannot forget our 
sufferings and we are determined that we shall not allow such 
sufferings to take place in the future." 



XI 

BRIAND had spoken to me of peace with all the emotional 
fire of a Frenchman, It was in more measured language 
but with no less depth of conviction that the president 
of Columbia University once expressed similar views. 

"To-day the whole world is thinking what that old prophet 
Jeremiah long ago called thoughts of peace. The mind of the 
world has been turned from a backward-looking and forward- 
fearing mind to a forward-looking and backward-fearing mind," 

These are the words of Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler, As he 
spoke, he was posing for me in his office on the second floor of 
the library of Columbia University. There, in the middle of a 
large room, the windows of which overlook the Hudson, at his 
desk sat the man under whose guidance and direction Colum 
bia has grown to be one of the two largest universities in the 
country. 

The Morningside section of New York is a city in itself. It 
has its own essential characteristics and in many ways it is 
entirely different from the rest of the city. But it has none of 
the sleepy atmosphere of most college towns. The subway pours 
out its hordes there as it does in other parts of the city; the 
surface cars clang their bells just as loudly and the automobiles 
whip by at the same speed. 

To the north of the university rises the tower of the new 
Riverside Church, a tower which would have taken years to 
build in Oxford or Cambridge. 

97 1 



The pulsing throb of the metropolis is not halted by the 
aggregation of buildings of learning; they are a part of it. The 
golden Alma Mater with outstretched hands bids welcome to 
her students and her alumni and alumnae to a campus where 
Pan plays his pipes to the accompaniment of electric riveters 
and she bids them to pore over tomes no longer dusty but 
vacuum cleaned. 

Just as the university of which he is the head typifies 
a combination of present-day life and all learning, so does 
Nicholas Murray Butler stand for the man of learning taking 
an active part in the life of the times. 

There is nothing of the absent-minded professor about this 
well-groomed man as he sits in his office. Former presidents of 
King s College look down on him from their highly burnished 
and ornate frames, and on a bookcase stands a head of Victory. 
They are but his background, and are in shadow; he looms out 
of them, not inseparably detached, but more prominent. 

There is a certain fumbling attitude about most college profes 
sors. Though Masaryk has attained the Presidency of his native 
land, on meeting him one feels that he is still looking for a piece 
of chalk to demonstrate some problem on a blackboard. About 
John Dewey there is a careful hesitancy. Even Woodrow Wilson, 
after eight years of the presidency, still remained a teacher. 

But this Is not so of Dr. Butler. It would be impossible 
to imagine this former Professor of Philosophy going out 
forgetful of the fact that he had no hat; in fact, one would be 
certain that his hat, were it not a silk one, would be a. derby. 

In other words, he is not the dreamy scholar who, secluded 
in his library, does not see the actual present. With scholarship 
he combines executive and business ability. He is living in a 
rapidly changing world and his eyes are open to the changes 

{ 98 I 




Nicholas Murray Butler 



that are going on about him, and although he has been con 
nected with the university during practically his entire life 
time, he has never lived, so to speak, within the campus; he has 
never permitted the college walls to obstruct his view of what 
has been going on outside. 

For this reason, in addition to being the head of Columbia, 
Dr. Butler has taken an active part not only in city but also in 
national and international affairs. On the other hand, in these 
days of specialization, he does not believe that a man can suc 
ceed by turning first to one thing and then to another, but 
that, though his interests may be diverse, he must stick to his 
chosen work. 

In speaking of a certain man who had attained some 
prominence in various lines of endeavor, he said: 

"Had he only stuck to what he started out to be, he would be 
-much more successful to-day. He came to New York too late in 
life. This city is the graveyard of village reputations. Men com 
paratively well known come here and are lost in the crowd. 

"On the other hand, it Is quite a different thing for the 
country boy," he continued, "for as Cardinal Newman said 
years ago, a city is by its very nature a university." 

"Naturally the city draws to itself men and women of all 
kinds. It is the home of great collections of art and science and 
it affords abundant opportunities to come under the influence 
of the best music and the best literature of our time. The great 
city, and especially New York, is intensely cosmopolitan and 
contact with its life for even a short time during the impres- 
sionableness of youth is in itself a liberal education. 

"It is this same rubbing of elbows, as it were, of the various 
peoples of the world, that will go far toward making the dream 
of a lasting peace real/ 

101 



"It would be impossible to think of a war being declared 
to-day," he continued, "in the same way that it was fifteen 
years ago. 

"The revolutionary psychological change among men 
began while the war was still in progress. 

"Post-war unhappiness, problems and perplexities halted 
it for a while, but when Briand, Stresemann, and Chamberlain 
had their momentous meeting at Locarno, the beginning of the 
end of the old order was in sight. 

"There remained the carefully stimulated naval rivalry 
between the two great branches of the English-speaking 
family. Hired trouble-makers and, I might add, unscrupulous 
newspapers did what they could to make the era of interna 
tional war and its dark and costly shadows last a little longer. 
They did this by playing upon the credulous ignorance of 
public men and public opinion. But these actions have now 
been laughed not only off the stage but off the front page as 
well." 

The winter sun was quickly going down behind the Pali 
sades on the other side of the Hudson. It threw an orange glow 
over his strong features. He appeared rapt In thought for a few 
minutes and then turned abruptly around. 

"After Locarno/ 5 he said, "came Washington. The Prime 
Minister and the President, face to face and in kindly confi 
dence, crowded into four days 5 conversation and understanding 
forty years of formal diplomatic procedure. Those three 
foreign statesmen with their associates at Locarno and Mac- 
Donald and Hoover at Washington have done the business for 
which a weary world was waiting with bated breath. 

"The change that has taken place in the way that interna 
tional business is conducted can best be shown by the amazing 

f 102 I 



contrast between meetings such as these and those of former 
times. 

"Just about seventy years ago, on a bright summer s day, 
one of the chief personalities of Europe left Geneva; he left in 
disguise, bearing a false name and armed with a false passport. 
That was Count Cavour, Prime Minister of the government 
of the Kingdom of Piedmont. Secretly, and, I might say, on 
tiptoe, he made his way to Prombieres in the Vosges. It was the 
height of the season when he arrived, but instead of going to 
any of the fashionable hotels he took quarters in a small 
chemist s shop. There amid the smell of drugs and surrounded 
by blue and red and green bottles he waited until a summons 
came, and in the dark he was escorted into the presence of the 
powerful reigning monarch, Napoleon III. These two men 
of high place and vast responsibility did not confer together; 
they conspired as to how they might bring about a great war. 

"That was only seventy years ago, but there was no legislative 
debate, no popular appeal, merely two high-placed and powerful 
dictators, with all the arms and apparatus of two governments, 
together with the peace of Europe, in their four hands. 

"But two generations later a very short time in human 
history a Prime Minister of State, who wields the vast and 
responsible authority accorded to him by a great people living 
under free and democratic government, starts across the sea. 
He dons no disguise, he carries no false passport. His own 
countrymen acclaim his going. The daily press of the world 
records his every act and word. His very voice is carried right 
into the homes of millions, when in six days time he reaches 
the welcoming and hospitable shores of another land. 

"The enthusiasm of genuine affection is showered upon 
him, both for himself and on behalf of the great people for 

1 103 I 



whom he has come to speak. He goes to no upper story of a 
chemist s shop, but to the White House, and then, as the 
personal guest of the President of the United States, to a 
simple cabin in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, that there, 
quiet and undisturbed, they may speak together of the great 
issues and the little ones which divide peoples and which bind 
peoples together. 

"This is no conspiracy to organize war. It is a conference to 
build peace. There is the difference. 

"Public confidence has succeeded in displacing secrecy, 
conference has routed conspiracy, and the authority of free 
peoples and their public opinion is underneath, behind, and all 
about what the Prime Minister and the President have done/ 

I asked what part the Paris peace pact would play in 
avoiding wars. 

"On August 2, 1928," Dr. Butler replied, "the civilized 
world through its organized governments formally and 
solemnly condemned recourse to wars for the solution of 
international controversies, and the several governments 
renounced war as an instrument of national policy in their 
relations with one another. They further agreed that the 
settlement or solution of all disputes or conflicts of whatever 
nature or of whatever origin which may arise among them shall 
never be sought except by pacific means. 

"This declaration, applauded from pole to pole and the 
whole world round, is of so stupendous Importance that it is 
even now most Imperfectly understood. 

"In his haste, the Psalmist said, C A11 men are liars. Unless 
all men and all governments are liars, national policies will, 
without delay, be adjusted to the new international life that 
has been so gratefully brought into being. 

1 104] 



"Gone is the fear for national security; gone is the argu 
ment for compulsory military service and huge standing 
armies; gone is the plea for the protection of sea-borne com 
merce and a navy as powerful as any in the world; gone is the 
haste to build bombing planes and to store up vast supplies of 
poison gas; gone is the whole gospel of preparedness for a war 
which is promised never to be fought gone are all these unless 
all men and all governments are liars !" 

It was dusk. The pink sky with its purple clouds was 
luminous behind the massive buildings in which lights began 
to appear. The unfinished tower of the new church loomed vast 
and graceful and tall. 

"Then," I asked, "you think the last war has been 
fought?" 

Dr. Butler looked serious, and then, in the half-darkness, 
he replied : 

" They have no pact to sign our happy dead, 
But if, God, if we should sign in vain, 
With dreadful eyes, out of each narrow bed, 
Our dead will rise again!" 



105 



XII 

THOUGH Dr. Butler has never held political office, he has 
for years taken an active part in public affairs and has 
even ran for the vice presidency. But not many men in 
political life have been drafted from our colleges. Although in 
Europe the college professor and the writer are often engaged in 
political activities, in this country, with but few exceptions, the 
political leaders have come from other professions. 

Wilbur L. Cross of Connecticut is one of those exceptions, 
for Dr. Cross had no sooner resigned as dean of the Yale 
Graduate School than he was nominated for governor. Natur 
ally the election of a college professor to the governorship 
immediately calls to mind the career of another Democrat. 

Yet there is little in common in the personalities of the 
Governor of Connecticut and the late Woodrow Wilson. The 
former President was a little more cosmopolitan in manner, a 
little more given to theatricalism than the deliberate, slow- 
going Yankee who still likes to use the homely language of the 
country in all his conversation. 

Tall, almost awkward In his movements, and with a quiet 
shuffling walk that is characteristic of men who have spent 
their lives in libraries, Dr. Cross, in distinct contrast with 
Dr. Butler, at first impresses one as a scholar rather than a man 
of affairs. 

There is nothing formal about him, nothing that smacks 
either of a desire for effect or regard for the impression that he 

1106 



is making. Everything that he does, from lighting his cigar to 
dipping his steel pen in the inkstand, is done without haste, 
but no matter what is done one feels instinctively that it is done 
thoroughly. 

Although a tyro in politics, he has managed to hold his own 
against the seasoned politicians. His easy-going manner has 
irritated his opponents, and his classical allusions have 
confused them. His presumable innocence of political wiles, 
however, has proved misleading and a source of strength, and 
men who have pulled wires all their lives are puzzled by this 
professor of English who, after an academic career of almost 
half a century, made a three-minute speech at a clambake and, 
as a consequence, became a candidate for governor. 

But his acts as governor might well have been predicted from 
his characteristically individual campaign for election. He mixed 
stories of " settin hens" with quotations from Chaucer and, while 
his listeners understood all about the former, they thought the 
latter was a farmer "living out Wethersfield way." The shrewd 
ness of much that he said pleased his audiences. They liked his 
manner and his nickname, " Uncle Toby,".which he had acquired 
at Yale, even if they did not understand its allusion to [the 
candidate s admiration for Georgian literature. And because he 
had edited Stevenson s " Travels with a Donkey," they thought 
he had written an important history of his party. 

However, the inhabitants of Connecticut have always been 
keen. They quickly saw that here was a candidate who was not 
trying to sell wooden nutmegs, nor could he be sold one. They 
respected him for both his honesty and wisdom. And, accord 
ingly, when the votes were counted on election day, the sole 
survivor on the Democratic ticket was this benevolent, 
humorous, white-haired professor. 

f 1091 



Although he laid aside the cap and gown to take up the 
reins of government, a man cannot easily abandon the 
habits of a lifetime, and so into the towered Capitol at Hart 
ford he has brought with him the restfulness of the elms of New 
Haven. Sitting in the Governor s room, with its golden oak 
furnishings, its paintings of Putnam and Buckingham, and a 
relentless electric clock whose hands jump noisily every few 
minutes, he, by his very presence, has apparently transformed 
the room into a library. His desk is as cluttered as was his 
office of the Yale Review, but although the volumes of literature 
which covered it have been supplanted by law books, a literary 
air still surrounds the Governor. Formality is foreign to him, 
and the unaffected manners of this Connecticut Yankee are 
in direct contrast with those of the brass-buttoned, gold- 
braided messenger who, big and bearded, resembles an African 
monarch and supplies the pomp and circumstance that sur 
round the gubernatorial chair. 

But it is not only he who provides a contrast. The uni 
formed police, the clerks rushing through the tiled halls, the 
air of officialdom in the huge building dominating the hilltop, 
all make the Governor appear more unassuming. The difference 
between these surroundings and those of Yale where he seemed 
to fit so perfectly into the almost colonial atmosphere of the 
college town, prompted me to ask how he regarded the change 
in his occupation. 

He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "There are not so 
many differences as one would imagine," he said. "Now let s 
see, as dean of the Yale Graduate School I had to deal with 
thirty departments of study all the way from the fine arts and 
literature through the natural, social, and physical sciences to 
engineering and clinical medicine. I met men very unlike in 

I HO I 



nature, from the hard-headed engineer engrossed in figures to 
the temperamental artist ready to fly off at a tangent at any 
minute. One must be politic, to say the least, even in a college, 
in dealing with such varied types. 

j^" Since I have become governor, I have had to transact 
business with about the same number of major departments 
of state, running from banking and insurance into labor, 
aviation, and highways. It is again largely a question of 
temperament in different professions. 

"Of course, the men one runs across in a college have all 
been brought up in about the same way; the majority of them 
come from the same type of families. Most of them are young, 
with hopes and aspirations that have not been dimmed or 
altered by contact with the world, and all are eager to make 
a name for themselves. As governor I come in contact with 
different kinds and classes of people, not all actuated by the 
same motives. In this way a governor s field of observation 
is broader and for that reason more interesting than that 
of a college professor. He rubs elbows with the world, but in a 
capitol more elbows are threadbare than in a college/ 

"It is unusual, however, to find a scholar entering politics," 
I remarked. 

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose it is. In this country the term 
politician has taken on a distinctive meaning. Often it is used 
as an epithet of opprobrium. Perhaps that is because there 
have not been enough scholars in politics to give it a good name. 

"In Europe this is not the case. Many professors enter 
public life. Here we have an idea that law is a particularly 
fitting prelude to public office. Why this is so I do not quite 
understand. For to-day, owing to the rapid changes in social 
ideas, the duties of public office are becoming increasingly 



complex, and a large part of the work is extraneous to a 
knowledge of law. Great social, moral, educational, and eco 
nomic movements now animate the public as never before. 

"All about us we see these movements at work, in the 
churches, in labor organizations, In chambers of commerce, 
in both business and professional clubs and always in colleges 
and universities* As a matter of fact, many of the latest theories 
in sociology and economics have been born within college walls. 

"Of course," he continued, "while not many teachers have 
gone into politics, a number of statesmen, after they had made 
their names in politics, felt that they were progressing when 
they became teachers. I have one in mind who preferred to go 
down in history as the father of a university rather than as 
President of the United States. 

" Speaking seriously, however, it is a fact that in the uni 
versity affairs politics rarely, if ever, enters; while in state 
affairs it is always in the background. 

" When a man enters public life it is a foregone conclusion that 
he will become embroiled in disagreements. However, there are 
disagreements in other professions, too. In the administration of 
college affairs everything does not always run smoothly, but the 
differences arise from an honest variance of opinions. In politics 
they often spring from opposition of political parties, so that 
instead of partnership in government we have partisanship. 

"But it seems to me that the people are becoming con 
vinced that government is likely to be good in so far as it is 
separated from politics in a narrow sense. I believe in the two- 
party system. I believe in it so much that I felt that the Demo 
cratic party needed building up, and so I said Fd run for 
governor if they would let me make a few changes in the 
organization." 



From his vest pocket the Governor took a cigar and lighted 
it deliberately. For a few minutes he seemed wrapped in 
thought. Then he continued. 

"When you come right down to brass tacks, the principal 
business of government is to further and promote human 
strivings, and in state house as well as in college one en 
counters them. Who learns more of them than the in 
structors at institutions of learning ?" 

"How long," I asked, "have you been connected with such 
institutions ?" 

"From the time I first went to the little red schoolhouse 
on the hill in Willimantic, which was a good many years ago," 
he answered. "When I graduated from the high school there 
I had to work my way through Yale, Then I began to teach. 
For a time I was a member of the faculty of Sheffield Scientific 
School; then I became dean of the graduate school, and while 
still filling that post I was appointed editor of the Yale Review. 
Each time I made a change my friends told me that I was 
making a mistake, that I should stick to what I was doing. 
But I have different ideas. I do not believe a man should 
continue doing precisely the same kind of work too long. He 
must progress ; that is the law of nature. To keep on doing the 
identical thing for years tends to fossilize any one. 

"Up to the time I became governor, although my work 
was always along more or less the same lines, it had slight 
variations. For instance, before I received the nomination I 
had retired from my position in the University and had deter 
mined to go to Europe to deliver a series of lectures on English 
literature at a number of universities there; instead I am now 
here in Hartford as head of the State." 

I asked him how he became interested in politics. 



"You must not forget/ 5 he answered, "when I was a boy 
there were no movies or radios. Men s thoughts naturally 
turned to politics as a diversion, and in the long winter nights 
instead of listening to Amos V Andy or watching Charlie 
Chaplin, men congregated round the red-hot stove in the store 
at the crossroads and engaged in political discussions. 

" I can remember the vitriolic arguments which took place 
when Greeley and Grant ran against each other and when the 
boys who were Republicans dressed in blue and those who 
supported Greeley wore tall gray hats. Those were the days of 
flowery orations, of torchlight parades, of debates, and brass 
bands. It is not surprising that a youngster growing up in 
such surroundings should become interested in the affairs 
of state and, as soon as he was able to vote, that he should 
affiliate himself with one of the political parties, usually the 
one to which his father belonged. I think politics followed 
paternity more closely in those days. 

"When Cleveland declared that public office is a public 
trust, it made a deep impression not only on me but also 
on the rest of the students. I became so enthusiastic and 
vociferous about it that my classmates nicknamed me the 
Senator, and although Frank Brandegee actually became 
one, I still am called by that title by many of the men whom 
I knew at college. 

"So you can readily understand that although I have 
been a teacher most of my life, I have nevertheless always 
retained an interest in politics. But it was not until I resigned 
from the graduate school that I felt free to enter politics 
practically." 

But public life has not separated him from his literary 
work. He is still editor of the Yale Review. He still reads every 



article before it is accepted and he goes over the proof. I asked 
him how he found the time to do this. 

"By getting up early in the morning," he replied. "I 
have discovered that a tremendous amount of work can be 
done before most people think of getting out of bed. Then there 
are Sundays also, when one is not likely to be disturbed and 
when a great deal can be accomplished. 

"It would be difficult for a man who has always devoted a 
great part of his time to reading to be compelled to give that up, 
so that even now I continue to re-read my old favorites. 

"The writers of the eighteenth century have been those 
whose works I have most thoroughly studied, and the develop 
ment of the English novel has always held a great interest for 
me. As soon as I have a little more time I intend to bring my 
book on that subject, which was originally published over 
thirty years ago, up to date. 

"In the meantime, as I sit here in my office every day I 
meet characters who seem to have walked out from the pages 
of books I have read. Tom Jones and Roderick Random, 
Tristram Shandy, Major Pendennis and Micawber to men 
tion but a few are still roaming our streets. Here I am having 
a most wonderful time renewing old acquaintances and meeting 
again, after a lapse of years, old friends whom I last knew in 
some favorite novel." 



XIII 

INTERVIEWS do not always turn out the way one expects. 
Once I had gone to Washington especially to get Senator 
Borah s ideas on Russia. I did not get them. But instead 
I obtained a much clearer picture of the man than I would 
have, had he spoken on the subject that I wanted. 

When I first saw him he said he would think the matter 
over and the next morning he called me up and said, "I don t 
believe I can say anything about Russia that is not already 
known but if you care to come over and hear my ideas on liter 
ature I ll be glad to tell them to you." 

There is another side to this "lone wolf" from the stern 
political aspect which the public knows. And yet the first 
impression that Senator Borah gives is the remarkable likeness 
that he bears to his portraits. There are people whose faces 
are familiar in pictures and yet, when seen for the first time, 
an uncertainty arises as to their identity, and there are many 
people of whom no two photographs are alike; but not so Mr. 
Borah. His square head, his dark eyebrows almost meeting 
above his short nose and shading his penetrating but kindly 
eyes, his long upper lip and firm mouth, his strong chin, with its 
well-defined cleft In the center, his thick hair parted in the 
middle and allowed to grow rather long at the back all are 
unmistakable. 

Mr. Borah s coloring Is as characteristic as his features. 
His eyes are blue. Their black pupils give them a vividness of 

{116} 




C /3 




William E. Borah 



expression and a surprising degree of intensity. His hair is dark 
brown with a trace of gray above the ears, while his complexion 
inclines toward the ruddy and betokens health and strength. 
His voice, though not deep, is mellow, and as he speaks, 
one feels that he has given time to the study of elocution, for 
he knows the value of a change of tone. 

Had he not gone into politics it is possible that he would 
have become either an actor or a minister. Some people appear 
to belong only in their own epoch; others seem out of place, 
while there is a third group that can be imagined in any 
period. With all his native Americanism, Senator Borah is 
one of those who might have been at home in the Forum at 
Rome; he might have been one of the Puritans who left England 
for these shores; it is easy to picture him boarding the ships 
that carried the tea into Boston Harbor, or as a contemporary 
of Webster, or a member of Lincoln s Cabinet. 

In his character the fanaticism of the preacher is com 
bined with the emotionalism of the actor. Imbued with the 
righteousness of an idea, he clings to it irrespective of party 
principles, no matter how it may harm him politically. He 
feels deeply and shows his feelings ; there is no Yankee reserve 
or reticence about him. His moods change rapidly, not because 
they are not intense, but rather on account of their intensity. 
I saw him change in less time than it takes to tell from sincere 
sorrow over the loss of a friend to an earnest discussion of 
foreign affairs, although it was evident that his grief was just 
as deep as his interest in the condition of Russia. 

His humor is sharp and sarcastic, but it carries no lasting 
sting. Once when I saw him Mr. Coolidge s attitude toward 
accepting another nomination was still uncertain. I asked 
whether he thought the President could be persuaded to run 

f H9 I 



again, and he answered with a twinkle in his eye: "That pre 
supposes that some one is going to try to persuade him. 59 And 
again, when it was suggested that the Russian peasant had 
little to say in the conduct of the Soviet government, the 
Senator remarked with a smile: "About as much as our 
farmers have in ours/ 5 

To understand Senator Borah it is necessary first to 
remember his start in politics. Born the year the Civil War 
ended, he was brought up in a county in Illinois which was, as 
he puts it, "a hotbed of politics, where one year the Demo 
crats polled a tremendous vote and where the next year the 
Republicans had startling majorities. 9 The result was that 
before he was old enough to vote Borah was a seasoned political 
orator. In those days there were no independents. Feelings 
ran high, factional fist fights were not Infrequent, and a voter 
was either a Republican or a Democrat. Even the Mugwump 
was unborn. Reared in this atmosphere, he of necessity allied 
himself with a party, although at heart and by temperament 
he is not a party man. 

A Democratic president is attacked by members of his own 
party in the Senate, and Borah, a Republican Senator, thun 
ders out a defense in the Senate Chamber. President Coolidge 
appoints a member of the Morgan firm Ambassador to Mexico. 
There is much criticism, but Borah, the foe of big business, 
approves of the selection. 

"I eliminate personalities In determining policies/ 9 says 
f the Senator. "The individual means nothing to me. In fact, I 
Swill travel with the devil if he Is going in my direction/ 

Of all the men in Washington in the public eye, Borah is 
probably the least conspicuous in the social affairs of the 
capitol. No man of his prominence attends fewer dinners. 



Outside of horseback riding he is supposed to have few recrea 
tions, but there is another Borah who is almost unknown to 
the public a side he has managed to conceal. 

Most of his evenings are spent in his library. It is there 
that he finds rest and relaxation. Naturally, as Chairman 
of the Committee on Foreign Relations, he has a vast amount 
of reading to do, but aside from this the Senator employs 
his leisure in reading for enjoyment. 

"At the risk of being called an old fogy," he began, 
"I still follow Carlyle s example and each time a new book is 
published I read an old one. And right now I may as well 
confess that I am vitally interested in novels. To my mind 
the majority of modern novels might better be classified as 
textbooks of physiology and psychology. I read solely for 
pleasure; I am interested in people, but I do not care for the 
dissecting table. When I tell you that one of my favorite 
novelists is Hawthorne you will see that I do not shrink from 
morbidity. As a matter of fact, Hawthorne s morbidity appeals 
to me; but after all it is, if I may so call it, a healthy morbidity 
clothed in an almost poetic form. It is all right to call a spade a 
spade in a book on sewers, but for my part I am not interested 
in sewers as a literary subject. 

"My other favorite novelist is Balzac. I like Dickens and 
Thackeray, but Dickens I find given a little too much to 
caricature and Thackeray a little too English to appeal to a 
Middle Westerner. But Balzac s characters are real. They 
are French, it is true, but they are human beings first. I feel 
their humanity rather than their nationality. Take Rastignac 
and his friends, who are found in a number of novels why, 
I know a crowd of young chaps right here in Washington 
whom Balzac might have been describing when he wrote of 

1 1211 



those Frenchmen. Then there is the Country Doctor. Dis 
regarding his monarchistlc ideas, I know scores of doctors out 
west who might have served as a model for him, striving as he 
did for human betterment." 

"Do you also read poetry?" 

"Oh, yes,** he went on, "but here again 1 am old fashioned. 
I suppose I ought to tell you that I am interested in free verse, 
but I am not. The three poets whom I most admire and whose 
works I read and reread so often that I can quote pages from 
them are Shakespeare, Milton, and Dante. So you see, in 
some things I am not as radical as I am painted. Whatever 
I can say of any one of them would seem very trite, but how 
true and applicable are many of Shakespeare s characteriza 
tions, and how well some of them fit some of our public men 
to-day! 

"There are two more writers whom, if I am speaking of my 
favorite authors, I must necessarily name; they are Emerson 
and Swift." 

As he mentioned the latter I involuntarily smiled, for I 
immediately recognized a resemblance in outlook on life 
between the Dean and the Senator. He noticed my expression 
and grasping almost intuitively the reason for It, he continued : 
"Yes, other people have felt the same way as you, but I am 
flattered at the comparison. After all, even if he was somewhat 
of a cynic, whatever weaknesses and frailties he saw in human 
nature and in governments he tried to cure rather than 
increase. And his imagination and quaint humor permitted 
him to point out those weaknesses in a manner that entertained 
at the same time that it instructed. 

"As for Emerson, nobody knows the amount of inspiration 
and comfort that I have received from his essays. Many a 

f 122} 



night, after a terribly trying day in the Senate, when every 
thing has seemed to go wrong, when I have doubted even my 
own convictions, I have gone home and after dinner have taken 
up a copy of Emerson and turned to his essay on Self-reliance. 
It has put new life into me, made me look at things in a 
very different way, and often when I have been on the point 
of giving up, that work has kept me sticking to my guns." \ 



1 1231 



XIV 

I THINK that Emerson has been mentioned more often by 
people who have posed for me than any other author. 
The effect that this sharp-faced old New Englander has 
had upon succeeding generations appears to be deep and 
lasting. In a way it was not so surprising that he should 
influence the Senator from Idaho; what did startle me was 
the day I saw a copy of his essays lying open upon the desk 
of Georges Clemenceau. 

I had received a letter the previous evening saying that 
M, Clemenceau would pose for me the following morning at 
nine-fifteen and I did not know exactly what to do, for I had aft 
engagement with another French statesman. I was particularly 
anxious to draw Clemenceau; so I decided it would be best to go 
to his house, explain matters, and ask him to fix another time. 

At an early hour, with portfolio and charcoal, I jumped 
into a taxi and told the driver to take me to 8 Rue Franklin. 
We drove In the direction of Auteuil, past the statue of Ben 
jamin Franklin, and finally entered a rather narrow Street 
filled with apartments and shops; by no means a smart street, 
and so distinctly Parisian that it was the last place in the 
world Imaginable as the residence of one who was supposed 
to love the countryside. Number 8 is one of those typical 
French apartments with a small courtyard and a concierge 
and several baby carriages whose noisy occupants cast doubt 
on the statement that France s birthrate is declining. 

1 124 




Georges Clemenceau 



Here Clemenceau lived. One expects some sort of homage 
to be paid to fame; and I confess that when I asked the 
concierge (at the moment busy with her baby) which floor was 
M. Clemenceau s, I was somewhat startled when, without 
raising her eyes, she told me it was on the ground floor in the 
rear. 

I was ushered through a dark hall into Clemenceau s 
library. Here I was in the room in which he spent most of his 
waking hours, a room which, if inanimate things can reflect a 
personality, must more than any other be representative of 
Clemenceau himself. 

The room seemed to be cluttered with things of all sorts, 
so crowded that the memory of it brings to mind no in 
dividual objects but a jumbled mass of furniture and bric-a- 
brac. On three sides were bookcases, the tops of which were 
filled with vases and statuettes, and above these, photo 
graphs, drawings, and prints. In the middle of one wall was 
the inevitable white mantel and mirror so characteristic of all 
French rooms, and here all sorts of knick-knacks had accu 
mulated. A sofa took up the remaining side, while in the center 
was a large kidney-shaped desk piled high with papers, books, 
and pieces of African pottery; A number of chairs helped fill 
the remaining space and aided in furthering the crowded effect. 

With the exception of two sketches by Monet, the pictures 
appeared to have been selected for their subjects rather than 
their artistic worth. But beside the mirror and in one of the 
most prominent places hung a large water color drawing of a 
woman with red hair, a profile with delicate features not 
French, I thought, and immediately I began to wonder if 
perhaps it was a drawing made long ago of that Stamford girl, 
Miss Mary Plummer, who afterward became Mme. Clemenceau, 

| ml 



but with whom her husband had not lived for some time pre 
vious to her death. 

I imagined him sitting at his desk and looking up at the 
picture as he was writing and living again the years in America 
when he taught French in that young ladies* boarding school 
in Connecticut. The entire room evidently belonged to a man 
living with his memories. Things were there not for themselves, 
but for the associations connected with them. 

As I look back now, I realize that all these impressions 
were crowded into a space of time much less than it takes to 
record them, for I had hardly seated myself on the couch when 
I heard the patter of feet and two strange little gray dogs 
trotted in. Short and squat, with long hair covering their eyes 
and hanging over their mouths, they were appropriate heralds 
of the short little gray man who came in after them. 

This was Clemenceau! Dressed in gray gray slippers on 
his feet, gray silk gloves on his hands and a modification of the 
poilu s hat, likewise in gray, on his head. All of this grayness 
accentuated the darkness of his skin and gave it a ruddy hue 
which scoffed at almost four score and ten years. 

The active little dogs were no more vigorous than the 
vital little man who followed them. 

Before I had a chance to say anything he began, "You are 
twenty-five minutes late; I wrote to you to come at a quarter 
to nine and now it s ten after. I do not like to be kept waiting. 
The sand runs too rapidly through the glass." 

I explained that his letter had said a quarter past nine and 
I had another appointment at nine-fifteen, but that I would 
come at any other time he would name. 

"There is no other time ; I have arranged to give you this time, 
you are late, but I will pose for you now otherwise not at all." 

f 128 I 



Clemenceau spoke in English, very good English with a 
French accent a rather sharp incisive speech with a rising 
inflection as he finished each sentence* But his manner gave a 
note of finality to what he had to say, so that I immediately 
felt there was no use arguing about what time his letter named 
or in endeavoring to change the hour of the appointment. 

I accordingly told him that I would draw him then and 
there and the Tiger drew in his claws and purred. He literally 
purred, for with the slightest suspicion of a grunt of satisfaction 
he dropped his gruff manner and became a charming, benef 
icent old gentleman. 

He tried several places in the room in order to get the 
best lighting, he made sure that I was comfortable, and when 
everything was arranged satisfactorily he began to pose. 
Unlike many other busy men I have drawn, he gave me his 
undivided time and neither read nor wrote as I made my 
sketch, but, seated at his desk with his hands clasped in front 
of him, he looked straight ahead of him into space. The light 
from the window fell directly on him and brought into strong 
relief the well-modeled head. The light was not compli 
mentary; it did not soften the wrinkles, nor did it blur the 
marks of age. But after all, it was the right kind of light in 
which to draw this rugged old Frenchman, most of whose life 
had been spent in fighting. 

Though we were in the heart of Paris, none of the noise or 
bustle filtered into the high half-lighted room in which Clemen 
ceau sat. 

Neither of us said a word. I wanted to speak, but he seemed 
so engrossed that I hesitated. As I drew I tried to read some 
of his thoughts, for politician though he was, his face was no 
mask and his expression changed and seemed to betray what 

I 1291 



was passing In his mind. At one time the faintest suspicion of a 
smile appeared to cross his face, while at another I thought I 
detected the trace of a watery film over his eyes. Once I was 
almost sure that he was living over the days in Montmartre, 
when, as a young doctor, he had treated, gratuitously^ the 
poor of the neighborhood. I saw him go through the fearful 
strain of war again, and later, when a peculiar look of sadness 
came over him, I was certain that he was wondering why 
the one gift that he had really wanted had been withheld from 
him by the French people. Like the Romans, they had caused 
to be placed in each schoolhouse of the nation tablets recording 
the fact that Georges Clemenceau was deserving of the 
thanks of the Republic; but the thing that he wanted was the 
presidency and this had been denied him. 

Suddenly catching hold of himself, he turned and smiled 
a half-guilty smile, as if he felt that I had overheard his 
thoughts. And in that eloquent silence I am sure that I had. 
But the spell was broken and I knew that whatever he would 
say could not be half so revealing as the reflections of his 
inner moods which crossed his face as he sat there in silence. 

One of the little dogs that had been asleep on a newspaper 
that was lying on the sofa got up and shifted his position. 
Clemenceau looked at me as if he felt that he had given enough 
of his time. I took the hint. 

"The drawing is finished. Will you sign It? 9 I asked, 
showing it to him and at the same time offering him a piece of 
charcoal. 

Putting on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, he looked at 
it a few minutes, and then muttered to himself, "C*est moi" 
But instead of taking my charcoal he used his pen, saying, "I 
can handle the pen better than the crayon." 

f 130 I 



I left with the decided impression that Clemenceau was, 
like Mark Twain, a very lonely man, and in spite of his fame 
not an overhappy one, for about him there was a note of 
inexplicable sadness. Almost all of his intimates had gone. 

"At eighty-six/ he had said to me, "one does not make 
new friends and the old ones have gone to keep appointments 
jthat cannot be broken." 

But although Clemenceau has now gone to keep those 
appointments, he is in but one sense of the word dead. To the 
men who worked with him or fought against him he is almost 
still alive. There was something so vital about the grim old 
warrior that it is hard for them to realize that the roar of the 
Tiger has been forever hushed. 



1 131 I 



XV 

I HAVE noticed that the country breeds a certain freedom 
and unrestraint. Men who are cautious in the city will 
speak their minds freely and become more friendly when 
removed from urban influences. Although I have met Winston 
Churchill only once, our encounter was at his country house, 
and as a result of that visit, I feel that I came to know the 
man much better than many others whom I have seen more 
often. 

Chartwell Manor is in Westerham, a little Kentish town, with 
a quaint Wren-inspired church steeple, heavy-walled cottages, 
and air redolent with flowers. 

The drive from the station is past gardens and through 
woods gardens filled with larkspur and hawthorn and gigan 
tic rhododendron bushes, and woods damp and earthy, with 
heavy elms and beeches and oaks. There are not many cars on 
the roads; more often a horse-drawn wagon that serves as a 
home for a roaming family moves slowly over the dirt pathway. 
There is a sleepy air of indolence about the section, and plod 
ding horses seem much more a part of the place than scurrying 
motors. One feels a remoteness from the present and a 
loneliness that has made the North Downs region an ideal 
setting for the opening scenes of numberless romances. 

Indeed, as I drove through this typical English country I 
had a feeling that it was on exactly such a road that Kipling s 
traveler pedaled his bicycle as he suddenly came upon that 

1 132] 




Winston Spencer Churchill 



house in which "They/ those more than human children, 
played and were loved. 

A sharp turn and, seemingly out of nowhere, appears the 
Churchill home. Its grayness, its ivy, and its hungry moss all 
proclaim a static condition, a slow growing out of the earth 
that makes it as much a part of the place as the trees around it. 
There is not a note about that jars, that does not belong. 
Accentuating the unity of the building with the landscape, the 
flagstones that are before the main entrance do not stop at the 
vestibule, but continue right over it into the main hall. 

An Admirable Crichton ushered me in, but before he would 
go to Mr. Churchill he wanted to make sure that I had an 
appointment. "For," said he, "Mr. Churchill is down at the 
lake and I do not want to get him all the way up here unless he 
expects you." 

I assured him that I was expected, and so he went, while 
I waited in a small reception room furnished with that English 
chintz-covered furniture so characteristic of country homes. 
On the walls were a portrait of Nelson and some paintings that I 
first thought were by Sargent. French windows opening on a 
stone piazza occupied almost one entire side of the room, and 
through them could be seen a broad expanse of rolling- country. 

As I was taking in my surroundings I heard quick footsteps 
in the hall, and then into the room strode Winston Churchill. 
Somewhere Richard Harding Davis whom in many respects 
Mr. Churchill recalls wrote that although, strictly speaking, 
a soldier of fortune was a man who for pay or for love of adven 
ture fights for any country, in a bigger sense he is a man who 
in any walk of life makes his own fortune. As my host stood 
before me in a baggy soiled suit and battered hat, and as I 
looked into those clear, blue eyes and remarked the high 

f 135 I 



forehead, the stubby nose, the thin upper lip and the heavy 
lower one, the face covered with light freckles, I felt that he 
fitted this description perfectly. 

A seventh grandson of the original Duke of Marlborough, 
he has in him undoubtedly something of the spirit of that old 
adventurer and military genius; but Winston Churchill is 
not what he is because of this old bewlgged victor of Blenheim, 
nor because he is a son of the late erratic Victorian statesman 
and the beautiful American, Jennie Jerome. In the walk of life 
in which he was born he has made his own way. His forebears 
were often an obstacle rather than a help. Had he not been 
Lord Randolph Churchill s son it is doubtful whether there 
would have been a question in the House of Commons when, as a 
young subaltern, he ran away and joined the Spanish Army. 
Every one thought he was in a mess, instead of which, having been 
awarded a medal for gallantry by the Spanish Government, he 
left the army and became a newspaper correspondent. 

Almost at the very beginning of the Boer War he was 
taken prisoner, after a thrilling skirmish in which many of his 
companions were killed* For almost any man this would have 
been the end, but not so for Churchill, to whom every tragedy 
seems, by a strange quirk of fate, to bring a happy denouement. 
Within a few weeks he had managed to scale the prison walls 
and escape, and after a lapse of silence, when every one thought 
he had perished in the South African wilderness, he turned up, 
by luck, in the house of the one Englishman in a hostile 
village. Again, as a combatant and also as a correspondent 
he found laurels in an undertaking which at first had promised 
to lead nowhere. 

It has been the same all through his life. He went to Africa 
with Kitchener, and in a book that he published after that 

1 136 I 



campaign he attacked the commanding general unmercifully. 
Once more every one thought that he was done for, but 
within a year he was defending "K, of K." against still more 
violent attacks in Parliament. 

When he was thirty-one, some one said of him, "He has 
ridiculed those in high places, he has insulted his cousin and 
patron, the Duke. Without political friends, without the influ 
ence and money of the Marlborough family he is a political 
nonentity." Yet at thirty-two he was Under-Secretary for the 
Colonies and one of the most popular of the younger men in 
England s public affairs. 

To-day there is the same enthusiasm about him, the same 
devil-may-care laughing at conventions as there was thirty-five 
years ago when he returned from Cuba and discovered on his 
first night in London that the Empire Music Hall had closed its 
bar. Arising, he made a speech, and the audience was more 
entertained by the wit and charm of the handsome sandy- 
haired boy, with his aura of romance, than by the paid 
entertainers. He called upon the crowd in the hall to storm the 
barricades, which they did, and once again glasses clinked and 
corks popped. 

I made my drawing in his library, a room filled with 
Georgian furniture and dominated by a portrait by Orpen of 
the master of the house, and there he spoke of those early 
escapades and laughed over them. 

"It is hard," he told me, "to find time to do all the things 
that I want to, and now that I am living here I fortunately can 
do some work that interests me. 

"Those little paintings in the other room are some copies 
that I made of sketches by Sargent, Come on upstairs and see 
the drawing that he made of my mother," 

f 1371 



He arose and led me to his bedroom in which there was a 
four-poster bed and a desk. Over the desk hung the well-known 
charcoal sketch that has been reproduced so often. 

{e There is more color in that/ 5 he remarked, "than there is in 
any number of paintings that I have seen. Is there anyone except 
Sargent who would have dared to put that heavy outline against 
the light side of the face ? And yet how perfectly it models/ 9 

When he had started to pose again, I asked him how his 
present life compared with that as a Cabinet Minister. 

"There is one thing that appeals to me strongly now," 
he answered, "and that is I am my own master. I am ac 
countable to no one for what I do, and the success of what 
I am doing depends solely upon my own efforts. When a man 
is in the Cabinet, no matter how strong he may be, he is bound 
to take into consideration public opinion. He may advocate 
measures that he firmly believes are for the public good, and he 
may see them work harm through the failure of someone else to 
carry them out properly. But the blame falls on the proposer s 
head, not upon the dullards who did not understand. 

"In this life of ours I am sure there is but one way to find 
any true happiness, and that is to get some fun out of work, ; 
irrespective of the results. The artist or even the dauber who 
gets a thrill out of putting paint on canvas, the man who is 
enthralled by trying to write a sonnet or a play, or even the 
little craftsman who gets real pleasure from turning a lathe 
any one of these men, can he make but a bare living, is getting 
paid for doing something from which he derives joy. 

"Now look at our poor millionaires, worried to death over 
their affairs, and getting no pleasure from their work. After they 
have been successful, they spend their lives endeavoring to learn 
some way of obtaining happiness by spending their money. 

f 138} 



"While in public life there are many recompenses to the 
cares of office, nevertheless there are many heartaches also. 
Here I keep busy doing all the things I want to do. I can write, 
paint, or lay bricks, whereas in other places I have often had to 
do things I did not care about/ 

When my drawing was finished he took me downstairs and 
showed me some large still lifes that he had painted. They were 
pitched in a high key and formed marvelous decorative spots 
on the walls. 

"Now I ll show you some more of my work," he said, and 
we went out on the terrace. 

"See that wall," he indicated. "That Is my doing also. 
You cannot imagine the amount of fun I had in building 
it, for apart from the actual pleasure of seeing it grow, I 
think that I planned out a couple of books while I was laying 
the bricks. 55 

Then we went to his studio, a one-story affair about two 
hundred feet from the house. 

"I got some new ideas from a painter friend that I am 
working out now," he said as we entered the room, which was 
lighted from the north, and had little in it except a table, a 
chair and countless canvases. 

"A painting," he explained, "consists of two essential 
elements form and color. If you go out to paint a landscape 
and try to embody both, the light has changed by the time the 
form is looked after. So this is the idea. I go out and when I 
see what I want I snap it with a camera, at the same time 
making -a rapid sketch, disregarding the form largely but 
endeavoring to put down my impression of the color. 

"Then I have a lantern slide made of the photograph. I 
darken the studio and put the slide into this lantern and then 

It 139 I 



project the picture on the canvas and paint it in monotone. In 
this way I have the form. Then with my color sketch before 
me I put the color in the picture/ 

He was like a boy of eighteen as he described the process. 
He darkened the room and did everything just as if he were 
painting a picture. He showed me any number of his canvases, 
some done by this method, and some more spontaneously, 
and when I suggested that I preferred the latter, he declared : 
"So do I at present; they are not quite so mechanical." 

From the studio we walked over the grounds and he 
pointed out some lakes he was literally moving to improve the 
landscape. When I remarked that he had numerous interests, 
he replied: "These are my toys, and I believe that as long as a 
man can play with toys, that long will he remain young. When 
you meet a man who can derive no enjoyment out of doing 
something, you can make up your mind that that man is old) 
no matter what his years are." 

As I was leaving I expressed the hope that I would have 
an opportunity of meeting him again in London before I sailed 
for America. I was in the motor by that time, and I noticed 
that he had picked up a paint box which was in the hall as he 
came out to say good-by. 

"I fear not," he replied. "It Is a marvelous time of year 
to paint here in Westerham, I go down to the city only when I 
must, and then I come back as soon as I can. Moreover," he 
added with a smile, "there are a great many walls that must 
still be built on the land." 

I drove off, and as the car turned into the road I caught my 
last glimpse of him. A silhouette on a hilltop, the sun behind 
him, he stood looking out across the fields. 



140] 



XVI 

MANY laymen still have the idea that artists are 
irrational beings whose works are produced with 
no sense of rhyme or reason. As a matter of fact, 
the names of two men, both leaders in their respective arts, 
immediately come to mind Henri Matisse and Ignace 
Paderewski, both of whom I found tremendously sane and 
methodical. 

About no one in modern art has a greater controversy 
raged, nor has any one had a greater influence in directing its 
trend along certain lines than Matisse, 

It was on his first visit to this country that I saw him. He 
was on his way to Tahiti, that island made famous by another 
French painter, Gauguin, and it was by accident that his name 
was discovered on the passenger list of the lie de France. No 
sooner was he landed than he was whisked mysteriously away 
and remained in seclusion for the short time that he was here, 
preferring, as he himself said, to remain "incognito," so 
that he might enjoy the privilege of seeing New York without 
distraction* 

Indeed, it required more detective work to discover where 
he was staying than it did to find Sir James Jeans, and it was 
infinitely harder to get him to pose. He finally made an 
appointment to sit for me at a gallery, where some of his 
paintings were on exhibition. It is small, gray and modern and 
reminds one of the little intimate show places on the Left Bank 



in Paris, rather than of the more pretentious salles that face 
the column in the Place Vendome. 

It is comparatively easy to interview an authority on a 
subject about which one knows nothing. His statements, no 
matter what they are, call forth no mental reservations on the 
part of the interviewer. On the other hand, here I was waiting 
for a man who had almost literally brushed away all the 
conventions of the art upon which I had been reared, and before 
whose canvases I stood in perplexed wonder. 

I was puzzled by his pictures. To me they appeared signally 
dead and drab compared with the sunshine and the people on 
the street. I was standing before one which revealed three 
figures, each drawn in a different scale, and amply filling a 
large canvas. Six eyes suggested by six gobs of dark brown 
paint glowered at me, as if shaming me for lack of under 
standing; hands were neglected and bodies slighted. 

Suddenly the door of the gallery opened, and Matisse 
walked in. His vitality and alertness seemed to me in sharpest 
contrast with the figures on his canvas. He wore a brown overcoat 
and a bright yellow muffler which repeated the color notes 
in his tawny hair and beard. His head is massive, his features 
large, and he wears glasses with lenses so strong that it is prac 
tically impossible to see his eyes behind them. He is quiet and 
reserved, and there is nothing of the poseur about him; in fact, 
it would be easier to imagine him bending over a microscope 
in a physiological laboratory of a German university than 
setting the art world agog over his paintings. 

We went into a little room in the rear of the gallery, and 
as I followed him there it was like going with some old family 
doctor into his office. There is a certain deliberate, scientific air 
about him which one does not ordinarily associate with an 

1142] 




Henri Matisse 



artist, especially a French artist. He inspires a feeling of con 
fidence and immediately conveys an impression of deep 
sincerity and earnestness. In his presence one must of necessity 
be ashamed of not liking his paintings, so evident is his devo 
tion to art, so intense is he in his work. 

He had just visited the Metropolitan Museum, and hardly 
had he seated himself upon a great gray corduroy sofa, which 
was placed immediately under a skylight, than he began to 
talk of the pictures there. He mentioned Rembrandt, Manet, 
and Cezanne. 

I asked him whether he liked Rembrandt. 

He smiled condescendingly at me. 

"Like Rembrandt?" he said inquiringly. "Of course, I do. 
Two years ago I made a trip to Amsterdam that lasted six 
weeks just to study him and some of the other Dutchmen. 

"He was one of the great modern painters of his day. He 
painted light. 

"Many people talk about modern art as if it were a sepa 
rate and distinct thing in itself, as if it were a sudden break, a 
new mode of expression, rather than an orderly and rational 
development of what had gone before. 

"A direct line of descent can be traced from Rembrandt. I 
mention him because you spoke of him, but in reality it begins 
with Cimabue and Giotto, goes down to Cezanne and those 
who came after him. There is no hiatus, no sudden jump, 
everything is orderly and progressive. 

"Every art is a reflection of the time in which it was 
produced, it is the logical result of its own surroundings. The 
gray skies of Holland are reflected in its pictures just as the 
sunshine is reflected in Italian pictures. But in addition to 
the geographical conditions, the surroundings and thoughts of 



the people as well as their activities all have their effect on 
the canvases of their painters. 

"When I sailed up the bay and saw the skyline of New 
York, when I went up to the top of the Woolworth Building 
and got a glimpse of the city, I felt that all of these things must 
of necessity influence the painters. Here is a different civiliza 
tion from that of Europe. I have seen any number of photo 
graphs of New York and countless cinema pictures, but no 
one can grasp its majestic grandeur until one sees it. Its 
vastness is beyond all comprehension. The avenues appear 
to have no ends, they seem to go on to infinity, while the 
tremendous buildings are awe inspiring. 

"Now compare conditions such as these with those of fifty 
or a hundred or more years ago, and you will understand why 
such an apparently radical change has come over painting. 
It is the age in which we live which differs more from preceding 
ages than the painting of to-day does from that which has 
gone before." 

His manner became that of the scientist. His suit was 
brown, his tie was brown and his shirt was tan; beside him 
on the sofa were his overcoat and muffler, the latter the only 
spot of color in the room. Coolly and dispassionately, like a 
naturalist dissecting a specimen, he analyzed the present-day 
tendencies, while through a crack in the door I saw a group of 
art students, who, by their very gestures, showed they were 
discussing " moods " and "nuances." Their idol seemed wonder 
fully sane and keen as he removed his thick glasses and polished 
them with a light brown handkerchief as if preparing for a 
further examination of the object under observation. 

"A few days ago," he said, "I was in Paris; in a few more 
days I shall be in the South Sea Islands. Think of that and 

f 1461 



compare it with the period when a journey from France to 
Italy was a matter of months. Overhead men are flying, 
on the streets they are rushing around in automobiles, the 
wheels of industry are humming all about. Is it any wonder 
that these things are reflected in what is being painted ? 

" Swiftness and celerity are the dominating characteristics 
of the day and they must find their expression in its art. But 
though this is a mechanical age, that does not imply that 
emotion must be absent in modern painting, sculpture, or 
music. Indeed, it means, if anything, that there must be 
more emotion, and the artist of to-day, surrounded by ma 
chines, must have more emotion to express. 

a By mechanical means an image is now fixed on a photo 
graphic plate in a few seconds an image more precise and 
exact than it is humanly possible to draw and so with the 
advent of photography disappeared the necessity for exact 
reproduction in art. 

" Cezanne no longer painted an individual apple, he painted 
all apples. Van Gogh s Postman 5 is a portion of humanity." 

"Does that mean," I asked, "that you do not use models ?" 

"I most assuredly do," he replied. "It means that I no 
longer believe in a literal rendering of what is before me. A 
camera can do that better than I. 

"It means that, as well as the object, an emotion must be 
expressed and that with the aid of a model a certain amount of 
surface must be made interesting by means of a design; that 
an arm is not only an arm, but also a component part of an 
entire canvas, which must have as much beauty in one part 
as in another." 

As he spoke it was easy to understand why he rarely goes 
out, and why it is that, in his little studio in Nice, with colored 



draperies on the wall, high model stand and a low seat for 
him to sit upon, he finds his greatest joy in life. 

His talk was straightforward, there were no evasions, 
no confusion of terms, no mysterious allusions to metaphysics. 
Sitting there with the strong light beating down on his fore 
head a forehead heightened by his receding hair there 
was not a trace of the iconoclast in either his appearance or 
his conversation. A statistician could not have been more 
precise, an academician more apparently conventional. 

Knowing that at one time he had painted very academic 
pictures, and remembering particularly a still life of a candle 
with some old, brown, leather-covered books, I asked how he 
had happened to change his style so completely. 

"Because I could not help it," he replied. "I started 
out in life to be a lawyer. In fact, I was twenty-one before I 
seriously began to study art. That is just forty years ago. I 
studied under academic masters and I painted academic 
pictures. 

"I married, I had three children and I had an arrangement 
with a dealer whereby he took all the still lifes which I painted 
at four hundred francs apiece. It was not very much as things 
are now, but it meant a livelihood for us all. 

"One day I had just finished one of my pictures. It was 
quite as good as the previous ones and very much like them, 
and I knew on its delivery I would get the money which I sorely 
needed. I looked at it, and then and there a feeling came over 
me that it was not I, that it did not represent me or express 
what I felt. There was a temptation to deliver it, but I knew 
that if I yielded to it that would be my artistic death. 

"Looking back at that time I realize that it required 
great courage to destroy that picture, particularly as the hands 

1 148 1 



of the grocer and the baker were outstretched waiting for money. 
But I did, and I count my emancipation from that day. 

"It meant," he continued, "suffering and deprivation, 
but then who has not suffered ? Why, think of it, I bought a 
painting by Cezanne for three hundred and fifty francs. 
To-day, if I wanted to sell it, I could get one million francs for it, 
but the picture is no better now than when it was painted. 

"I shall never forget the first time I saw it and inquired 
its price. Much as I wanted it I did not feel that I should spend 
that much money. It was called "The Bathers, and it showed 
some men in a river. Shortly after that I went down to Tou 
louse to see my family, and I went for a walk on the river bank. 
There in the water were a number of sofdiers from a near-by 
cantonment, swimming. The sun on the water, its movement, 
and the actions of the swimmers brought back but one thing, 
and that was Cezanne s painting. I felt as if I had already 
viewed the scene, and I realized that an art that was so great 
that nature seemed but a reflection of it must be something 
worth while. I could not afford that picture then, I did not 
have enough money to pay for it all at once, but nevertheless 
I bought it. 5 

"And in what does its greatness lie?" I inquired. 

"In its color, its design, its swiftness and sureness, and 
its sincerity," he replied. "Every piece of that canvas is a part 
of a perfect whole. It was done quickly, but that is immaterial. 
People say that my canvases do not look finished. I consider 
that a compliment, for then I know that I have well concealed 
the labor and the effort, that I have stopped when the seance 
was over, and not turned a labor of love into one of torture." 

I showed him my drawing. He said it resembled him, which 
in the light of his former remarks I did not consider very 

1 149] 



complimentary. Then 1 asked him to autograph it. He hesi 
tated. He feared, he said, it might be mistaken for one of his, 
so taking my pencil I signed my name first, whereupon he 
put his under mine. 

I left him standing in the middle of the little room, the 
top light playing strange pranks on the heavy lenses of his 
glasses, and as I walked down the gallery filled with modern 
paintings, through my head ran those lines by Kipling: 

And each in his separate star 
Shall paint the Thing as he sees It 
For the God of Things as They are. 



{ISO 



XVII 

A HOUGH Paderewski is surrounded by an air of romance 
which harks back to those days when kings sought 
musicians favors and painters served as monarchs 
emissaries, nevertheless his approach to art is also sane. Many 
pianists have come and gone since those days in the early 
nineties when a young, slim, ascetic Pole startled Paris, Berlin, 
and London by his magic artistry, but the glamour that 
surrounded Ignace Paderewski at that time has not been 
dimmed or lessened. In fact, if anything, there is about him 
an added glory, for, putting aside his art, he closed his piano 
for five years in order to serve his country as its first premier. 

And yet no one typifies so much as he the mauve decade. 
He is a contemporary of the Yellow Book and Aubrey Beard- 
sley; Burne-Jones drew his haunting profile and used it in 
several paintings, and young women put down their copies of 
Du Maurier s "Trilby," shocking book, to hasten to St. 
James s Hall to hear him play. Kipling was at the height of 
his powers and Sherlock Holmes was still solving the "Study 
in Scarlet"; Oscar Wilde was the smartest playwright in 
London, Gilbert and Sullivan were crowding the Savoy Theatre 
with their operas, and Anthony Hope was a young genius. 

To-day, Paderewski, nearing seventy, is the same popular 
figure, the same force in the world of music that he was forty 
years ago when, as a young man with flowing auburn hair and 
low white collar and soft tie, he carried all before him in Europe 



and America and became the musical sensation of the dying 

Victorian era. 

Many changes have come about. Mechanical music has 
been developed, radio has been discovered, jazz has beaten 
its way over three continents, but none of them can drown the 
clear-cut tones that this artistic descendant of Chopin and 
Liszt brings forth from the piano. It is a personality, expressed 
not only in his music but in his every action, that has risen 
above all else and that persists. This is the secret of his great 
ness. The piano has always remained for him only a means 
whereby he might express himself. Indeed, even the composi 
tions that he plays become subservient to his interpretation 

of them. 

I had an appointment with Paderewski at six-thirty one 
evening and when I arrived an armchair, a cup, and a pot 
of tea awaited his coming. He was a few minutes late, and as 
he rushed into the room, apologizing for having kept me 
waiting, little did he appear to be a man who had almost 
lived the allotted three score and ten. 

His once auburn hair is silver, but about those small 
keen eyes, almost hidden by the heavy lids, were the Interest 
and enthusiasm of youth. His high but sloping forehead is 
his most characteristic feature; domelike, -it dominates the 
remainder of his head, and in comparison with it the lower 
part of his face seems small. His mustache and goatee still 
retain their reddish hu<? and help to give him a leonine appear 
ance which is further accentuated by the height and formation 
of his cheekbones. 

There is nothing of the faraway musician about him. He 
is neither removed nor remote. His manner has nothing of 
pose or abstraction. When he speaks he is vitally interested 

1 152] 




^ r " 

%. *, i s!v 



\\ 



I 




Ignace Paderewski 



in his subject, and one immediately senses that he is no one 
sided artist whose knowledge and thoughts are limited to 
his art. With a magnetism that compels, an enthusiasm 
that enthralls, he speaks on all subjects. His English is 
perfect and he has the aptness for coining phrases that belongs 
to the writer, so that he plays with language as with a musical 
instrument. 

It was the traffic that delayed him, he told me as he sat 
down before his tea. The chair was a large one, but he did 
not recline in it. He poised on its edge, as if he were playing 
the piano, and as he spoke he continually moved and gave 
emphasis to his words with gestures. 

I mentioned the drawing of him by Burne- Jones. 

"He made three on that day. None of them was entirely 
finished, but the next morning he sent me the one that you 
probably know. I was always most anxious to be drawn 
by Sargent, but, although we made a number of appointments, 
they were always broken by one of us." 

He spoke about a painting which Zuloaga had done of 
him. He referred to the character in people s hands, and 
as he did so he raised his own. It was not the thin nervous 
hand one would expect to see. Firm and powerful, its 
fingers blunted at the ends, it expressed strength and force. 
It was the hand not only of the pianist but also the Prime 
Minister. 

I referred to modern art. 

"Art," he replied, "has been on an orgy. Some few years 
ago it went wild for color. Line was forgotten in a mad desire 
for vivid -hues. To-day music is still in the state that painting 
was in some years back. Color is the god before which all 
modern composers are worshiping, but they forget there 

1 155 I 



are other gods than that- They have blinded their eyes, 
if I may so express it, to the beauty of the simple lines of the 
classicists and endeavor by effects of color to attain beauty 
without line. Light and shadow and the glow of color are 
wonderful, but they must have outlines to bound them, 
otherwise they are formless masses. And then, too, while 
I have been speaking of painting and music in similar terms, 
after all color is not music. 

"Indeed, music is not the handmaid or slave of any other 
of the arts. It should not be made subordinate to poetry or 
painting, a mere decoration; It should have its own form, 
its own meaning, its own raison d etre" 

I asked him to what he attributed these tendencies in 
all the arts. 

He leaned farther forward in his chair. His soft, loose collar and 
his white four-in-hand completed the picture of the romanticist. 

"We are living in a strange age. Economics and inven 
tions and discoveries have held the public attention for some 
years. I do not underestimate the value of these things. 
They may make for physical comforts, but with them they 
bring attendant evils that kill creative genius in art. For 
genius is a tender plant which will not thrive in all soils or 
surroundings, and the quiet and peace that are essential to 
it have been driven out by the haste and the desire for change 
and challenge that mark this era. 

"Individuality and originality are being killed by the 
increasing necessity, I might almost call it, for collectivism. 
The day of the lonely craftsman has passed. One man 
rarely produces any finished product to-day. It is the result 
of many hands, and while perhaps better automobiles may 
be produced in this way, surely better poems or paintings 

1 156 I 



or sonatas cannot. And it is this spirit which is pervading 
everything. 

"For great art, though it is the creation of one man, is 
the product and the result of the time in which he lives. 
Bach could not have written his works in a skyscraper any 
more than Michelangelo could have decorated one of the 
modern temples of industry." 

The shades were but half down and the tall lighted towers 
of the city could be seen. They rose majestically into the night 
sky, but they appeared to be resting on the open piano which 
stood before the window, crushing it. From the street came the 
drone of the heavy traffic, thousands rushing through the 
streets. Suddenly from the sky came the whirr of a plane. 

He heard it, and continued: 

"But despite all, men are not happy to-day. Throughout 
the world, in politics as well as in all the arts, there is an 
anxiety to get away from existing conditions. 

"In art there is a striving for originality. Men are endeavor 
ing to create something new. Nothing new was ever created 
consciously. True originality has its foundations in the soul, not 
in the mind, and when there is an effort to create something 
different it is usually a failure. Beethoven or Schumann or 
Chopin did not try to be original. They were original. 

"However, this craving for originality, this desire to 
get away from old forms, this pulling down of the old-time 
gods is typical of this period of the world s history. 

"Men feel the same dissatisfaction in regard to politics. 
Throughout the world there is an undercurrent of unrest. 
For years the so-called parliamentary system in government 
had been looked upon as a panacea for all ills. It was felt 
that when the man in the street was represented in a legislative 

1 157 I 



body then that man had something to do with making the 
laws and with the management of his country. 

"But ideas in regard to this are changing. People are 
beginning to see that this system is not altogether what it 
promised. Indeed, it has been my experience that in most 
bodies of this kind a tremendous amount of time is wasted 
in useless and futile talk. Hours are used up in listening to 
speeches of no import or value. In times of economic distress 
long discussions in parliaments only irritate. A hungry man s 
appetite is not appeased by words. What he wants is food. 
And when he sees that the words do not give him food he 
becomes dissatisfied with that system of representation which 
does not provide him with necessities, let alone comforts. 

"It is this spirit of dissatisfaction with things as they 
are that has caused both the artistic and political restlessness 
throughout the world to-day." 

He stopped for a minute and took a gold-tipped cigarette 
from a silver case. He inhaled deeply and continued. 

"As a matter of fact, it is only when a nation is enjoying 
not only comforts but luxuries that a great art develops. 
Contentment, mental and bodily, and leisure must be present. 
For although the individual artist may not be prosperous, 
it is when a country is passing through an age of luxury that 
art flourishes. When Greece was mistress of the world under 
Pericles its masterpieces of art were produced. Italy at the 
height of her power during the Renaissance gave us her 
greatest works." 

The drawing was finished. I left. As I was walking down the 
hall of his suite I heard the tones of his piano. Stopping, I lis 
tened. He was playing a polonaise written years ago by another 
romantic Pole; the poetic outburst of a national feeling. 

1581 



XVIII 

A RUDDY-FACED man in the sixties, with dark brown 
hair and reddish beard rapidly graying; sunlight 
falling on stucco walls; paintings by Arthur Davies; 
purple chrysanthemums; poetry recited as if it were a prayer 
these are some of my memories of AE. 

It was in the early morning that I made a drawing of him, 
and it \pas well that it was so. There is, something of the earth 
breath of early morning about him, something that transports 
and invigorates, a quality of sympathetic exuberance. 

There he sat, comfortably at ease in a Windsor chair, his 
kindly blue eyes twinkling behind his gold-rimmed spectacles 
as he told of his plans for improving the conditions of the 
agricultural folk of the world so that the countryside would 
become a place from which nobody would willingly emigrate. 
For he believes that the great danger which threatens all 
modern states is the absorption of life in great cities. 

It is difficult to say exactly what George Russell is, for one 
cannot call a man an economist when he has written some of 
the best known poems of his time, nor can one limit him by 
calling him a poet when he has exhibited paintings of recog 
nized genius, and also edited one of the most influential papers 
in his native country. 

"I wanted to be a painter," he said as he puffed at his 
pipe and the smoke, blue and light, curled about his head in 
fantastic shapes, "but my family was poor. Art meant a long 

1 159] 



course of study in schools, it meant that during that time I 
would have to be supported, so I gave up the idea. Indeed, I 
did not take up painting until I was forty. What I did was to 
go to work in an accounting office. 

"But I do not think that I could have been very good, 
because I did not see the dry, uninteresting figures on the page 
before me. As I look back at that time now I can remember 
how I would sit for hours with my eyes on the ledgers and I 
would be miles away in my fancy, hiding in caves filled with 
sprites, climbing the tallest of the Himalayas, fighting with 
dragons, or searching for the banshee. 

"How I ever stood the work the length of time that I did I 
do not understand. But in the evenings, sitting by the light of a 
lamp, I would let my imagination have full play. I became a 
poet, or at least I began to write poems. I did not have the 
technical skill to draw the pictures that I saw In my mind, so 
I described them in words. 

"It was through my poetry that I became an economist, 
for I published a book of poems which Sir Horace Plunkett 
saw. At the time he was the head of the Irish Agricultural 
Society, and it was he who grafted a slip of poetry upon an 
economic tree. I do not know whether he expected a hybrid, 
but my books on that subject are not economics in his sense 
of the word, nor are they poetry in my sense." 

It was at this period that George Russell became AE. For 
the accountant dreamer wanted to hide his poetic yearnings 
under a pseudonym, and signed his poems Aeon, but unfor 
tunately his handwriting was none too legible, and the type 
setters on the papers to which his first efforts were contributed, 
unable to read the signature, printed only the first two letters of 
the nom de plume. 

f 1601 



"So you see/ 3 he said with an impish glint in his long, 
oval eyes, that at times looked as if they might have been 
Pan s, "I was labeled AE, which some people seem to think 
means agricultural economist/* 

And then, apparently forgetting my presence, he began to 
recite a poem, a poem of the earth and the man who tills it. 

"That was the first poem in the book, the one that 
prompted Sir Horace to invite me to join his society. 

"You may think it is strange that a poet should be 
asked to aid in an economic movement. But I do not think 
it will seem so incongruous if you will stop and think for a 
moment. 

"In the history of my own country it has been the poets 
who have given vision, imagination, and warmth to all of its 
political history. In fact, some of them have died for it. After 
all, it is only one man in about every hundred who can see 
just a little more than the other ninety-nine. They are the 
poets, the artists, the writers, the statesmen, and the philos 
ophers of this world. They must be the leaders of any move 
ment that takes place. They are the people of vision. 

"It is to interest such men as your Robert Frost, Vachel 
Lindsay, and Carl Sandburg in this movement that I have come 
to your country." 

I asked him to explain exactly what this was. 

"Up to the present there has not been much deep thought 
given to the life of the country man, the man who is compelled 
to live far from urban civilization. This is evident if we compare 
the quality of thought which has been devoted to the problems 
of the city, state, or the constitution of widespread^dominions, 
from the days of Solon and Aristotle to the time of Alex 
ander Hamilton, and compare it with the quality of thought 

{1631 



which has been brought to bear on the problems of the rural 
community, 

" Yet it is on the labors of the country man that the entire 
strength and health, Indeed, the very existence, of society 
depend. 

"The disease which has attacked the great populations 
both In Europe and here is discontent with rural life. Thou 
sands of farms are overgrown with rank weeds, and the young 
people who should be working them In many cases are living 
In great cities in fetid slums and murky alleys where the devil 
has his mansion. 

"The details of our modern civilization are all wrong. In 
wide areas of all countries there are stagnation and decay. 
This is especially true of the rural districts. It is so general that 
it has often been assumed that there was something Inherent 
in country life which made the country man as slow in mind as 
his own cattle." 

AE got up. Although he is not very tall, he is built on large 
proportions. Without being ungainly there is that massiveness 
about him that Boswell makes us attribute to our mind 
pictures of old Samuel Johnson. 

"But this is not so," he continued. "There is no reason 
why as intense, intellectual, and progressive a life should not 
be possible in the country as in towns*" 

"Why does it not exist?" I asked. 

"Because," he replied, "the country population is not 
organized. Because a new social order must be created, and 
that is what we are trying to do. 

"It Is the business of the rural reformer to create the 
rural community. That is the precursor to the creation of a 
rural civilization. But it is not enough to organize farmers in a 



district for one purpose only in a credit society, a dairy 
society, a fruit society, or a cooperative store. All these 
are but beginnings, but if they do not develop and absorb 
all rural business into their organization they will have little 
effect on character. No true social organism will have been 
created. 

"The specialized society only develops economic efficiency. 
The evolution of humanity beyond its- present level depends on 
its power to unite and create true social organisms. 

"It is our object to unite the average men or women in 
the fields and to convince them that the noblest life will be 
possible for them. For if you do not provide for people the 
noblest and the best they will go in search of it. Unless the 
countryside can offer to young men and women some satis 
factory food for soul as well as body it will fail to attract or 
hold them and they will go to the already crowded towns. 
The lessening of rural production will, in turn, affect produc 
tion in the cities and factories, and the problem of the unem 
ployed will become keener. 

"The problem, however, is not only an economic one, it 
is a human one also. Man does not live by cash alone, but by 
every gift of fellowship and brotherly feeling that society offers 
him. The final urgings of men and women are toward humanity. 

"It is one of the illusions of modern materialistic thought to 
believe it is not possible for as high a quality of human life 
to exist in the village as in the great city. It is one of the aims 
of the rural reformer to dissipate this idea and to prove that 
it is possible not to concentrate wealth in country com 
munities as in cities, but to bring comfort enough to satisfy any 
reasonable person and to create a society where there will be 
intellectual life and human interests. 

1 1651 



"Now, 99 he said, "you have heard enough of my aims. 
Let me see what you have done. 95 

I showed him my drawing, and he asked me whether I 
had not made him look too kindly. "For remember/ he said, 
"after all, I am an economist. 95 

He recounted his first meeting with Shaw. It was in the 
Art Gallery in Dublin, and he did not recognize G. B. S.; 
indeed, he mistook him for a retired Indian Government 
official. "But/ 9 he added, "when he began to speak my 
respect for government officials began to rise. 39 

He recalled Yeats, who, he said, kept on rewriting and 
polishing his poems until they were ultrarefined and lost their 
original strength. He declared that it took a Keats to rewrite a 
poem seven times and have the last version better than the 
first. 

His secretary entered the room and broke the spell, for 
Mr. Russell had an appointment at a broadcasting studio. 

All three of us rode up the Avenue. The poet gazed 
through the windows of the taxi at the marvels of our greatest 
thoroughfare. He spoke of the color and the crowds and the 
sunlight. 

"It is magnificent, 99 he remarked, "but think of the 
glory of a day such as this in green fields and wide spreading 
pastures. 99 

There was a note of incongruity in riding up Fifth Avenue 
with this man who was surrounded by an aura of outdoors. Into 
the heart of civilization, into the very vortex of the mechanistic 
age, he brought the simplicity of farms and fields and flowers. 
It would have been better to have walked with him over 
grassy meads, to have heard him speak in the shadow of a 
great tree. 

{166 1 



XIX 

SUCH a setting vividly recalls Ramsay MacDonald. For 
though I have also seen him in Downing Street, the resi 
dence of all Britain s prime ministers, it is not in official 
surroundings that one gets the clearest picture of Labor s former 
premier. No matter where this tall, gaunt Scotsman may reside, 
a "wee sma town" near the northern tip of Scotland, a little 
fishing village set among the hills Lossiemouth, his birthplace, 
will always be home to him. 

It is a dour place, this Lossiemouth; there is a sadness 
about the long sweeping hills that even the bright yellow 
broom flowers cannot dispel; there is a melancholy song of the 
sea as it washes the sandy shores, and as the wind plays in and 
out among the hillocks the wail of the banshee can be heard. 

The houses, too, are drab and the little streets of low 
granite huts all seem in keeping with the severity of the natural 
landscape. Nor are the inhabitants themselves a joyous lot* 
Even the clothes of the younger people lack color and the 
little children s frocks are black. Cottet might have painted 
his Breton fishing village figures, with their sad eyes and 
somber garb, in this little northern town where in midsummer 
the lingering twilight continues until nearly midnight. 

Lossiemouth rejoices in the reflected glory of a native son. 
It is not a demonstrative gladness. That would be impossible 
among those tanned, furrow-faced people whose knotty hands 
show the constant toil that is necessary to win a living 

167] 



from the stony soil and treacherous sea. Mingled with the 
pride over the honor that has come to their fellow-townsman, 
there is also a feeling of contrition for the way a large propor 
tion of them treated him during the war. For popular as Mr. 
MacDonald is to-day just so unpopular was he when he 
preached pacifism to a fighting country,, 

MacDonald of Lossiemouth, in many ways, is a very 
different person from the occupant of Downing Street. There 
are necessary formalities that go with the office of prime 
minister which for a man of MacDonald s temperament are 
unusually irksome. In order to be free from these he must 
travel sixteen hours northward where he can forget for the 
time being that he is the real head of the greatest empire 
in the world and live again the life he led before he entered 
politics. , 

The house he occupies in this town is one that he built for 
his mother not far from the one in which he was born and not 
very much more pretentious. There is nothing to distinguish 
it from any of the others on the same street. There are no 
butlers and no guards about. I entered the little gate in the 
wall that has not even a bell to announce the coming of a 
visitor, and before I was aware of it I came upon a porch at 
the side of the house away from the street and overlooking a 
stretch of waste land covered with the ever-present broom 
plant. 

Here under the shelter of a wooden roof are a rough table, 
several old morris chairs, and a bench built along one side of 
the wall. This serves as a dining place in pleasant weather 
and here the Prime Minister does some of his work. The 
house is small and there are no spare rooms. In fact, his 
modest bedroom, with its mission bed, its family photographs, 

1 1681 




Ramsay MacDonald 



and pitcher and basin on the wash table, also serves as an 
office, and a large flat-topped desk placed in the center of the 
room leaves space for only two chairs. 

Dressed in tweeds, his wavy white hair blown by the 
breezes that come across the fields, his complexion darkened by 
exposure to the weather, the Premier is a distinctly outdoor 
type. His features are clean cut, and his dark eyes which peer 
from beneath heavy brows have a note of sadness in them, 
for in his expression are traces of the hardships he went 
through as a young man. 

There is the faintest suspicion of the Scotch burr in his 
speech and this probably accounts for his shyness of foreign 
tongues, and his refusal to pronounce certain names and words 
in any but a way that is natural to him. 

Seated at his desk in his room in the little house at Lossie- 
mouth, it was evident that he was wholly engrossed in the 
subject at hand, whether it was an answer to a letter that he 
was dictating or some little detail of his early life that he was 
recounting. 

This is true of whatever he does. Riding through the 
countryside on his way to the golf links near Forres he appears 
to put aside completely the cares of office and to have no 
thoughts but of the region through which he is traveling. 
And no one knows more of the legends and stories of the 
place, no one is more stirred by the beauties of the landscape; 
for in him there is the spirit of the poet, too, as any one who 
has heard him read "When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom d" 
can attest. 

And so it is not strange that he is a good golfer, for when 
he settles himself for a stroke there is only one thing in his 
mind and that is his game, and nothing can distract him from 

1 



it. It is this power of concentration that has made it possible 
for him to accomplish the tremendous amount of work that 
he does. 

While he was posing for me two secretaries were constantly 
coming in with letters, the door of the room was open and 
other members of his household were continually going up 
and down stairs, but he did not object. When he spoke to 
me, so far as he was concerned I was the only person in the 
house; when he was dictating to one of his secretaries, 1 
am sure he did not realize that I was there. 

It was difficult to believe as I sat opposite him in a room 
so small that I had to rest my portfolio on the edge of his 
desk and had to get up to allow a secretary to pass, that this 
man, so simple and unaffected, with no sign of "pomp and 
circumstance," was filling the office once held by the romantic 
Disraeli and the classical Gladstone, and conducting the affairs 
of Great Britain from this tiny room in a remote village. 

Concerning the political future of the world, the Prime 
Minister is optimistic. In speaking of the League of Nations, 
he said that he believed that its Influence would depend upon 
the moral and political power the small states of Europe 
acquired. 

"If they can really exert an influence at Geneva," he said, 
"it is possible that in the future we shall have something 
corresponding to a United States of Europe. But if this does 
not happen, if they do not obtain that influence and the larger 
powers continue to dominate and use the machinery of the 
League to carry out their own policies, things will be less 
hopeful and more confused. 

"For the powers will naturally try to maintain peace, but 
they will be Inert and act as an older generation does toward a 

{1721 



younger one, telling them what to do and imposing their own 
will, and that does not make for a condition of stability." 

One of Mr. MacDonald s intimate friends, in speaking 
about him, said: "The trouble with him, if you can call it a 
fault, is that he is too much of an idealist, and he trusts people 
too much." 

He trusts people because he loves mankind and believes in 
the rights of the individual. He sees the whole world being 
apportioned into vast economic fields controlled by powerful 
syndicates which recognize no boundary lines other than those 
of markets and which will hold in their keeping the lives of 
millions of human beings. 

"What may be called social materialism is growing 
vigorously," he said, "and during the coming years it will 
become increasingly a problem for those who care about 
individual liberty. 

"The self-determination of nations has been the watchword 
since the beginning of the war; now the cry for the self-deter 
mination of individuals will replace it. 

"Individuality and personality are supplements of nation 
ality." 

That Mr. MacDonald is strongly an individualist is not 
to be wondered at. Born in the part of Scotland that has always 
been radical, it is not strange that the spirit of democracy 
is strongly developed in him. When he was a child the large 
farmers were turning the people off the land and the hatred the 
Scotsman has for landlords was taking firm hold. 

"We boys looked down practically from the moment of 
our births upon the people we called c swells and regarded 
ourselves as quite as good if not better than any of them," 
the Prime Minister said. 

f 1731 



After his schooldays he had to do something to make a 
living, for his people were poor, and with farms all about him 
it was natural that he should turn to agriculture. He went 
right into the fields and though the work was hard and tiring 
he did not mind it. 

"For a man," he said, "is never the worse for hard muscular 
work. Those plowmen were a fine lot. Every one of them 
knew his Burns as well as his Bible, and nearly all of them com 
posed songs of their own and these fields in the springtime were 
alive with whistling and singing as we dug our furrows." 

His schoolmaster did not approve of his continuing as a 
farm hand, so he went to MacDonald s mother and between 
them they arranged for him to return to school at half fee 
and he became a pupil-teacher. 

After holding this position for some time young MacDonald 
gave it up to be secretary to a man in Bristol, intending 
to go to the Royal College of Mines, for in those days he was 
much interested in science. 

"But," he continued, "the Bristol experiment was a 
failure and off I set for London. 

"I knew but one or two chaps of my own age, and I spent 
my days looking for employment, for when I arrived I did 
not have even the traditional half-crown* I obtained a job at 
ten shillings a week addressing envelopes, but it was only 
temporary work and I have known what it is to walk through 
the streets of London with nothing in my pockets, debts 
hanging over my head, and nothing to do." 

At last he obtained a permanent position as invoice clerk 
in a warehouse. Though his salary was only fifteen shillings a 
week he said he lived like a fighting cock, saved money and 
had a holiday in Scotland, besides which he helped to support 



his mother and also paid his tuition fees at the City of London 
College and Highbury Institute. 

It was not easy to do these things on his meager salary. 
It meant that he had to buy his food where it was cheapest; 
his oatmeal, which to a Scotsman is a necessity, was sent to 
him from home. 

"Tea was too much of a luxury for me to afford/* he 
explained, "but you know that hot water is really quite as 
good as tea from the point of view of food, and it tastes quite 
good after you have grown used to it." 

For a time his mind was divided between science and 
politics, but an illness which used up what little he had saved 
compelled him to take a position as a private secretary, 
and there he soon realized that he could not go on indefinitely 
with two divergent interests. It was essential that he make a 
choice so he decided to go into politics and journalism. 

There were hard years before him, and as he recounted some 
of his experiences he seemed to live them over again. His 
voice is rich and dramatic and he uses it like an actor. When 
he is speaking he emphasizes a point by a gesture of his right 
hand on the thumb of which he invariably snaps his pince-nez. 

At the head of the government to-day, he does not forget 
those early trials, nor does he forget his boyhood friends, 
many of whom still live in the old town. 

I met one of them, a country storekeeper who had called 
to get his daily order. I was leaving the house and he volunteered 
to show me some of the older part of the town, including the 
hut (for it is not much more than that) in which MacDonald 
was born. 

Later, sitting among the fruit and vegetables of his store, 
he reminisced. 

1 175 I 



"Yes, sir," he said, "I remember the Prime Minister as a 
boy. We went to school together. His people were farm folks 
and lived down below; mine lived up here near the top of the 
hill. They were sailors. Many were the fights we boys had, for 
there was constant warfare between the hill boys and the 
farm boys. 

"It happened, however, that Jimmie and 1 went to the 
same school. I don t call him that now, but I know he wants 
me to. When I see him, he puts his arm around my shoulder 
and asks me how things are going, and to see the two of us 
together you would never think he was the Prime Minister 
and I the greengrocer who sold him vegetables. 

"As I look back on those times now I should say that 
Jimmie s dominant trait was his love for his mother, and even 
on those days when we had sneaked off from school he would 
constantly keep his eyes on the position of the sun, so that 
he would not be late in returning home." 



176 



XX 



I HAVE preserved no order in writing these memories, nor 
have I attempted any classification. Indeed, it is but 
rarely that a man in a certain profession will bring to 
mind another in the same calling. Perhaps it is because they 
are both Italians that I think of Benito Mussolini in con 
junction with Arturo Toscanini. I doubt it, however. I think 
it is the difference in viewpoint rather than the identity of 
nationality that links them together as far as I am concerned, 
Toscanini refuses to permit patriotism to influence his musical 
judgment, Mussolini holds patriotism above all else. 

And yet in America I doubt very much that II Duce would 
have gone into politics. In this country he might have been 
an actor or an impresario or even a sensational financier. 

Emotionally, he is essentially Italian; still in Rome he 
has not done as the Romans do. The result is stupendous. Into 
a city without sidewalks in many streets, where bicyclists 
ride in the evening holding lighted candles in their hands, 
where restaurants send their waiters to nearby fountains to 
get water, where forums have become the breeding places of 
cats, where the ruins of antiquity are millstones around the 
necks of the people, into these surroundings this strange man 
from the country, unawed by traditions, has introduced 
modernity, but with it all the trappings of the Renaissance. 

We in America gloat over our democracy when former 
newsboys ran for president; but in Italy a man sprung from a 

1 177 



similar origin has become a dictator, and little is said of that 
side of his history by the Italian people. 

Remarks on that score are chiefly confined to old ladies 
with chignons and black velvet ribbons around their necks, 
who have made Italy their home for years because Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning wrote her sonnets there; who sit in the 
cheaper restaurants and, fearing to mention him by name, 
speak of the mysterious Mr. X. and whisper in Oxonian 
accents that "this thing is as bad as Bolshevism." 

And still this thing, this Fascism, started out as a movement 
of youth. Even the most radical of them all, the leader of the 
left wing, the thundering Farinacci, is a big overgrown boy of 
thirty-five or forty who, laughing, plays a game of matching 
fingers at lunch. 

Youth has gained control of a government and is making 
the most of it, borrowing from here and there and realizing 
that the people like a certain amount of theatricalism in the 
government, but, never forgetting "the grandeur that was 
Rome." 

Although youth is in control, it has not discharged age. 
I found this out when I went to keep my appointment with 
the Prime Minister at the Chigi Palace. 

At the head of a flight of broad marble steps covered 
with a runner of thick red carpet, I entered one of those over- 
decorated rooms in which it can easily be imagined that 
during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries any number of 
plots were born. Its painted pilasters and columns, its ceiling 
on which birds and flowers are arranged around medallions 
of gods and angels, a marble bust of some early cardinal or 
pope with a sort of marble halo around his head, all speak the 
language of another age. 

f 178 I 




I 



Benito Mussolini 



There I was met by an old man well past seventy. The 
tips of his shoes turned up and his Prince Albert coat hung 
below his knees. Suspiciously he looked at me over the tops of 
his silver-rimmed glasses and, although I explained that I 
had an appointment with the President, as II Duce is called, 
it did not allay his misgivings. 

He wanted to know what I had in my portfolio and when 
I opened it and he saw that it contained nothing more dan 
gerous than some sheets of drawing paper, he shuffled off to 
inform the proper authorities that I was there. 

In a short time my name was called and I was ushered into 
Mussolini s office. It is a tremendous room about forty feet 
square, and in one corner, placed diagonally, is a large table 
with a lamp on it. Behind the table, staring, his right hand 
raised in salute, stood a man. As I entered, the first thing I 
saw was the white of his eyes, glistening and making his 
pupils seem intensely black and beadlike. The stare was so 
intense that it might almost have been the look of a fanatic. 
It dominated everything in the room. 

Not until later did I notice the marble floor with its thick 
oriental rugs, the two globes one celestial and one terrestrial, 
each over five feet in diameter a table on one side with a 
model of a Roman galley, and its companion piece against the 
opposite wall with a photograph of Sir Austen Chamberlain, 
and also the old tapestries that hung against the brocade. 

These things made no impression; they were absolutely 
effaced by the dominating personality in the corner. Though 
not nearly so tall as his pictures make him appear, by sheer 
intensity and vital force he dwarfed the immensity of his 
surroundings. As a skilled artist by a clever manipulation of 
perspective manages to center the entire attention of the 

1 



onlooker on one figure, so on entering the room all the lines of 
perspective appeared to vanish in this one comparatively small 
figure behind the table. There was nothing in the room but him. 

It was dusk outside. The stream of automobiles on the 
Corso kept up an incessant din. The lights in the room were 
on and made shining high lights on his swarthy skin; they 
struck his forehead, high and well-formed; they shone along 
the side of his nose; they accentuated the darkness where 
his face was shaved; and they made his winged collar gleam 
inordinately white. 

Despite the squawks of the horns on the motor cars, 
despite the electric lights and the braid-bound morning coat 
and the starched collar, there was more of the feeling of the 
Renaissance about him than there was of the present. It was 
fitting that his office should be in the ancestral home of a 
family that had given the world two popes. 

The hand that had been raised in salutation dropped sud 
denly and, as I advanced toward the table, it was stretched 
across to grasp mine. 

"I am not going to pose for you/ 5 he said as he sat down and 
busied himself with some papers, but there was a suspicion of a 
smile in those dark eyes as he spoke, " so sit down and get your 
things ready." 

Before him was a portfolio one of those leather affairs 
without which no Continental writing table is complete and 
in the middle of the table was a green bronze inkstand. Except 
for these things, a pen which stuck in the stand, and the lamp, 
the large table top was clean 

For a few minutes he concentrated upon the papers before 
him; then he looked up with a smile. "Life is very short," he 
said, "and there is so much to do. 

f 182 1 



"Life is work," he continued. "You see, my methods and 
the power that the Fascist! have won have brought to me a 
tremendous responsibility which means that I have to work 
about sixteen hours each day. 

"But I have always worked hard. I had to. When one s 
father is a blacksmith, it goes without saying that one must 
work to live. I studied to be a teacher and taught for a while. 
Then I went into exile in Switzerland and had a very hard 
time, in fact I was a mason there. Then I came back to Italy 
and began writing for a Socialist paper." 

Mussolini s English is good, but his sentences are short. 

"Then the war came," he went on, "and from it and its 
after effects I learned many lessons. Books are good to read, 
but in my experience I find that there is but one book that 
teaches a man. That book is life. 

"The war began in August, 1914, and within two months of 
that time I was no longer a Socialist. I saw that their theories 
were not my ideals. But I needed experience to learn that les 
son. It was through the war that Fascism had its beginnings." 

I asked him how that was. 

"That is a long, long story. It means going into too many 
things, recounting long days of strife and nights of work, of 
telling .about the articles that I wrote for my own paper in 
order to show the people of Italy that they were being deceived, 
that the old democracy was a shell and that a new system of 
government was necessary for us to regain our feet. 

"Bolshevism was sowing its seeds here. Strikes were becom 
ing numerous; our money was worth little; and while the 
stated causes of agitation were always economic, in truth 
they were political and the aim was to undermine the state s 
authority with the idea of establishing Soviets. 

1 1831 



"That ever-growing band of patriots, the Fascists, firmly 
held their places during strikes, realizing with true patriotic 
zeal that the real sufferer in all these disputes was the Italian 
nation. 

"At last we got Into power, and the world knows what has 
happened." 

From a glass that stood beside him he sipped some water; 
his black eyes flashed. 

"I took over the direction of the state when it was at its 
lowest ebb. There was a six-million-dollar deficit. Inflation and 
printing presses created an illusion of prosperity. My policy 
changed all this, for the Fascist financial policy was a sound 
one. 

"Civil life had to be reorganized, the school methods had 
to be changed, public services had to be improved, and old 
bureaucratic methods done away with. 

"For six years now I have given up every personal thing 
and devoted all my energies to effecting these improvements 
for Italy." 

Suddenly Mussolini stopped speaking. He stared at me 
darkly, almost sinisterly, with the expression f a man who 
is trying to frighten a child. I endeavored to conceal a smile. 
He saw my efforts and began to smile himself. There is some 
thing childlike about him, a desire to produce theatrical 
effects, but beyond this is a tremendous sense of humor, and 
a certain lovable quality that is hard to describe. 

From nowhere, apparently, some one had appeared. Words 
so low as to be almost inaudible were exchanged and Mussolini 
arose. He stood very erect behind his desk and rubbed his 
hands together. Slowly over his countenance spread that 
terrifying stare directed toward the door, but I noticed there 

f 1841 



was a sidelong glance to see the effect upon me. Some one 
entered, his hand went up in salute, and the stare became 
more intense, almost a grimace. 

It had the desired effect, for the visitor, evidently abso 
lutely awed, tiptoed toward the table. It was with difficulty 
that he found his voice and began to speak. Mussolini beckoned 
him to sit in a large red chair at the opposite side of the table 
but he himself remained standing. Then began a remarkable 
performance. 

The visitor spoke; for what seemed an interminable time 
he kept up a continual stream of talk but the President said 
nothing. His expressions, however, and his actions were more 
eloquent than any number of words. There was hardly an 
emotion that was not portrayed by the silent party in those 
ten or fifteen minutes of the one-sided conversation. During 
that time Mussolini showed anger and pleasure, disgust, 
hatred, satisfaction, and impatience. He showed these feelings 
not alone by the expression on his face, but by his entire body. 
From an imperious Caesar he changed to a rollicking Falstaff ; 
the eagle of imperial Rome became a slinking cat, and with 
feline movements and grace almost slid over the table that 
separated him from his visitor; suddenly the claws were 
stretched out as if ready to scratch, and as suddenly they were 
drawn in. 

The interview was ended. The visitor arose and as he 
walked toward the door, Mussolini drew himself up to military 
attention and appeared to concentrate upon the back of his 
caller s head. The look was intense, as if he were trying to 
extract every thought from it. As the stranger reached the 
door he turned and up went his hand. Mussolini s did likewise, 
and as the door closed he turned with a half-smile and a sigh, 

I 185 I 



like an actor who appears before the curtain for applause, 
and then resumed his seat* 

As If there had been no interruption he took up his con 
versation where it had been broken off. 

"I have given up everything for the state/ 5 he continued. 
"Except for a horseback ride in the morning and occasionally 
a little fencing, I have not had time to devote to any other 
exercise of which I am very fond. My reading has been confined 
to political papers and works, though it was my usual habit 
before entering public life to indulge myself in reading poetry 
and, as an Italian, I suppose it is unnecessary for me to tell you 
that Dante has always been my favorite as a poet. Even my 
violin playing has had to suffer, and it is difficult for me to 
find the time to play my favorite arias of Verdi and Puccini." 

I asked him why it was necessary for him to give so much of 
his own time to the government now that it was running 
smoothly. 

"Because I realize," he said, "that I dominate the party, 
and it is because I realize this fact that I have the ability to 
keep the party alive. 

"I suppose you wonder why it is necessary to continue it 
in the same form that it existed when it achieved its victory. 
History will give you the reason. Force is necessary to make 
a revolutionary movement legal. New and unforeseen things 
continually arise. The Fascisti followed me during the trying 
periods almost blindly. To disband the party and retire would 
seem impossible to me. 

"One of our principal duties is the formulation of a new 
Italian method of government. In order to do this I have 
remained at the head of a party that was formed for this 
purpose, and by my will I have kept the party intact with the 

{186} 



same ideals with which it started out. I have seen the political 
prophets who predicted a short life for Fascism and a return 
to old principles put to shame, and to-day the party remains 
untouched by attacks. 

"In fact, in order that our aims should not be changed from 
their original purpose, we have closed our ranks to newcomers, 
for as soon as the rest of the people in Italy saw that we were 
successful, they wanted to join. What the admission of too 
many strangers among us would have effected was uncertain 
and for that reason we now take no more new members, 
although we have what we call the Avanguardia which, 
together with an organization of boys and girls, selects and 
educates the youth of our country in the principles of Fascism." 

Gathering all his papers together in his portfolio, he arose. 
Silently, his secretary appeared with the evening journals. 
Mussolini took them with his portfolio under his arm and, 
putting on his hat and tapping its crown, he turned to me and 
said: 

"It s half-past eight. I am going home." 

"Tired?" I asked. 

"No," he replied, "I am never tired. Now I am going home 
to work." 



1 187 




XXI 

BOUT Maestro Arturo Toscanini there is an element of 
myster7. He has built around himself a wall of reserve 
that few can scale. He feels that he should be judged 
by the music that he produces and that his personality can be 
of no concern to the public. Apparently, to his mind, even the 
applause that greets the performance of the orchestra under his 
direction is accorded to the music rather than to him. 

His shunning of publicity has given rise to numberless 
stories about him, some true, others not. He never uses the 
same baton twice; he does not go to a barber shop; his daughter 
cuts his hair many such anecdotes are current. Whether 
they are true or false makes little difference to him. He leads 
a simple life, the center of a circle of friends who weigh his 
every word; who perhaps remark that the maestro is in a 
good mood to-day, for he smiled, or with awe say that the 
maestro is in a fury, for the rehearsal did not go welL 

There are, in reality, two Toscaninis. One the public sees; 
the other his friends know* There is the frowning maestro of 
the rehearsal room, the Napoleon of the orchestra, who leaves 
his men exhausted yet admiring. He demands almost super 
human efforts from them, but, as one of them said after a 
particularly arduous rehearsal, "By the time he gets through 
he will make musicians out of all of us." This is the short, 
dark-complexioned man with graying hair that is thinning 
on the top of his head, whose every muscle is taut and whose 

f 188 




Artuto Toscanini 



every nerve is tense as he walks quickly to the conductor s 
stand in the middle of the stage. When he appears the men 
whom he has urged and coaxed and reprimanded arise. It is 
their mark of respect for a great musician. 

Before him there is no music stand, nor any music. He 
knows by heart the score of every piece he directs. Under 
his arm he carries his baton as one carries a riding crop. His 
back is to the public. The applause seems to have little effect 
upon him. He waits, turns and bows, but apparently his mind is 
far away. His bow is quick and jerky, his attitude is that of a 
man who is interrupted in some important work. Again facing 
his orchestra, he waits for a moment, taps the music stand 
of the cellist who sits before him, and, as if saluting with a 
sword, brings the tip of his baton up to his head; he closes 
his eyes and then for a second appears to remove his every 
thought from anything extraneous. Another tap, more authori 
tative than the first, and the concert begins. 

Toscanini draws melody from his orchestra. The baton in 
his right hand commands, but his left hand wheedles the tones 
he desires. That left hand is a study; thin and shapely, with a 
long thumb that starts very near the wrist, it performs an 
entire symphony by itself. Tenderly it hushes the strings; 
commandingly it calls for volume from the brass; it goes to 
the heart when it wants melody; and, closed into a fist, it 
compels thunder from the drums. 

As Toscanini directs he appears to be playing every instru 
ment in the orchestra. The violins have a leading part, and the 
delicately held baton moves as a bow through the air over 
imaginary strings. The trombones take up the strain, and 
his cheeks puff out until he seems to be actually blowing upon 
one. Or perhaps there is a choral part in the piece, and immedi- 

1 191 1 



ately he sings, not loudly but as if his voice were one in the 
chorus. 

When the performance is finished the salvos of applause do 
not move him. He points to the orchestra and signals that it 
is they, not he, that deserve it. Floral tributes are tabooed 
by him. a They are/* says he, "for prima donnas and corpses. 
I am neither." 

That is the Toscanini the public knows; the man whom, 
twenty years ago, the directors invited to conduct opera at 
the Metropolitan. They went to see him at La Scala at Milan, 
to try to induce him to come over here. In him they did not 
find a temperamental musician whose head was in the clouds. 
For, temperamental as he is, he never forgets the demands 
of his art. He is well aware that although upon the conductor 
rests the responsibility for the artistic merits of the perform 
ance, nevertheless he must have an efficient and cooperative 
personnel behind him. The fact that Mahler conducted at the 
Metropolitan was one thing that made him decide to come, but 
before he gave his assent he insisted that not only the director 
but also a number of the others at La Scala should be engaged. 

To know the other Toscanini it is necessary to meet him 
away from the scene of his work. Surrounded by his friends, 
he is an entirely different man from the one who steps before 
the public, baton in hand. Among them he relaxes. In his 
home in Milan an artistic and musical coterie finds him a 
gracious host and a charming companion. In the United States 
although he keeps out of the public eye, he nevertheless has 
his group of intimates whom he frequently sees and to whom 
he speaks freely. 

To them he is the simple, unaffected Italian whose parents 
were so poor that he went to a school at Parma where not only 

f 192]} 



education but living was free. It was there that he studied 
music and learned to play the cello. The discipline at the 
school was so strict, Toscanini recounts, that one day he was 
discovered playing the piano and was severely punished for 
it, because the cello was the instrument he Was expected to 
study. 

At nineteen he was cellist in an orchestra in Rio de Janeiro. 
The opera "Aida" was to be performed, and the conductor 
was booed by the audience. Toscanini s fellow-musicians, 
realizing the young man s ability, proposed that he should 
direct the opera. "From then on," Toscanini often says, "I 
have been a conductor, though I have not forgotten my first 
love, the cello." 

Although he has given a large part of his life to the con 
ducting of operas, he has expressed to his friends a preference 
for symphonic music. 

"For," he says, "in the directing of symphonic music there 
are not so many extraneous things with which to contend. 
My orchestra is, as it were, one instrument upon which I play. 
In a short time the men who work with me begin to know what 
I want and they help me to obtain the results that I desire. But 
in the opera house many other things arise that are in conflict 
with music, or at least are outside its domain. 

"There are, first of all, the peculiarities I call them 
that rather than another name of the singers. Then there are 
the numberless questions of scenery and stage management. 
Many conductors feel that these things are outside of their 
province, but I feel very much as Wagner did, that for an 
opera to be a work of art it must be a unified whole. To achieve 
that end, one man must direct the entire production. The 
general tone of the scenery plays a part in an opera, as well 

ft 1931 



as the general tone of the music. Wagner, if you remember, 
not only composed the music of his dramas, but also wrote 
the libretti and made plans for the scenery. He went even 
further; he designed an opera house for the productions. 

"To Wagner I am indebted for much; I often wonder 
whether many musicians realize the tremendous fund of 
knowledge there is to be found in his writings. I think that I 
can honestly say that whatever I am to-day as a conductor I 
owe largely to what I learned from him. 

"What Wagner was to Germany, Verdi was to Italy. He 
represents the highest point in the development of the music 
drama in his native country. But aside from his musical 
genius he stands for everything that is fine and noble in man. 
Italy could well be proud of him as a citizen had he not written 
one bar of music." 

Great is Toscanini s admiration for these two masters; 
so great indeed is his respect for Wagner that he has refused to 
conduct "Parsifal" because he believes that that opera should 
not be produced outside of Baireuth, except in a church. 
But his veneration for these composers is exceeded by his 
worship of Beethoven. In him he sees the superman. The 
majestic loneliness, the frightful deafness borne with patience, 
and the deep humility of the man increase his admiration for 
Beethoven as a musician. To Toscanini the nine symphonies 
are the apotheosis of all music. In conducting them he feels 
that in such works man approaches the divine, and that in 
them is the essence of all religions. 

"Many eccentricities," he said, "are being introduced 
at the present time in the craze for novelty in invention, 
and many old forms are being modified and exploited as some 
thing new. Only recently the question arose as to whether a 

1 



department of jazz should be inaugurated in a conservatory 
in Germany. Now, I feel that there is not a well-trained musi 
cian in the world I mean one trained in the so-called old 
school of music who need be puzzled by the peculiarities of 
jazz. Even the much vaunted saxophone has been used for 
certain effects in the regular orchestras for years. 

"Personally, I am interested in jazz as a matter of fact 
I have been from its very beginning. It undoubtedly has an 
element of novelty and has added something to the treasury 
of music. The unexpected in it appeals to me. But there is a 
great deal of jazz music that is absolutely worthless. I have a 
number of gramophone recordings of an excellent jazz band, 
and I have just bought a number of new disks." 

Toscanini has expressed strong ideas on permitting patri 
otism to play any part in musical judgments. 

"Music," he said, "may be written by a German, an 

Italian, a Frenchman, or an American, but to me that is 

unimportant. It is either good music or bad music. The 

nationality of the composer has nothing to do with its merits. 

The same thing may be said about classical as opposed to 

modern music. Music is not like wine; it does not improve 

I with age. Nor, on the other hand, is it like an egg that can be 

I, spoiled by being kept too long. Occasionally, of course, the 

true worth of music is not appreciated until years after it is 

written. There is good old music, and there is bad old music, 

just as there is good and bad new music. 

"The most essential requisite in listening to music is an 
open mind. When I hear a composition for the first time I 
try to put myself in the position of the average untrained 
listener. After all, music is not written for the enjoyment of 
professional musicians, but for cultivated lovers of music. 

1 195 I 



I know many musicians who, while hearing a piece for the 
first time, analyze it in every minute detail. This is a mistake. 
It is analogous to the act of a critical painter who, on looking 
at a canvas, examines minor technical details without first 
getting an impression of the work as a whole. 

"Do you know, I believe that there is such a thing as 
crowd understanding that the public often grasps the merits 
of a particular composition which escape the ear of the pro 
fessional musician. 

"The Americans have one great advantage over the people 
of other nations. This is the meeting place of the entire world. 
Italians and English, French and Germans, all come here and 
bring their traditions with them. Those who remain here and 
become citizens still retain their traditions. This interchange, 
this mingling of different ideas and ideals is a marvelous thing 
for music, for although music must be universal in its appeal, 
nevertheless it is undoubtedly influenced by various elements. 
You could no more imagine Wagner having written Aida 
than you could imagine Verdi composing The Meistersinger.* 

"But in America there is no one single dominating element 
at work. I notice this in the orchestras here. When I conduct in 
Milan I am at the head of an organization that is composed 
entirely of Italians. Here I have men with me from all four 
quarters of the globe. I get the best from all countries and not 
all from one country. 

"The same thing is true of the American audience. It is so 
conglomerate in its make-up that no one type of music will 
satisfy it. This makes for varied programs, which in turn tend 
to create a cosmopolitan taste. 

"Naturally, the hearing of great works of music improves 
the taste of any people. But of course one cannot present only 

196 



works of the most exalted standards. There are not enough of 
them. However, I give nothing in my programs that I do not 
consider worthy of being heard. 

"Although America now hears all that is best in music, that 
does not guarantee the foundation of a school of music. Gods 
have been born in stables and musicians have sprung from 
what would seem to be the most unfavorable surroundings. 
Geniuses appear in the most unlooked-for places and at the 
most unpropitious times." 



1971 



p^-W-^HE 

I me 
JL arc 



XXII 

rain was coming down in torrents one Sunday 
morning when I drove down Unter den Linden and 
around to the Stresemann house in Friedrich Ebert 
Strasse to make a drawing of the Foreign Minister. It was 
dark because of the storm, and the lights in the house were a 
pleasant contrast to the cold, dreary grayness outside. As I was 
ushered into the library, the lighted lamps, the round center table 
and the tall bookcases seemed more than ordinarily " gemiitlich." 
In the few minutes that I had to wait before I saw Dr. 
Stresemann I examined the contents of the bookshelves. One 
entire case was filled with the works of Goethe ^and books 
pertaining to him, and the other was largely taken up with 
works, memoirs, and lives of Napoleon. On the table were 
more books, among them a life of Hoover in German and a 
small volume of extracts from speeches and letters of the 
First Consul, also in German. 

Certain passages in the latter book were marked, two of 
which seemed pertinent and indicatory of the owner s own 
thoughts. The first was a letter sent to Friedrich Wilhelm III 
of Prussia. "Were I a beginner in the art of war," it ran, "and 
did I need fear the tricks of luck on the battlefield, then this 
letter to your Majesty would be unnecessary. But your 
Majesty will be defeated, and without a warning you would 
endanger your own freedom and the very existence of your 
own people. 5 

1 198 




Gustav Strescmann 



The source of the second quotation was not given, but 
there were two pencil marks on the margin calling, as it were, 
double attention to it. "A statesman, 5 * it said, "is not created 
to be sensitive; he is a person who stands entirely alone and 
whom the entire world opposes." 

It was a sparkling room, so filled with lights and furniture 
that memory of it is an impression of a mass of lights shining 
like jewels rather than of definite objects. However, the 
spirit of it is distinctly French, tinctured by a Teutonic 
influence and this is accentuated by a colored print of a painting 
of Napoleon, which overpowers a print of Frederick the Great 
hanging near it. The French Emperor is not depicted as the 
victorious conqueror; it is a picture of him as a family man, 
holding the King of Rome in his arms, while seated by the 
family hearth is Marie Louise. The entire room was one which 
Menzel might have painted, and how he would have reveled in 
flicking the brilliant high lights on the polished furniture and 
the glowing lamps. 

Among these surroundings the Foreign Minister in his 
black clothes of modern cut was somewhat of an anachronism. 
He was distinctly a present-day type and essentially Teutonic. 
Augustus John painted him and, by exaggerating the modeling, 
produced a caricature, but in no way gave the impression the 
man himself produced. 

His head was round and the planes merged one into the 
other. Very blond, with light blue eyes, his complexion was 
inclined to pallor and seemed paler in contrast with the redness 
of his full lips. 

His English was good, though it had a trace of foreign 
accent. At the meetings of the League when he had a 
paper prepared he invariably read it in English; on the 

I 201 I 



other hand, when he talked extemporaneously he used his 
mother tongue. 

After speaking with Dr. Stresemann for five minutes one 
felt his chief characteristic was his optimism. It was that 
trait which carried him through the troubles and the trials he 
underwent during the last six years of his life> for it was but 
that length of time that he was in the eyes of the world. 

The thing ahead was always the thing that interested him 
most, and like the majority of his countrymen who since the 
war seem to have put sentiment behind them, he seemed to be 
in no way guided by the past. It was the future that interested 
him. To use his own words, his policy was "marching forward 
over the graves." 

His disregard of tradition played an important part in his 
career. In many cases this almost proved disastrous to his 
political future but he never allowed the desire for office to sway 
his opinions, nor did he ever conceal his beliefs for the sake of 
political preferment. 

He was born in Berlin, the son of a restaurant keeper in 
very moderate circumstances. His father made great sacrifices 
to send him through the Universities of Berlin and Leipzig 
where he specialized in economics and politics. First elected to 
the Reichstag in 1907, he served there, with but one year s 
interruption, until 1923, when he became Chancellor and 
began the policy of reorganization that made him the great 
post-war statesman of Germany and linked his name with 
Briand s as an apostle of peace. 

The chancellorship was too uncertain a position for 
Stresemann, and the German nation could not afford to 
permit so valuable a man to hold so transient an office. Accord 
ingly, he was appointed foreign minister. Chancellors came 
f 202 I 



and went, but he continued to wield his influence for the 
reorganization and reconstruction of his fatherland. He 
effected the security pact with France, negotiated the Locarno 
Treaty, and obtained the entry of Germany into the League of 
Nations, while in all the conferences incident to the adoption 
of the Young plan his guiding hand was felt. 

Germany s future, he believed, lies in the capability of its 
citizens for hard work. "There is no sham about them, but a 
deep-rooted sincerity and a desire for advancement," he said. 

The American and German people have many character 
istics in common and to this fact Dr. Stresemann attributed 
the resemblance that Berlin bears to large American cities. 
In our people he saw the same energy, push, and adaptability 
that he recognized in his own. 

That break with tradition which has always been so evident in 
American methods he saw as a post-war attribute of Germany. 

"It has been demonstrated in a growing measure," he said, 
"that the German policy of peaceful reconstruction and 
conciliatory collaboration has nowhere found sincerer recogni 
tion than in the United States. In fact, American collaboration 
stands at the beginning of Germany s reconstruction. America 
was first among former enemy powers to come out for the 
principle of constructive economic common sense and fair play 
for Germany, and to make possible the first fruitful negotia 
tions between the Reich and her former opponents. 

"It is due to the decisive attitude of American statesmen 
and financiers that these negotiations were brought to a 
positive conclusion and that the reparation problem was 
removed from the sphere of political passions and ambitions 
for power and raised to the level of an impartial examination of 
economic viewpoints. 

f 2031 



"On the other hand, Germany s thoughtful attitude 
regarding the solution of the question of safety on the Rhine, 
which is the central point of European discord, and its position 
in negotiations attending the adoption of the Locarno Treaty 
did not fail to impress America, which is highly interested in 
the pacification of the European economic body. Nobody can 
doubt what role America is destined to play in developments 
of the near future. 

"That Germany and America have entered into relations of 
sincere friendship and are following well-defined common aims 
must be considered one of the pleasantest results of German 
foreign policy and a promising indication for the future." 

Dr. Stresemanri s admiration for America extended even to 
his private life. As he was speaking of the drawing which I had 
made of Mrs. Stresemann, and saying that he thought I had 
made her look like an American woman, she entered the room. 

Looking at the portrait of her husband, she said that she 
thought I had done enough, and, turning to him, she con 
tinued: "And I think you had better go upstairs now and rest 
a little before dinner," 

"But I am not tired," he replied. (How like Mussolini s 
words !) 

"You never know when you are tired; go up and rest 
anyway," she answered. 

He got up and, with a smile, said to me: "I think you were 
right; I do believe she s more American than I had realized." 

Though I have seen Dr. Stresemann making fervent 
addresses in the Assembly of the League of Nations, I shall 
always remember him best not as the man of international 
affairs, but as the home-loving German in his house in Berlin. 

f 2041 



XXIII 

MMOST vivid memory of Elihu Root is of him 
walking into the old-fashioned living room in his 
home on Fifth Avenue. A spirit of early New York 
pervades that home* Although he lives in an apartment, 
he has so transformed it that it seems to be one of those 
brownstone houses which were characteristic of the city 
when horse cars jangled and gas lamps lighted the streets, 
when presidents were made or broken on the red leather 
lounge in the corner of the marble-floored hall of the Fifth 
Avenue Hotel and governors selected before the bar of the 
old Hoffmann House. 

The walls of his living room are covered with steel and 
copper engravings of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. 
The dun-colored paper, the mahogany bookcases filled with 
volumes bound in calf, and the furniture all reflect the solid 
comforts of a period when people impressed their own person 
alities upon their homes. It is a room that is evidently lived in 
and its symmetry would not be marred by a misplaced maga 
zine, nor its comfort sacrificed for conventionality. 

Black-framed, white-matted prints of the wigged jurists 
of England, French actors in Watteau costumes, a tiger by 
Delacroix and an old Jew by Rembrandt, all looked down on 
me as I sank into a great chair before an obviously much-used 
fireplace. Outside the morning sun hit the bare trees in the 
park across the avenue, tinted the white marble Museum of 

205 I 



Art pale orange, and made the room which reeked of substan 
tiality seem somewhat somber. 

Like another famous lawyer, Mr. Root seems to have 
discovered Florida s fabled fountain. In many ways his manner 
and attitude toward life are reminiscent of Justice Holmes. 
Into old-fashioned surroundings both bring the spirit of 
eternal youth. The Supreme Court justice is the more humor 
ous of the two. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes that is lacking 
in the sad eyes of Mr. Root. About both of them is that simple 
courtliness which Thackeray delighted to describe. In the 
case of Mr. Root this likeness to one of the novelist s characters 
is heightened by his appearance: his silver bang and his sparse 
side whiskers recall pictures of Victorian days. As he walked 
briskly into the room and stood there, erect and vital, it was 
hard to believe that this was the year 1931. 

This alert man, so many of whose contemporaries have 

passed to the great beyond, seemed time defying. Atlas-like, he 

appeared to be carrying another age upon his shoulders, but 

it did not bear him down. Into the room he brought memories 

of Grant, of Tilden, of McKinley, of Cleveland, and a host of 

others who by this time are almost legendary; and here was he 

who had known them all and who had worked with many of 

them, strong, active, and absorbed in world affairs. For him 

the sun had presumably stood still, not for a day, but for years. 

He took me into his study. It is a small room, in the corner 

of which stands a mahogany roll-topped desk cluttered with 

papers and books. The impression that it left is rather blurred, 

for my attention was riveted upon him as he sat with the light 

from two windows falling upon his head, and his surroundings 

out of focus. I can remember the blue cover of a copy of 

"Moby Dick" and three pictures hanging above the desk. 

1 2061 




JRoo* 



One was an engraving of a jurist of the Georgian period; this 
was flanked on one side by an enlargement of an old daguerreo 
type the portrait of a poetical looking man of middle age 
with chin whiskers, his head resting on his hand and on the 
other by a large photograph of Lord Bryce. I mentioned the 
pictures. 

"The engraving is a portrait of Lord Mansfield," he said, 
" Chief Justice of the King s Bench during the American 
Revolution. Lord Bryce you probably recognize. It was sent 
to me by Lady Bryce after his death. The third one is a por 
trait of my father." 

Mr. Root has been accused of being cold, of lacking 
sympathy, but as he looked at the picture of his father there 
was an expression of softness and tenderness in his eyes. 

"He was professor of mathematics at Hamilton College in 
Clinton, which I attended. But that was a great many years ago." 

"You have seen many changes in your lifetime," I 
remarked. 

"Yes, a great many." Then there came a moment of silence. 

"Ideas and ideals are changing, and I think we are con 
stantly moving toward better things. Gradually men s con 
ceptions of their relations to one another have improved. 
While this is a slow process and has been going on since the 
dawn of history, even in my lifetime I have seen evidences of it. 

"That is the reason why I can look to the future with hope. 
When you go back in history and study the condition and 
character of civilized peoples in each succeeding century, 
you find an increase in liberty and justice and righteousness. 
Education has gained ground and men have become generally 
more intelligent, less cruel, and more considerate of the rights 
of others. 

209 



"Even in my time compassion not only for human beings 
but even for animals has grown. I distinctly remember that 
when Henry Bergh founded the Society for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals he was looked upon as more or less of a 
crank. To-day a man who is cruel to animals is regarded as a 
brute. It is this growth of compassion that I would say was the 
greatest change that has occurred in my lifetime. 

"As late as the last century there was an amazing degree of 
cruelty, of oppression, of immorality, and of corruption which 
would not be tolerated to-day. A little more than one hundred 
years ago there were at least two hundred offenses punishable 
by death in England. Of course, it has been the change in the 
inner man which has brought about the abolition of these 
punishments. 

"Religion has gone through a metamorphosis. From a 
narrow dogmatic theology, I have seen it swing to gross 
materialism. Now, with Jeans and Eddington and other 
scientists discovering that this materialism will not explain 
everything, there is a return to spirituality. The men of science 
are faced by a stone wall and they must stop; they know no 
more about the ultimate than the most bigoted Fundamen 
talist preacher." 

He paused. For a few minutes he said nothing. Then he 
continued : 

"Our ideas of right and wrong have also changed. In 
eighteenth century England a man expected to pay thousands 
of pounds for a cabinet appointment, and it was not a dis 
grace for a minister to buy the vote of a member of parliament. 

"That was the period when the roads of the nation were 
beset with highwaymen and Dick Turpin and others of his 
calling were heroes in the eyes of the people. The custom of the 

f 210 I 



country permitted the plundering of wrecked ships; jails were 
breeding places of pestilence and hospitals and insane asylums 
were not much better. 

"I mention England as an example. The same thing was 
true of the rest of the world. But when we compare these 
conditions with those of to-day in England and her dominions 
and in the United States, or for that matter in all of Europe, 
we must realize that honesty and humanity have made 
amazing progress. 

"In fact, some of the very evils which the government now 
frowns upon it sanctioned years ago. In New York State, for 
instance, a law was enacted in 1814 to raise money for colleges 
by lotteries. In my youth there was a tradition that the 
president of one of these colleges bought out the interests 
of other institutions, which were to benefit by this form of 
gambling, and thus enriched his college, which was fostering 
and promoting the morals of the young men of the time. 

"In my lifetime I have seen the attitude toward any 
number of things undergo a radical transformation. For 
example, there were the objectionable railroad practice of 
rebates, the questionable management of corporations, and 
even the abuse of the elective franchise. Of course I mention 
only a few of the ills which I have seen cured. 

"I distinctly remember the frauds, the tricks and devices 
and acts of violence which worked against fair elections before 
Federal election laws were passed. In those days there was no 
registration of voters; the wayfaring man could vote a resident 
out of house and home and the count of ballots was at the 
mercy of anybody who managed to buy a local election officer. 
The ballots themselves were supplied by the party; they 
were made out and handed by political workers to each voter, 

I 2111 



who was given one or even more to drop Into the ballot box. 
I have seen a long line of men march out of a tramp lodging 
house with ballots held high in the air and continually in 
sight until they were deposited, so that those who bought 
votes would know they were getting what they paid for. 

"Things are by no means perfect as yet in politics/ 9 he 
continued with a smile. "Human nature must still progress. 
But what I want to make clear to you is that the attitude 
of the majority of people has changed toward many things. 
Marcy s declaration to the victor belong the spoils 9 is no 
longer accepted. 

"Of course, there is much still to be accomplished, but I 
think things have improved," he continued, looking up at the 
photograph over his desk, "since James Bryce wrote his 
* American Commonwealth 9 a generation ago, when the govern 
ment of practically every American city was a byword of 
shame for Americans all over the world. 

"Politics in themselves have not changed as much as men s 
ideas. But in the natural course of events these ideas will 
ultimately affect politics and improve them. It is a long way 
from the day of the Greek serf, and although slavery per 
sisted up to a comparatively short time ago, there has been a 
gradual, steady growth of human sympathy. The words 
liberty, justice, order, and peace denote the application of 
moral ideas to the conduct of men in mass toward their 
fellow men. They mean more to-day than ever before. 

"This growth of human sympathy, together with the 
realization of the advantages of self-control and of working 
for a common interest, is changing man s attitude toward 
life. He has come to learn that the progress of the world has 
now reached a point where society must rely upon that self- 

I 212 I 



control and that common interest for the smooth working of the 
vast machinery of government. The mere forcible enforcement 
of law is inadequate, for laws do not effect reforms, nor do 
they make men better. The improvement must come from 
man himself. It is not the fear of the policeman or the sheriff 
that keeps peace among us; it is the self-control of our citizens 
who conform their lives to the rules of conduct necessary to 
the common interest. It is upon this spirit that the hope for the 
permanence of modern civilization lies." 



f 2131 



XXIV 

ris significant that two former American secretaries of 
state should be deeply interested in a cause for which the 
Permanent Court of International Justice stands as a 
worldwide symbol. Mr, Root is one of those secretaries, the 
other one is Charles Evans Hughes, Chief Justice of the United 
States, It was just before he left to take his seat on the bench 
of the Permanent Court that I visited him. He went, not 
as a representative of the United States, but as a judge selected 
by the Council and Assembly of the League of Nations. For 
the United States is not a member of the Court, whose function 
under the League Covenant is to interpret treaties, pass on 
questions of international law, and settle differences arising 
between nations. 

Mr* Hughes believes that the Court will aid materially in 
preserving peace and that we shall gain something in our 
quest for peace if we recognize that war is not an abnormality, 
that it is the expression of the insistent human will, inflexible 
in its purpose, and that the culture of civilization has strength 
ened, not enfeebled it. 

"However," he said, "there are controversies between 
nations which should be decided by a court. There are con 
troversies calling for the examination of facts and the ap 
plication of the principles of law. There are international 
contracts or treaties, now more numerous than ever, to be 
interpreted. 

1214} 




Charles Evans Hughes 



"It is to the interest of the United States with respect to 
the disposition of its own controversies that the best practicable 
method of judicial settlement should be provided. We have 
rights and duties under international law. We are parties to 
treaties under which we have rights and obligations. And we 
cannot be the final judge in our own cases; we need the best 
possible international tribunal to decide them. This is to the 
interest of every American citizen. It is also to the interest of 
the United States that controversies between other nations to 
which we are not a party should be appropriately determined. 

"Suppose a citizen of this state should say that he was 
interested in having a judicial tribunal to determine con 
troversies only between states to which New York was a 
party, and that it made no difference to him what happened if 
the question was between Missouri and Kansas. 

"Every citizen knows that it is to the interest of domestic 
peace to maintain a tribunal by which controversies between 
any two states can be determined. It is equally essential to 
world peace to maintain a tribunal by which controversies 
not our own should be peacefully and impartially determined, 
wherever that is possible." 

Mr. Hughes has the happy faculty of simplifying seemingly 
complex questions. As he talks he emphasizes the point he 
wishes to make with a smile. It is not a smile of humor, but 
one with an interrogatory twist which seems to ask whether 
the listener understands a smile which assumes the simplicity 
of the statement no matter how abstract it may be. Mr. 
Hughes sees but two ways for the settlement of controversies 
between nations, for a controversy cannot remain, as he put 
it, "a festering sore. 5 Ultimately the alternative to peaceful 
settlement is the arbitrament of force. 

I 217 I 



"The only way to prevent war/ 5 he said, "is to dispose of 
the causes of war, and the desire for peace must be supported 
by the institutions of peace. Because a court may not be 
able to deal with every sort of controversy, but only with 
controversies that are appropriate for a court to decide, is no 
reason for dispensing with it. There is no immediate access 
to the millennium, and a demand for the millennium will 
not prevent war." 

The son of a Welsh Baptist clergyman, Mr. Hughes was 
born and lived the first years of his life in Glens Falls, a village 
which is filled with Revolutionary lore. While the battle of 
Appomattox Court House was being fought, and Richmond 
threatened, he was visiting the cave made famous by Cooper in 
his "Deerslayer" and seeing Bloody Pond where hundreds 
of earlier Americans had met their deaths in the French and 
Indian wars. 

When he was but three years old, this country, to use his 
own words, "was standing aghast at the irreparable loss of the 
martyred Lincoln and confronted with the suspicions, hatreds, 
and scandals of the period of Reconstruction." 

"In England, the long career of Palmerston had ended 
and the first ministry of Gladstone had not yet begun," he 
said. "In France, Napoleon III was endeavoring to conceal 
the decadence of the empire with a fatuous splendor. In Italy, 
Cavpur had been laying the foundation of Italian unity, 
but the essential successes of Victor Emanuel were yet to 
come. In Germany, Bismarck was pressing to the fateful 
victories of Sadowa and Sedan, and with relentless will 
was forging the mechanism of German imperial power. MilPs 
Liberty and Darwin s Origin of Species had but recently 
appeared, and Das Kapital of Marx was shortly to be 
f 218 I 



published. The electric age was in its beginning and science 
was yet to win the victories which have given us the practical 
achievements of the gas engine, the moving picture, and the 
radio more revolutionary than political theories/ 

It was but a short time after this that his family moved 
first to Jersey City and, after a brief stay there, crossed the 
river and made their home in New York. 

Both parents were deeply religious and looked forward to 
their son s following in his father s footsteps, but the boy had a 
will of his own. In fact, when he was but five years old, dis 
approving of the method of teaching in the school which he 
attended, he formulated a plan, set it down on paper and under 
the heading " Charles E. Hughes, his plan of study, 5 presented 
it to his father. When he delivered the salutatory address in 
old Public School 35 he had firmly made up his mind to become 
a lawyer. 

There followed years at Madison, now Colgate, and at 
BrOwn; teaching Greek and mathematics at Delhi, New York, 
and a course in the Columbia Law School, succeeded by three 
years of graduate work. 

The professorship of law at Cornell took him to Ithaca 
where he spent some of the pleasantest days of his life, and then 
he returned to New York to resume his practice of law* 

"Life is only work, and then more work, and then more 
work," he said, and his entire career has exemplified this 
idea. To-day with a world-wide reputation, he works as hard 
as did the young lawyer who was selected by Senator Stevens 
to investigate the gas and electric companies. He crowds 
as much into one year now as he did twenty-five years ago, 
when, having finished with the Stevens Committee, he became 
counsel for the Armstrong Investigating Committee and made 

I 219] 



a nation-wide reputation in unearthing the wrongdoings of 
the life insurance companies. This resulted in his election as 
Governor of New York, and for the ensuing quarter of a 
century he has been constantly in the public eye a period 
during which he said that he had been more libeled than any 
other public man by bad drawings of himself. 

He gave me a photograph which he thought might help 
me to finish the portrait I was making of him. He believed 
it was like himself, but as I looked at it I remembered the 
quotation from Burns. It was a picture of an entirely different 
man from the one I saw. The obliterating hand of the retoucher 
had smoothed away all the marvelous character that was 
present in the original. Gone were the lines of concentra 
tion above the eyes; the beautiful modeling in the well- 
shaped nose had been removed, and the fire in the eyes 
had vanished. 

Mr. Hughes has changed considerably in appearance 
since the days when he founded what eventually became the 
Rockefeller Bible Class, or even since the time he was Governor 
of New York. The square-cut brown beard which was once the 
target of cartoonists has turned gray and is trimmed more 
closely. But there is the same fire in the eyes and the same 
smile, a smile which breaks suddenly with no warning. 

There is something of the air of the medical man about 
him: there is a finality about his statements that there is no 
gainsaying, and a positiveness which a diagnostician would 
employ when he was sure of the conclusions at which he had 
arrived. And then, too, there is something of the teacher, 
a didactic manner of expression, meticulous and precise. 
No consonants are slurred, and sibilants are given their full 
force. 

f 220 I 



He is one of the few men whom I have drawn who did not 
keep me waiting a minute; President Coolidge was another. 
The moment I arrived I was ushered into his room and he 
apologized because he had to continue his dictating for a 
few minutes. When he had finished he turned in the swivel 
chair behind his desk and faced me. In repose his expression 
is stern, almost Jovian; It is only when he speaks that it lightens, 
and then it becomes benign. 

For the last thirty years, he told me, he has been doing a 
daily dozen on arising. These exercises, together with walking 
whenever he has the time, have kept him in first-class physical 
condition, and he recalled the long walks he used to take on 
Riverside Drive when he lived on West End Avenue and when 
Grant s Tomb was still a novelty. 

In reading, his tastes are catholic. On his desk and beside 
his bed there are always books that may be picked up for a 
few minutes, but he does not believe that "by the study of 
books you can obtain the equivalent of contact with men." 

"As I observe, * he remarked, "the profusion of educational 
opportunities not only through varied courses of instruction 
but in the multitude of books and periodicals, of dramatic 
portrayals by word and picture, I realize that what is needed 
is not more information but better judgment, not more bulletins 
but more accuracy of statement and a better assimilation. 
And as we consider the welter of controversies and the danger 
ous clashes of interest, we come to place our reliance not upon 
emotional appeal but upon the processes of reason and the 
dominance of those who have not lost emotional power but 
have been able to hold passion in check. 

"We live in an interesting world and we must not contract 
ourselves into some narrow little sphere in which we happen 

I 221 1 



to be placed and refuse to come out and get into contact with 
the varied interests of the world. 

"It is a beautiful world, too beautiful in nature, beautiful 
in the works of the imagination, beautiful In the works of art, 
beautiful on every side." 



I 2221 



XXV 

STRETCHING along Fifteenth Street between where Penn 
sylvania Avenue stops on its course from the Capitol 
to where it begins again as it runs past the White 
House, stands the Treasury Department. Discolored by dirt 
and age it appears even darker in contrast with the green 
grass about its main entrance. There is something very secure 
about it and, compared with the domed Capitol and the 
newly painted White House, it has a stern business-like aspect. 

In a corner on the second floor is the office of the Secretary 
of the Treasury a large room done in mahogany and blue that 
might be the office of the president of any large corporation. 
On the walls hang five paintings, portraits of Mr, Mellon s 
predecessors Chase, who served with Lincoln; Taney, after 
wards Chief Justice of the Supreme Court; Sherman, author 
of anti-trust legislation; Gallatin, the fourth to hold the office; 
and Hamilton, father of our governmental financial system. 
Through the windows one gets a vista of the city and, above 
the trees, the Washington Monument shoots its shaft skyward. 

Mr. Mellon is seated at a desk at the far end of the room. 
The sunlight that floods the room is reflected by some papers 
and throws a glow over his head, emphasizing his prominent 
cheekbones and the strongly defined markings in his face. 

A tall, slightly built man, he gives an impression of great 
nervous energy under complete control. One senses in him a 
tremendous force, a force of brain, not of muscle; a man whose 

I 2231 



reasoning faculties are always dominant over his emotions. Mr. 
Mellon is not robust but he is that thin type which is capable of 
great endurance under physical or mental strain. 

- To whatever he undertakes, Mr. Mellon seems to give 
himself over completely. For more than a decade the subject 
absorbing his attention has been the Treasury Department, and 
it is by what he has done there that he wants to be judged. 
Upon personal topics he lives up to his reputation for shyness. 
And so the conversation turned to Mr. Mellon s work in 
Washington and what he as a business man thinks of the 
administration of government. 

"The Government is really a gigantic business/ he began. 
"It should be run, and can be run, on business principles, 
though there are certain necessary limitations on efficiency, 
which we are not obliged to contend with in private life. I mean 
by that such limitations as, for instance, selecting employees 
from a limited civil service list and paying salaries which are 
frequently inadequate for the quality of service demanded. 
There is, too, the political pressure that is constantly applied 
for the promotion or retention of undeserving employees. 
Because of the low salaries in the higher positions such as, for 
example, in the Bureau of Internal Revenue, the labor turnover 
is very high in the key positions. The housing facilities are often 
inadequate, though plans are under way for a building program 
in Washington which will to a large extent eliminate this evil. 

"These are some of the disadvantages. On the other hand, 
there are many compensations and advantages. It has been 
my experience to find in Washington a sense of unselfish 
service and a pride in position that have brought the Govern 
ment an honest, and more faithful class of workers than private 
industry could command upon anything like the same terms. 

| 2241 




Andrew W* Mellon 



I know that this is true so far as my own department of the 
Treasury is concerned." 

"How do you feel about getting results ? Isn t it slow work as 
compared with the way in which private business can operate ?" 

"Oh, yes, 55 Mr. Mellon replied, "but it is necessary to have 
patience. The Administration and many members of Congress 
worked for years just to get one idea across that in reducing 
taxes it was also possible to revise and reform the tax system, 
and that just because taxes were high it did not necessarily 
follow that they would produce more revenue, or even so 
much revenue, as lower taxes would produce. But eventually 
we saw that idea enacted into law, just as in time most things 
work out. The danger is to expect too much of government. 

"No government, however able, can change economic 
conditions overnight or accomplish the miracles demanded 
of it. All that can be expected is that a government moving 
with intelligence should give economic forces freedom and 
help the country to cure itself. In this country we have usually 
avoided false gods in the past. But new theories and new 
remedies are constantly presented, and we should therefore 
analyze carefully the political promises of to-day. When a 
candidate, in order to bring about the millennium, would 
start the Government in an orgy of spending, let him submit 
the details of his budget. 

"Our ills, as they arise in our economic system, cannot be 
cured by magic formulas, but only by the application of well- 
tried economic principles. The rest can be left to the initiative, 
intelligence, and good sense of the American people. 

"You see, * he said with a smile, "such a philosophy of 
government calls for the same conservative principles which 
operate successfully in business. That is my conclusion derived 

f 227} 



from more than fifty years of business experience before I 
came to Washington." 

"Did you say fifty years, Mr. Secretary ?" I asked, for his 
appearance made the statement seem incredible. "Have you 
really been in business so long ?" 

"Yes," said Mr. Mellon. "I was in the banking business in 
Pittsburgh in 1874. At that time banking, along with most 
other business, was on a very different scale from what it is 
to-day. Industrial America, as we know it now, hardly existed 
before the early seventies. Production was limited, and indus 
trial and manufacturing concerns were operated chiefly by 
individuals or partnerships. The great natural resources, which 
were to produce such untold wealth for the country, were 
still lying largely undeveloped, or undiscovered. Such indus 
tries as petroleum, natural gas, and cement hardly existed; 
the steel industry was in its infancy, and the automobile 
industry was unknown." 

I suggested to Mr. Mellon that as well as vast changes 
in banking and in business in those fifty years, he must also 
have seen a change in the attitude of the public and the 
Government toward business. 

"Yes," he said, "there has been a change in attitude, 
particularly in the last decade or so. The distrust of great 
corporations has largely passed away, as it has become more 
and more evident that organization on a large scale is necessary 
in a country as large as this, not only in developing our natural 
resources, but in producing such things as automobiles, 
express and freight trains, textiles, electric power, and many 
other commodities necessary to our present mode of living. 

"It is the old story of large-scale production. We have 
learned that lesson in the United States, and realize that only 

{228} 



by achieving a uniform, and, therefore, cheaper production 
of commodities, and by taking advantage of labor-saving 
mechanical devices, thus increasing the productive capacity 
per capita of labor, is it possible to pay high wages and still 
reduce costs, so that the finished products are within reach 
of the great buying public. It follows, of course, that, as a 
result of lower prices, consumption of commodities is increased. 
This still further stimulates production, and so it goes. In 
the end, we find that it pays to manufacture in quantity and 
to make a large volume of small profits. 

"It is because this fact is becoming so generally under 
stood that much of the distrust which formerly existed against 
corporate organizations is disappearing. There is, too, the 
further fact that corporations are not owned by a few wealthy 
people, but by millions of stockholders, many of them persons 
of small means, who find they can secure a surer return on their 
money through investment in some useful and well-run 
enterprise than in any other way. There is nothing new in 
what I have been saying, but it is a fact of great significance 
that this change is taking place." 

"I suppose, Mr. Secretary," I said, "that in the changed 
attitude of both the Government and the public toward 
business, there is also to be found an explanation of the changed 
attitude of the Government toward the banker, whose services 
are called on more and more in helping to solve governmental 
problems." 

"It is partly due to that," said Mr. Mellon, "and partly 
to the fact that the problems themselves have changed. This is 
particularly true since the war. In recent years problems have 
arisen that are so largely financial and economic in character 
that bankers have been called upon to help in their solution, 

f 229 I 



even when those problems are of an international and semi- 
governmental nature, such as were once left to officials and 
diplomats to settle. 

" American banking before the war largely confined itself 
to financing industrial developments in this country. But 
now we have Become a creditor., instead of a debtor nation; 
and banking Is finding that, just as it earlier became involved 
in industry and has been obliged to help in the solution of 
industrial problems, so It must now help In finding a solution 
for those international financial problems which must be 
solved if the world is to go forward." 

"And now, Mr. Secretary, one more question. You have 
seen America grow from a comparatively poor nation to a 
very prosperous one. Do you attribute its present wealth, as 
foreign critics sometimes do, to its great resources ?" 

The Secretary deliberated a moment before replying. "In 
part, of course, it is due to those resources," he said. "But it is 
due in a larger measure, I think, to the energy and initiative 
of the American people and to their genius for organization. 
Those of us who have lived through the economic readjust 
ments of the last fifty years know that the country s dominant 
position in the world of finance and industry is due to the 
fact that America has succeeded in adjusting herself to the 
economic laws of the new industrial era. In doing so, she has 
evolved an industrial organization which can maintain itself, 
not only because it is efficient, but because it is bringing 
about a greater diffusion of prosperity among all classes of 
citizens than was ever known before in any other country 
In the world s history." 

That, one realized, was a statement of Secretary Mellon 3 s 
faith in the soundness of America s business system and of 
f 230 I 



the principles underlying the whole American civilization. 
It was easy to understand; but what was not easy to under 
stand, was that the keen, vigorous man before me, who is in 
the very forefront of all that is going on in the world to-day, 
could be the same man who was a business cqntemporary of 
Carnegie, Frick, and the other great figures of ^irty or forty 
years ago. Mr. Mellon is, indeed, one of the last of the great 
business leaders still living, who link us with that earlier era 
when conditions of life were so vastly different from anything 
we know to-day. 



I 231 1 



XXVI 

CONSIDERABLY younger than Mr. Mellon, but also a link 
with that almost mythical past when great fortunes 
were amassed in a growing country, is Charles M. 
Schwab. Seated in his library, a large room, its walls lined with 
carved bookcases above which hung paintings by Diaz and 
Turner, he told me that after fifty years of business it made no 
difference to him whether he had one dollar or a hundred 
million and I believed him. For he could make almost any 
body believe almost anything. 

Several days before seeing him in his home on Riverside 
Drive, I had gone to his office to make a drawing of him. A 
salesroom takes up the ground floor of the building a sales 
room with the atmosphere of a cathedral, in which salesmen 
speak in whispers and in which tools are incidentally displayed. 
As the elevator whisked me by the nine floors occupied solely 
by offices, I caught fleeting glimpses through the glass-paneled 
doors, and as each succeeding floor came into view the only 
things that could be seen were articles made of steel and 
painted a dull green steel cabinets, steel desks, and even steel 
chairs. On the tenth floor the elevator stopped. Here customers 
were again received, and I entered what at first seemed to be a 
dimly lighted cloister. As on the ground floor, a semi-religious 
note was introduced into the scheme of decoration and formed 
a marked contrast to the snatches of bare efficiency to be 
seen on the way up in the elevator. 

1232} 





n 



Charles M. Schwab 



I was ushered into a small office, and within a few minutes 
Mr. Schwab came in. There is something all-compelling about 
him his voice is such as Homer ascribed to Nestor, "a stream 
of eloquence sweeter than honey/ 5 The only requisites for 
holding a conversation with him are two words, "yes" and 
"no," and they should be used sparingly. He has so much to 
say, he is so anxious to say it, and seemingly finds so much 
joy in doing so that one hesitates to interrupt. As an evangelist 
he would make Billy Sunday seem like the veriest tyro; as a 
politician he would put Al Smith to shame; had he become 
a criminal lawyer, juries would thank his clients for having 
committed murder. At his persuasiveness the eyes of needles 
would open to permit camels to pass through. 

While I was making my drawing of him he did not have much 
chance to tell me anything about himself or his ideas. People 
were constantly coming in; before they left they were profusely 
grateful to him for permitting them to do as he wanted. In the 
few business transactions in which I saw him take part he was 
always the same suave, genial, and accommodating. 

But in his home Mr. Schwab told me something of his 
half-century of business life, and it was there that he said that 
he was tired to death of the laudatory articles that appeared 
about him and that, like Cromwell, he wanted to be painted 
"warts and all." 

"As I sit and look back over those fifty years," he began, 
"I cannot for the life of me understand the whole thing. All 
I can do is to wonder how it all happened. Here I am, a not 
over-good business man, a second-rate engineer. I can make 
poor mechanical drawings. I play the piano after a fashion. 
In fact, I am one of those proverbial Jacks-of-all-trades who 
are usually failures. Why I am not, I can t tell you. 

f 2351 



"When I left Loretto and went to Braddock to take a job 
in a grocery store I was just sixteen years old. If It had not been 
for a ten-cent cigar I might still be selling dried apples over a 
counter. One day Bill Jones came in to get a smoke. Jones 
was the head of the Edgar Thompson Steel Works. I asked 
him for a job there. I did not know a thing about the steel 
business. Not for a moment did I at that time sense that the 
era of sted was just beginning. Had I done so I should not 
marvel the way I do at the result. But as it was, I was not 
interested in the grocery business, I knew that things were 
going on in the steel mills, and I thought I would take a chance. 
I think it must have been my nerve that made a hit with Jones. 
He gave me a position and by the time I was twenty-one I 
was chief engineer of the company. 

"Things happened just as in a fairy tale. At thirty-five I 
was president of the Carnegie Steel Corporation. In the course 
of events a dinner was given me by the Chamber of Commerce 
in New York. Mr. Morgan sat at my right hand; Harriman, 
Frick, and Carnegie were all there. I was called upon for a 
speech, and partly as the result of what I said the Steel Corpora 
tion was formed and I became its president. But I was not 
happy there. With Mr. Carnegie I was a czar. In the Steel 
Corporation I had too many bosses, and one of them was Wall 
Street. So I got out and formed the Bethlehem Company. 
That was twenty-five years ago, and in all that time we have 
never needed business. 35 

"Do you believe in luck?" I asked. 

"Luck, opportunity, chance call it what you will there 
is something that certainly gives some men more than an even 
break," said Mr. Schwab. "In my lifetime I have known 
thousands of men with more ability than I have some I 

{236} 



am certain were better executives, others were much abler 
engineers but things somehow or other just did not go with 
them. 

"The smallest and most inconsequential thing may havfe 
the most vital effect on a man s life. I often wonder what I 
would have done if Bill Jones had not bought that ten-cent 
cigar. For, surveying myself impartially, and appraising 
myself fairly, I can find no special ability, no one trait in which 
I excel. I love life and people. I am what you would call a 
good mixer. After a short acquaintance people like me, and I 
in turn have an abiding trust in them." 

"And you managed to make money in spite of that?" 
I asked. 

"Yes," he replied with a laugh, "but think of how much I 
might have made if I had not been so trusting. Speaking 
seriously, I have never gone after money as such; I have 
never started or done anything just for the sake of money. 
I would be a very much wealthier man than I am had I done 
so. Just to give you an example of what I mean, take the 
companies that Bethlehem has bought up, such as, for instance, 
Cambria. I could have purchased it personally and sold it 
at a profit to Bethlehem; instead of which I let Bethlehem 
bily it itself. Never in all the years that I have been connected 
with a corporation have I sold anything to it. During the war, 
before we entered it, Germany offered me $100,000,000 not to 
sell ordnance to Great Britain, but I refused the money. 

"What I have tried to do has been to build. It has been a 
joy to see businesses grow under my guidance. To plan, to 
adjust, to arrange and manipulate, to find the proper men for 
the proper places, to start new companies and reorganize old 
ones, in these things I have found my pleasure." 

| 237} 



I asked Mr. Schwab about the changes that had occurred 
in the fifty years he had been doing this. 

"In that time there have been vast changes not only in 
the methods of production but also in the methods of business 
and the attitude between employer and employee/ 9 he replied. 

"As for the production end, the inventions and discoveries 
in that time have been epoch-making; but I do not propose to 
go into the technical changes. That would be too scientific and 
naturally vary according to the product manufactured. 

"But just to give you some idea of the other changes: 
fifty years ago concerns in the same line of business were 
rivals, now they are competitors. There were many more 
trade secrets; the other fellow s product was usually not good; 
you sold yours by running his down. Then the lesson had 
not been learned that what would benefit one member in a 
certain line of production would benefit all; that conferences 
between them would result in a common advantage; that 
creating a market for a product would mean more business 
for every one. 

"It is in the last half-century, too, that the world has seen 
the mobilization of capital and engineering that has resulted 
in the wonderful era of progress in which we live. Industry 
has brought together and welded into single organizations 
thousands of human beings with different habits of life and 
thought. For the success and happiness of these human beings 
and of society in general, mutual relationships had to be 
adjusted on the basis of fair dealing and cooperation. 

"The result has been that there is a new concept of manage 
ment of business industry was humanized and men became 
self-respecting workmen and citizens and factors cooperating 
in the success of business. 

f 2381 



"I have always used my best efforts to further the interests 
and better the conditions of the men who worked for me. 
The first thing that I have always bornet in mind has been that 
they were human beings with the same desires and motives 
as my own. When their ideas did not coincide with mine, I 
realized that they were as certain that they were right as I 
was sure that I was. I do not know whether you know it or 
not, but I was put in charge of the plant at Homestead while 
the great strike was on there. Thirty-five years later, when I 
was no longer connected with the company, the men there 
gave me a dinner. I had to speak, I knew that I could not 
ignore that strike. So I got up with Carnegie s book in my 
hand and said that in speaking of the trouble I would read 
from that book and what I read was this: As for the strike, 
if Charley had been here there would not have been any. 

"Management has come to realize that conflict between 
labor and capital is destructive of the interests of each; it is 
unnecessary and mutually expensive. The result is a new code 
of economics, a code that aims not only to provide food, 
clothing, and shelter, but also to place a true dignity on labor, 
a dignity that yields a fuller and happier life. 

"But this happiness does not mean the abolishing of work, 
for work is the cornerstone of real happiness." It lies in the pay 
ment of fair wages for efficient services; steady, uninterrupted 
employment; safeguarding lives and health; good physical 
working conditions ; provision to lay up savings and to become 
partners in the business through stock ownership; and, finally, 
some guarantee of financial independence in old age." 

I asked whether standardization of labor conditions 
now was as favorable for the success of the individual as 
formerly. 

f 239 I 



"The conditions are more favorable, because there are so 
many more opportunities/ 5 said Mr. Schwab. "Take the 
question of wages, for instance. There was an adherence to a 
policy of uniform wages regardless of individual effort. Such 
a policy sought to discourage effort and to reduce the individual 
output to a standard set by the least efficient worker. But 
we have traveled far in our ideas on the question of reward 
for service. We now realize the essential benefits derived 
from relating compensation to the contribution made by the 
individual, 

"As a matter of fact, there are more good positions than 
there are men to fill them, or, at least, men who have had the 
opportunity, if you choose to call it that, to show the required 
ability. The Steel Corporation had difficulty in filling Gary s 
place, and the Westinghouse Company did not find a suc 
cessor to Tripp in a whole year. 

"Yes, in those fifty years I have seen a vast improvement 
in the whole line of business. I am an optimist and look to 
seeing even greater strides forward. I have never been a 
calamity howler, even at times when I have been in pretty 
tight places. I have always been a hard worker, and I have 
always managed to look at the bright side of things. 

"When I first went to work for the Thompson Steel 
Company I was a stake driver and my salary was so small 
that I taught the piano in the evenings for one dollar a lesson." 

"Tell me something about your interest in music/ 9 

"Now, listen," said Mr. Schwab, "I am a business man 
pure and simple, so please don t stress this music. Some one 
once wrote that it was through my singing that I met Mr. 
Carnegie. Now, as a matter of fact I met him in the regular 
channels of business, but people like to invent romances. 



"I first studied music under a priest at Loretto, Father 
Bowen, and then under a Sister of Charity. We always had 
music in our house. My father was very musical and my 
sister, who is a Mother Superior at present in Loretto, Is an 
accomplished musician. As for myself, I originally studied 
the piano; then I learned to scrape a tune on the violin, and 
later I took up the organ. Music has given me a tremendous 
amount of enjoyment in life, and for twenty-five years Archie 
Gibson, whom I consider to be one of the finest organists 
in the country, has come here to the house whenever I want 
him to play for us. 

"I am essentially a home man. Outside of public dinners, I 
have not dined away from my home in fifteen years. This is a 
pretty large house, but there is not a room in it that was 
designed for anything but living purposes. I have no large 
assembly rooms here, nothing for big functions. I love my 
friends; I love to entertain them. But all the entertaining I 
do is more or less Informal. Every Sunday afternoon I am at 
home to them all; as many as want can stay for supper. Among 
those friends are many musicians. When they play here it is with 
a different spirit from that of a public appearance. Here Kreisler 
is Fritz, and never at a concert have I heard him play the way 
he does right here in this house. I can say the same of Sembrich, 
Schumann-Heink and a host of others, 

"That is the kind of music I love. I am not partial to opera. 
It is too conglomerate an art. I prefer a more intimate and 
less formal style. The costumes and scenery add nothing to 
my pleasure, and the librettos for the most part are banal. 
I suppose I am too much of a realist to appreciate seeing a 
man or woman take fifteen or twenty minutes to die, warbling 
all the time." 

f 241]} 



I got up to go, and Mr, Schwab arose also. Coming over to 
me and putting his hand on my shoulder, he said: 

"The other day you drew me as I appear. You did not 
soften my wrinkles nor make my hair one bit darker than it is. 
Go ahead and write about me, but tell the truth. I am not 
giving any advice on how to succeed. I hate that kind of 
article. I have no use for the successful business man who 
lolls back in his chair with his thumbs in his pockets and says 
do this and don t do that and you are bound to get on. For 
nobody can tell any one else what to do. Things just happen, 
that s all. I am not a Pollyanna, but I am not ashamed of 
being an optimist. The world is a pretty good place in which to 
live, and money isn t the only thing that counts in it. I have 
never been so interested in business as not to be able to enjoy 
a good book, a good picture, or good music. I have had a lot 
of joy in this life which money has not brought me. But above 
all I am thankful for one thing, and that is the God-given 
gift of being able to see the good in other people and of making 
them see whatever good there is in me." 



f 242} 



i 



XXVII 

^HE belief in luck which is so characteristic of Mr. 
Schwab is also held by Julius Rosenwald, 

"Entirely too much stress," he said to me one day, 
"is put on the making of money. That does not require brains. 
Some of the biggest fools I know are the wealthiest. As a matter 
of fact, I believe that success is ninety-five per cent luck and 
five per cent ability. 

"Take my own case. I know that there are any number of 
men in my employ who could run my business just as well 
as I can. They did not have the luck that s the only difference 
between them and me." 

When I asked him to tell me something about his life, he 
replied : 

"That s an old story; in fact it is sixty-seven years old. I 
can tell you something that is much more interesting. I suppose 
that it was because I was born in Springfield, within a stone s 
throw of Abraham Lincoln s house, that I am particularly 
interested in his life. I am reading Beveridge s book now, and 
I read Sandburg s work when it came out. I want to tell 
this story because it shows that often authors are wrongly 
discredited. 

"Sandburg gives a very good picture of the times, and 
among other things, he tells of the difficulties that Harriet 
Beecher Stowe was laboring under when she wrote c Uncle 
Tom s Cabin. Now, it happened that when I was traveling 

| 243 I 



in New Mexico, I heard that one of her sons was living there, 
so I went to see him to find out all about it. He had not read 
Sandburg s book, so I sent him a copy, and he wrote to me 
and told me that it was all wrong that they always kept 
a maid and that his mother had plenty of leisure in which to 
write. 

"The next time I saw Sandburg I repeated to him what I 
had learned, and he explained the whole thing to me. It seems 
that the man whom I had met was the youngest son; by the 
time he was old enough to remember, Mrs. Stowe had not only 
written her famous book but had made enough money from 
it to afford the comparative luxuries which he mentioned. 
So you see both of them told the truth." 

This story and its investigation are characteristic of Rosen- 
wald. It shows his interest in small matters and at the same 
time it gives a good idea of his thoroughness a thoroughness 
which enabled a country boy who came to New York to work 
in his uncle s clothing store, in a short time to open his own 
establishment on Fourth Avenue, near where it runs into the 
Bowery. It was the same spirit of investigation and infinite 
attention to details that enabled him to see the possibilities 
in Chicago, to realize that there was a market there for summer 
clothes for men, for that was the period when white waistcoats 
and alpaca and seersucker suits were the vogue. Successful 
in this, he soon saw that in Chicago there was a big field 
for low-priced clothing, and accordingly he made new con 
nections and enlarged his business. 

One of his principal customers was Sears-Roebuck, a firm 
which had started selling watches by mail and had developed 
into a mail order house. The senior partner wanted to increase 
the business and saw Rosenwald s ability. That was in 1895. 
f 2441 




l^^st-S&%^^ 

-., , !. ",. , , ,< ^^ 



Julius Rosenwald 



Rosenwald bought an interest in the business. At that time 
the capital stock was valued at $125,000; to-day its market 
value is many times that and Mr. Rosenwald owns more than 
half of it. And as he puts it, "that business has grown to its 
present proportions without the introduction of one cent of 
outside capital. It has made the money by means of which it 
has been enlarged." 

Though Mr. Rosenwald is known primarily as a business 
man, and although he has held several important public 
offices, it is in his philanthropies that one sees the real man. 
There is more of the true Rosenwald, more of the essential 
quality of his personality in one of his philanthropic schemes 
than there is in any of his business plans. 

"I am absolutely opposed/ 5 he told me, "to any system 
of philanthropy that stores up huge sums of wealth and 
permits trustees to spend only the interest on the principal. 
To begin with, this is economically all wrong; but, what is 
more important, it shows an absolute lack of confidence in 
the future. 

"Do you remember the manna of the Bible which melted 
at the end of each day?" he asked. "I believe that gifts for 
the good of mankind should be spent within one generation 
of the donor s life. I can give you any number of examples 
where comparatively large sums of money are tied up for 
some particular purpose, the usefulness of which has entirely 
disappeared. To give you but one instance, when Benjamin 
Franklin died he set aside a certain sum of money, ten thousand 
dollars if I remember correctly, to be lent, as he put it, to 
married artificers under twenty-five. He computed that at 
the end of one hundred years the sum would be equal to one 
million dollars and this was to be expended for the construc- 

1247 I 



tion of sidewalks in Boston and to pump the water of Wissa- 
hickon Creek into Philadelphia. 

"Unfortunately there was a dearth of such artificers or 
perhaps I should say fortunately. At all events, a large part 
of the principal has remained idle and there is not enough 
capital for the projects mentioned; nor is it needed for the 
purposes for which he intended it. I have tried to circumvent 
this fault in the provisions which I have stipulated shall 
govern the so-called Rosenwald Fund, for its final disposition 
has been set for twenty-five years after my death." 

I interrupted to ask, "What are the purposes of the 
fund?" 

"It is a development of many years of personal gifts," 
Mr. Rosenwald explained. "In the words of the charter, it is 
incorporated for the well-being of mankind. 5 For ten years 
it limited its activities almost exclusively to the negro rural 
schools; then it began to broaden its scope. 

"There are many fields for this endeavor. The simple 
question of material necessities is one; the wise assistance, 
not by donations but by investments of capital, in housing 
or projects for cooperative farming which might serve as experi 
ments in fresh methods and new types of organization. Then 
there are the problems of public health, of education, experi 
ments in schools, cooperation with the government on various 
schemes, support of research, the development of promising 
individuals, and any number of similar subjects. 

"Only recently the thought came to me that the govern 
ment has made every provision for the separation of married 
people, and to-day our divorce courts are working overtime 
handing out decrees. I have an idea that if certain boards 
were established to hear the troubles of unhappily married 
f 248 I 



couples, not necessarily with the Idea of separating them, 
but rather with the purpose of disentangling their difficulties, 
much good would come of it and many homes would be 
saved." 

I reverted to the subject of the negro schools and asked 
what was the reason for his interest in them. 

"I am interested in the negro because I am also interested 
in the white," Mr. Rosenwald replied. "Do you know that 
one-tenth of our population is black ? If we promote better 
citizenship among that proportion of our people, it goes 
without saying that our entire citizenship will be the better 
for it. 

"Of course all of the states themselves helped with this 
project and appropriated money, and the colored people also 
secured donations; but it made me very happy when I knew 
that in fourteen southern states, March I, 1929 was set aside 
as Rosenwald Day in all schools which are attended by colored 
children." 

Now Mr. Rosenwald is absorbed in the building of a 
museum in Chicago, modeled after the Deutsches Museum 
in Munich, in which the history, In tangible form, of most of 
our modern inventions will be housed. 

But of all the gifts that he has made in his lifetime, the 
one that has given him the greatest pleasure is one that prob 
ably cost him least in actual money. 

"With Ingersoll," he told me, "I hate a stingy man. 
If you have only a dollar in the world, and have to spend it, 
spend it like a king. I d rather be a beggar and spend like a 
king than a king and spend like a beggar. 

"The reason I am quoting this is the fact that one of the 
smallest gifts I ever made is the one which meant more to 

f 



me that any other, and at the same time was a case where a 
beggar spent like a king. 

"I was fourteen and I had worked all summer for a few 
dollars a week. In the fall my parents celebrated their china 
wedding. I took all that I had and went out and bought a 
set of dishes. Proportionately, no king could have spent more 
lavishly. But looking back over the fifty-three years that have 
elapsed, no gift that I have made since then has left a more 
cherished memory." 



f 250 



XXVIII 

A HE leaned back in a big Italian chair in the vast 
living room of his Fifth Avenue apartment, leisurely 
talking, two hundred newspapers were awaiting words 
from him that were still unwritten. Great presses would not 
start their daily grind until this work was done, but into his 
huge beamed room that might have been in a Venetian 
palace Arthur Brisbane had brought none of the nervous 
tension of a newspaper office. 

Sitting there as if he had not anything else in the world to 
do, his heavy-lidded blue eyes sparkling behind amber-rimmed 
spectacles, he might have been a retired business man, except 
for an alertness and an all-absorbing interest and curiosity 
qualities not associated with ideas of retirement. For thirty 
years he has turned out his trenchant but simple phrases 
for millions of newspaper readers, and his literary output 
would fill many library shelves, 

But this has been only a part of his activities. He has 
bought and sold newspapers; his real estate transactions 
are tremendous; yet he still has time for other business 
interests and for leisure. He lives in New Jersey, maintaining 
his New York apartment for entertaining and luncheons and 
dinners. In the midst of a busy day he will find two or three 
hours for a more or less formal meal away from his office. 
At sixty-six, with many occupations, he still searches for more 
ways to employ his spare time. 

1 251 



There is a quickness about him, both in speech and 
in manner, that denies his age. No one thirty years his 
junior could be more active in thought or word. In physical 
vigor, too, he seems young, though perhaps he has not 
the strength he had when with one blow he knocked down 
Charley Mitchell, who was then the champion prize fighter 
of England.- 

He talks incisively and employs short sentences. His con 
versation sounds the way his editorials read. He translates 
abstruse thought into words of one syllable and he does this 
in no pedagogical manner. He thinks that way. He can apply 
the Darwinian theory to April FooPs Day or the philosophy 
of Jeans to the price of beef, and he can do it in such a manner 
that they become clearer by comparison. 

There is a typical so-called Yankee shrewdness aboat 
him despite the fact that he was born in Buffalo. His sister 
told me she cannot recall the time when he did not have 
money; even when he was as young as ten he knew how to 
drive a good bargain. 

But there was a peculiar softness in the voice of the alert 
but venerable editor as he took me into a small room and 
showed me a portrait that his father had painted of himself 
when he was a boy. It was with pride as well as sentiment that 
he pointed out other ancestral portraits, for he believes strongly 
in the influences of heredity. 

"The best cart horse in the world/ he said, " can t beat 
the worst race horse. Breed makes the difference. We talk of 
boys starting out with financial advantages. They are usually 
handicapped. A poor boy succeeds because he is poor, a rich 
one despite the fact that he has money. In nine cases out of ten 
wealth is the greatest obstacle a boy must overcome." 
f 252 1 




Arthur Brisbane 



Turning to the portrait, he continued: "I suppose it was 
on account of my father that I went into journalism. He had 
very radical ideas and in order to give them publicity he 
bought a weekly column on the front page of the New York 
Tribune and there expounded his views. I am paid for doing 
badly what he did well and paid for, besides. 

"When I started in to work Horace Greeley had hardly 
ceased telling young men to go West. I could not see the need 
for this. New York looked perfectly good to me. Though I 
went to the little red schoolhouse, I had five years* study in 
Europe, and when I came back I started to work for The Sun. 
I was nineteen years old at the time and I was much upset 
that the Constitution prevented any one under thirty-five 
becoming President. I couldn t wait that long. That s the 
reason I became a newspaper man." 

I asked him what was the difference between the news 
papers of those days and the newspapers of to-day. 

"To compare the newspapers of to-day with the news 
papers when I started would scarcely be possible. How can 
you compare a child three years old with one fourteen or 
older ? 

"When I began to work on The New York Sun, it consisted 
of four pages, two sheets, which carried everything news, 
editorials, advertising, foreign dispatches. Not much adver 
tising. Charles A. Dana refused one advertisement because 
the advertiser insisted on spelling cigar with an.V segar. 
A modern newspaper man would let the advertiser spell it, 
if he wanted to, with a 6 z. 9 

"I was correspondent of The Sun in London at twenty-one. 
I had left the local staff and gone to Europe thinking that I 
was leaving journalism for good." 

I 255] 



After several years as London correspondent Mr. Brisbane 
returned to New York to become editor of The Evening Sun. 
In speaking of those days he said: 

"We ran the paper for some time on what might be called 
a literary basis. Such writers as Charles W. Tyler, Richard 
Harding Davis, Frank Wilson, afterward editor of The Police 
Gazette, wrote brilliant * stories/ Davis began his Van Bibber 
stories then, based on a story by Manchecourt, which I 
translated for him from La Fie Parisienne. The Sun then had 
the biggest evening circulation in New York, which shows as 
W. R. Hearst said when I went to work for him that * there 
are a dozen ways of making a paper successful. The important 
thing is to adopt some one way, and stick to it. " 

From The Sun Brisbane went to The World. In those days 
The World meant Pulitzer, and in speaking of him Mr. Brisbane 
said: "Joseph Pulitzer was an inspiration to hard work for 
every man who knew him well* Few knew him well. He worked 
at his newspapers literally from the moment he awoke until 
he went to sleep at night. 

"Only success appealed to him, and his idea of success 
was results, circulation. You could not tell Joseph Pulitzer: 
*We are holier and purer than our competitors. That s why 
they have more circulation than we have. 

"One day Joseph Pulitzer woke up to discover that W. R. 
Hearst had hired the entire staff of The New York Sunday 
World, with the exception of one capable lady. Mr. Pulitzer 
asked me to take charge of The Sunday World, and hire 
anybody in New York you want to. In ten weeks our readers 
were increasing at an average rate of eleven thousand a Sunday. 
Pulitzer s delight was intense. When circulation came so easily, 
he, as sometimes happens with owners, had an attack of 

I 2561 



respectability/ Both The Sunday World and The Sunday 
American were excluded from certain clubs. I had no objec 
tion to this since it compelled club members to buy the paper. 

"Mr. Pulitzer did not like it, and decided to overcome 
the objections of clubhouse committees by displaying such 
intense * respectability * as would impress them. He sent me 
this message: Please have on the front page of the magazine 
in next Sunday s World a fine portrait of General 0. 0. 
Howard, head of the army, done by Mortimer, and an inter 
view with Howard/ Mortimer made fine portraits in pen and 
ink. General 0. 0. Howard would have talked fine platitudes. 
The following Monday I sent Mr. Pulitzer this telegram : Sorry 
we did not have that 0. 0. Howard picture and interview. 
Instead, on the front page, I had a wonderful picture of Kate 
Swan in the electric chair and circulation is now up fifteen 
thousand/ Mr. Pulitzer telegraphed back : * You know perfectly 
well I am blind, and must rely on you. Congratulations/ 

"Above all, he was a man of quick action. He had been 
fighting a proposal to sell United States bonds at 104, saying 
that they were worth no. One day his wife, a very brilliant 
woman, responsible for much of his success, asked him: 
Joseph, why don t you buy some of those bonds at no, 
instead of talking so much about them ? 

"Instantly, Mr. Pulitzer called up Dumont Clark, then 
president of the American Exchange Bank, telling him to 
bid $1,100,000 for $1,000,000 par value of the proposed bonds. 
He bought them at no, sold them later at a much higher 
price, and broke the effort to sell the bonds privately at 104, 
forcing a sale to the public. 

"A powerful man was Pulitzer. His one eye, with defective 
sight, seemed strong enough to look through a stone wall. 

| 2571 



It was said that he would use a man, and throw him away 
like a squeezed orange. But he never did it unless, the man 
was that kind of man. Above all else he knew how to translate 
thought into action; that is what any successful man must do 
to keep on going. 

"I may have an idea, but unless I do something with it 
it is worth nothing. Let me tell you a story. When the new 
tunnels to Jersey were first talked about I thought the property 
over there would be bound to increase in value. My idea in 
itself was not worth a hang, but I put the idea into action. 
I went over there and bought property. There is one piece 
that I have in mind that I paid fifteen thousand dollars for. 
A few months later the man from whom I bought laughingly 
said he would have accepted five thousand dollars for it, 
To-day that particular piece of land is renting for sixty 
thousand dollars." 

He continued: "I had an idea that a tower would be a fine 
sort of structure for apartments. I erected the Ritz Tower, 
the first apartment house of that type in the city. It was a 
good idea, so good in fact that all you have to do is to look 
across the park to see how many have followed it." 

But I wanted to hear more about newspapers. I referred to 
the growth of tabloids. 

"I can only speak about tabloids as a spectator, " said Mr. 
Brisbane, "but their growth and circulation do not surprise 
me. Size, in my opinion, has little to do with their success. 
They ask themselves, What interests nine million out of 
ten million people near here?" and they concentrate on that. 
They realize the force of pictures and recognize the fact that a 
strong picture can portray in a second what would require 
half a page of words. A full-size paper run on the same lines, 
{2581 



in my opinion, would get more circulation than any tabloid, be 
cause people like a big picture better than they like a little one. 
"Of course, the taste of the public continually changes. 
A strong man starts a paper, his personality goes into it and 
the paper is a success. Were he to live forever and his per 
sonality remain uniformly strong and progressive the paper 
would be eternal. For a paper to live it must continually 
absorb new ideas, which are its food, and keep up with the 
procession." 

"Where will that procession lead to?" I asked. 
"You mean the newspaper of the future? Who can tell 
what will be produced for the kind of men who will cultivate 
one eye for use in the telescope, the other for use in the micro 
scope, and both for ordinary things on earth? That future 
man may have a skull that will be an absolute sphere, except 
for small openings for the eyes, nose, and mouth. He may 
weigh only twenty pounds or less, since his hardest work may 
be pressing a button. His wife, maintaining her size, and 
increasing her beauty, as mother of the race, may carry the 
husband suspended at her girdle, as the female parasite crab 
carries her little husband under one flipper. 

"But one thing is as certain now as when it was said long 
ago by an old Greek teacher of oratory: *To convince others, 
be yourself convinced/ The newspaper man who believes 
something and knows how to convince others of it will sell 
his newspaper. No matter what kind of newspaper you are 
printing, large size, tabloid, conservative, radical, you will 
succeed if you are saying what you really mean and are saying 
something worth while. If not, you won t succeed. 

"Of course, I believe that moving pictures will largely take 
the place of books in education and condense by at least fifty 

{2591 



per cent all educational processes. The radio, too, will become 
more and more important in conveying instantaneous news, and 
will, perhaps, educate the newspapers along the line of brevity." 

I asked him whether he had spoken on the radio, "No, 95 he 
replied, "I am a dictator, not an announcer. Don t misunder 
stand me. I do not mean I am another Mussolini. I mean I 
dictate too much into a machine, with the result that I have 
lost the sense of accent and emphasis and I cannot make much 
of a speech. Why, I once was addressing a group of professors 
in Chicago and I noticed them looking very queerly at me and I 
suddenly realized that I was dictating, even to punctuation." 

He got up to look at the drawing. 

"You have given me the brow of Sir Walter Scott," he re 
marked with a laugh, "and the chin of Charles Dana Gibson. I 
might have amounted to something if I had had a chin like that." 

"Do you believe that facial characteristics reveal a man s 
ability?" I inquired. 

"Practically always. Look here," he said, going to the 
large refectory table that stood in the middle of his room. 
On it were two inscribed photographs. One was of Gibson, 
the other of John D. Rockefeller, Sr. 

"Couldn t you tell both of those men would make their 
mark in the world?" he asked. "I will acknowledge, however, 
that Gibson looks more like the trust magnate and Rockefeller 
like the artist. Perhaps, after all, each would have done better 
in the other s calling." 

It was after three o clock and my drawing was finished, 
so I suggested that I should go along. 

"I guess I had better be going, too," he said, "as I have to 
write my editorial, and my train leaves for Allaire at five 
o clock." 

f 260 I 



"Isn t it written yet?" I asked in surprise. 

"Oh, no, but I have plenty of time. I usually dictate it 
in twenty minutes to half an hour. Let me drop you off at your 
place and on the way I ll show you how I work." 

He put on a soft gray hat which only partly hid his high 
forehead. The collar of his overcoat was turned up, and, with 
a huge bundle of newspapers and magazines in hand, he took 
me down to the ground floor in his private elevator. 

"Here s my machine," he said. "It s a second-hand one. 
I think I have bought more second-hand automobiles than 
any one else in the country." 

The chauffeur opened the door. The interior resembled a 
baggage car. On one of the folding seats was a dictating 
machine, and suitcases, rugs, and papers were strewn 
about the floor. Though the car was large there was just about 
room for the two of us to squeeze in. 

This is the way he makes use of his time. On his way 
through the city he sees things that strike him and he immedi 
ately dictates his impressions. The rest of it he does in the 
office. By the time he is ready to catch his train his stenog 
rapher has transcribed what he has dictated. A secretary 
accompanies him on the way to the ferry and across it and 
he corrects what he has dictated, so that when he gets aboard 
the train the day s work is finished. On the train he has a 
compartment and here is another machine with which he can 
start the next day s work. 

As I got out of the car at my destination he leaned over and 
took up the mouthpiece of the recording device. Turning, 
he said, "Perhaps I write too easily, or rather take too little 
trouble. *H I had had more time I should have written you a 
shorter letter. Madame de Sevigne wrote that to her daughter. 

261 



I aim at brevity, but I miss it. I think, however, that I occa 
sionally print useful quotations from others that stimulate 
thought." 

As the door closed and his car started off through the 
crowded street I could see him sitting there dictating into the 
machine. 



262} 



XXIX 

I MUST confess I had been rather surprised to see a portrait 
of the older Rockefeller on Mr. Brisbane s table. There 
was something incongruous about this man who had 
written vitriolic editorials against trusts having the portrait 
of the head of the one-time largest trust in the country in 
his living room. 

I have never met the father but I have drawn a portrait 
of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. His office is on the twentieth floor 
of 26 Broadway. Stand in front of the building some morning 
between nine-thirty and ten o clock, and from one of the 
many motors that stop there you will see a young-looking 
man of fifty-odd years alight. Perhaps he himself has been 
driving the car. As he hands the machine over to the chauffeur 
and gets out he might pass for a successful lawyer, or, more 
likely, for an up-to-date college professor whose researches 
have been found to be of practical use to some tremendous 
business concern. 

Of medium height and almost athletic build, he conveys the 
impression of strength and reserve force, of a man capable of 
handling a situation judicially and effectively. He dresses 
well, but not conspicuously. In fact, after meeting him one is 
likely to forget what his clothes are, for one remembers 
rather his keen gray eyes, his peculiar arched eyebrows, 
almost meeting above his well-modeled nose, and his broad, 
generous mouth. His head, though in reality long, seems broad 

I 263 



on account of the squareness of his jaws, which swell just 
below his ears and sweep along, merging into a firm, bold 
chin. His color is almost ruddy. His hair, coarse and wiry and 
streaked with gray, is cut quite short. His walk gives an 
impression of physical fitness, of being in training yet not 
overtrained, which bears out the stories of his frequent visits 
to the handball courts. 

As he enters the building and passes through the white 
marble corridor the chances are that he will glance up at a 
heroic bust that dominates the entrance hall. It Is the likeness 
of a man past eighty, on whose face are shown without com 
promise the marks of time. There is a strong resemblance 
between the bust and the younger man the same penetrating 
eyes, the same sharp nose with its characteristic curve. The 
principal difference in the two heads is that the older man s is 
slightly more oval and the curve of the face less broken by 
the squareness of the jaw. 

Here are the founder and the dispenser of one of the 
greatest fortunes that has bee n accumulated on this earth. 
The father s life is still to be written. It is the romance of the 
country boy who rose to world supremacy in business and, 
having become the world s richest man, in turn became one 
of its leading benefactors through wise philanthropy and 
systematized scientific humanitarianism. To his son this 
modern Croesus handed over the disposition of his colossal 
fortune. 

Rockefeller endowments amounting to almost half a billion 
dollars are administered by carefully chosen boards of trustees. 
Throughout the entire world trained minds in all branches 
of science and art are devoting their lives to the benefit of 
humanity, with the knowledge that they have the freedom 

{26*1 




John D. Rockefeller, Jr. 



of unlimited resources at their command. It is through John D. 
Rockefeller that Carrel and Flexner can bend over their 
microscopes with free minds unburdened by material worries. 
Explorers are digging in the tropics and braving the polar 
seas, architects are designing new and better houses for the 
poor, college professors are provided with opportunities 
to make original researches, and social and religious move 
ments are aided. John D. Rockefeller, Jr., is working in behalf 
of his father in these and countless more such activities. 

The younger Rockefeller spends part of each day conduct 
ing his affairs in a large room wainscoted in dark oak, with 
windows that overlook the harbor. There is a large flat-topped 
desk carved to match the woodwork at one end, and around 
it stand a number of chairs upholstered in a bright vermilion 
leather. Behind the desk Mr. Rockefeller was seated one 
afternoon. It was a dull day and the gray light from the 
windows was augmented by an electric globe above; its rays, 
falling on his head and the red chairs, brought them into 
strong relief against the dark background. 

It is not difficult to interview Mr. Rockefeller. He speaks 
freely on almost any subject and seems to feel that by reason 
of the position he holds in administering his father s fortune 
he owes a certain obligation to the public and should be more 
than willing to discharge it, 

I mentioned the bust of his father and asked him whether 
he liked it. 

"Yes," he said, "I like it; it is all good, except the two 
wrinkles above the nose. These convey to me a certain expres 
sion of fear, and that is one emotion that I am certain my 
father has never experienced. Perhaps I am wrong when I 
say fear. Probably it is apprehension, but that, too, is entirely 

f 267} 



foreign to his nature. If at any time he has had that feeling it 
was so fleeting that it is not a characteristic trait. 

"In all my life, however, 1 have seen only two representa 
tions of any one whom I have intimately known that I consider 
faultless, and those are the two portraits of my father by Sar 
gent. I was looking at one of them the other day. Examining 
it I could see in it the man I know. There was he to whom I 
had instinctively turned as a child for food and clothing and 
shelter and then for companionship. He responded and became 
my pal and from the outset had my confidence and friendship. 

"I could see in that picture the friend who was never so 
occupied with his own business or pleasure that he had no 
time for my interests. On the canvas is my father as I know 
him, who, in all the years of my close association with him 
from earliest childhood, never told me what to do or what not 
to do. Sargent has shown in that painting why no influence in 
my life has been as powerful as his silent influence." 

As Mr. Rockefeller sat there in his chair his hand toyed 
with a Phi Beta Kappa key that hung from his watch chain. 
I mentioned it and asked him whether he felt that a college 
education was needed nowadays for success in business. 

"That depends largely on the individual, 5 he answered. 
"I do not believe in forcing any boy or girl to go to college. 
As it is, our colleges are overcrowded by too many young people 
who are there only for a good time, and that is not why colleges 
are established. 

"The Standard Oil Company has a special department 
for the training of foreign representatives and one of the 
requisites for admission into that training school is a college 
education. With such an education must go something more 
than ability, persistence, industry, and thrift; for, while all 

I 268 I 



these are necessary for success in business, the real foundation 
is character* That is essential and indispensable. 

"But do not confuse reputation with character. Reputation 
is what people think we are; character is what we really are. 
Now, by character I mean several things; the first is integrity; 
the second is obedience to the law, even when we do not feel 
the entire justice of that law; a third requisite is clean living, 
and by clean living I mean irrespective of the changing point 
of view in modern times. Way down within us we know what 
are the things that make us physically fit, mentally vigorous, 
and spiritually sensitive. Last, a vital component of character, 
I should say, is singleness of purpose. No man can serve two 
masters/ Upon singleness of purpose one s value to an employer 
largely depends. 

"Those are the fundamental qualities underlying character, 
and to my mind none of them can be ignored if any continued 
success in business is looked for. Money is sometimes made 
by trickery and sharp practice, but successful business must 
be established on something more firm. 

"As I have said in a speech: * Corporations and individuals 
who set themselves up as superior to law are bound to be 
condemned eventually in the court of public opinion, so that 
even the most worldly-minded is bound to ask himself whether 
it pays, and to admit that no business, any more than any 
individual, can be successful and at the same time not be 
law-abiding. 

" While it is natural that every ambitious and self-respect 
ing citizen should want to make a living, on the other hand it is 
well to remember, in this money-mad age, that the real pur 
pose of our existence, after all, is not to make a living, but to 
make a life a worthy, well-rounded, and useful life." 

I 2691 



Mr. Rockefeller had mentioned "this money-mad age." 
I asked him whether the present social conditions did not make 
it difficult for a man to live a worthy, well-rounded, and useful 
life and at the same time make a living. 

"Men do not live merely to work; they live also to play, to 
mix with their fellow-men; to love, and to worship/ 5 he 
replied. "To the extent that a man is free to realize the 
highest and best self, just to that extent is our social organiza 
tion a success. 

"It is only natural that evils have developed as a result of 
the increasing complexities in industrial conditions, but with 
these complexities have come new devices of progress. We 
cannot give up the corporation and industry on a large scale, 
nor can we give up the organization of labor; human progress 
depends too much upon them. 

"Present conditions are not by any means perfect, but we 
shall get nowhere by going around and saying that the world 
is ever to be doomed to a warfare between labor and capital. 

"Human nature is the same as it was years ago; there are 
the same cravings, the same tendencies toward sympathy 
when it has knowledge, and toward prejudices when it does 
not understand. In large part the difficulties that exist in our 
social state are due to nothing but misunderstanding. 

"There is much talk of the opposing forces of labor and 
capital. To my mind they are essentially the same human 
beings imbued with the same weaknesses, the same cravings, 
and the same aspirations. 

"I do not feel that I am foolishly optimistic when I say 
that an age which can send moving pictures across the Atlantic 
through the ether will devise some means of permitting men 
really to see their fellow-men, to penetrate, as it were, the 
I 2701 



barriers that have grown up in our machine-burdened civiliza 
tion. 

"Of course I do not feel that scientific methods alone can 
solve our problems. There is need for spiritual assistance from 
a church that will promote applied, not theoretical, religion, a 
church with a sympathetic interest in all of the great problems 
of human life, in the social and moral problems, those of 
industry and business, the civic and educational problems; in 
all such as touch the life of man. 

"For such a church to have real influence, denominational 
emphasis must be set aside. In large cities there must be 
conveniently located religious centers, strongly supported, 
and inspiring their members to participation in all community 
affairs. In smaller places, instead of half a dozen dying 
churches, competing with each other, there should be one 
or two churches uniting in the spiritual life of the town; 
this would mean economy in plant, in money, in service, and 
in leadership." 

Several people were waiting to see Mr. Rockefeller; it 
was time for me to go, but before I left him there was one 
more question to be asked, 

"Which is more difficult, making money, or spending it?" 

He rose and smiled. 

"Spending it," he answered. "Of course, I have never made 
any, but I find it very difficult to spend properly. I have no end 
of advice given me by people who are not directly concerned; 
but the very people who think it is so easy before they have the 
spending of it in charge are the ones most puzzled if they have 
an opportunity to show their ability to distribute it wisely. 

"As for charity," Mr. Rockefeller concluded, "it is injur 
ious unless it helps the recipient to become independent of it." 

H 2711 



XXX 

ONE of the greatest of the philanthropic enterprises he and 
his father have sponsored is the Rockefeller Institute 
for Medical Research which in the thirty years that it 
has existed has spent over forty million dollars in the service 
of health. 

The head of that Institute is Dr. William Henry Welch. 
Recognized though he is by his fellow-workers. Dr. Welch is not 
so well known to the general public as are many other physi 
cians. The reason for this is not hard to understand when one 
meets this short, square-set, energetic man who is now past 
eighty years old. Intensely interested in the welfare of human 
ity, he has been content to help without seeking applause, 
In the laboratory and in the classroom he has scored his 
triumphs and he has sought neither publicity nor gratitude. 
Public recognition or notice has not meant as much to him as 
has personal satisfaction in a job well done. He is thorough 
rather than spectacular, and the painstaking searching for 
some hidden element of truth never wins the acclaim that is 
accorded a lesser but more sensational endeavor. 

Americans may be looked down upon by Europeans as a 
money-getting people with no respect for intellectual greatness, 
yet when I asked the taxi driver at the station in Baltimore 
to take me to the Welch Library, it was with an awed voice 
that he asked me whether I was going to call upon a the 
doctor himself." It was the same tone that another driver 

{272} 




William H Welch 



had used in Berlin when I told him to go to 6 (I think it was) 
Haberlandstrasse. This man had inquired, with the same 
mixture of awe and respect and local pride, whether I was 
calling on Professor Einstein. 

Baltimore still retains much of its ante-bellum atmosphere; 
about it still cling the memories of the days when "patriotic 
gore" flecked its streets. Its old red brick houses with their 
white marble window trimmings and doorsteps look wonder 
fully like the backgrounds of some of Howard Pyle s Civil War 
drawings. It would be no surprise to see some crinoline-skirted 
belle with a little parasol on her arm emerge from one of them. 
There is a quietness about the city that is reminiscent of old 
world towns, and an air that is more conducive to study than 
one finds in most of our other cities. 

Into these surroundings Dr. Welch fits remarkably well, 
for, in spite of years of study in the principal universities of 
Europe, he has managed to retain that old-fashioned attribute 
of neighborliness. In manner he belongs to the period when 
the people had family doctors who kept their instruments in 
back parlor closets, and who were friends as well as physicians; 
who, before they had prescribed anything, had instilled such 
a feeling of confidence that the patient began to notice an 
improvement; who did not hesitate to stop at the drug store 
to make sure the medicine would be sent in a hurry. 

I caught my first glimpse of him as I got out of the taxi in 
front of the huge white building that bears his name and which 
is a fitting tribute to the man who since 1884 has been one of the 
leading figures in the medical school of Johns Hopkins Uni 
versity* Up the hill was trudging a small figure, hands clasped 
behind his back, with vigor and determination in his step 
that belied his fourscore years. 

12751 



Dr. Welch carries his head to one side, giving him an 
inquiring look which is heightened by the keenness and alert 
ness of his light blue eyes. His forehead is high, his jaws full 
and square, and he wears a sparse mustache and beard. 
Recognizing me by the portfolio that I carried, he led me up 
the broad flight of marble steps in the hall, past a bronze bust 
of himself, into his private office. He seated himself at his 
desk and took out of the drawer a huge cigar, though an 
intimate friend had told me that he had been ordered by a 
physician to stop smoking forty years ago. Into that room he 
seemed to have brought back with him from his numberless 
trips to Germany, where he studied, an air of "gemiitlichkeit" 
that is so characteristic of the German professor. Born in 
Connecticut, there is no trace of the New Englander about him, 
and although he went to Yale and to the College of Physicians 
and Surgeons in New York, Strassburg and Leipzig and 
Breslau have apparently left more impress upon him than 
New Haven. 

This does not imply that he seems at all foreign. He is 
distinctly American, but with his native Americanism is a 
cosmopolitanism that does not recognize boundaries. More 
over, in talking with him one immediately sees a broadness 
of vision and a breadth of interests that are sadly lacking in 
many younger men who have attained prominence in his or 
in other professions. This age of highly developed specialization 
does not make for general culture; time is too precious for 
young physicians to give thought to other subjects. With Dr. 
Welch it has been different. With a career which began as an 
instructor in Bellevue Medical College fifty-two years ago 
and which has embraced not only the founding but also the 
deanship of the Johns Hopkins Medical School, as well as a 

I 276 I 



professorship of pathology and a directorship of its School 
of Hygiene and Public Health, he has managed to combine 
other interests. 

His college work did not interfere with his being president 
of the Maryland State Board of Health for a quarter of a 
century, nor has it prevented him from giving his advice to 
any number of public committees. Nor has his own profession 
so dulled his artistic sensibilities as to close his eyes to either 
the beauties of nature or the appeal of art; they have not been 
so glued to a microscope as to make him blind to the charms 
of a tree or a landscape. In fact it was with difficulty that I 
succeeded in getting him to talk about medicine at all, so 
interested was he in Sargent s method of painting a portrait, 
for with Drs. Osier, Kelly, and Halstead he is one of the sub 
jects in that masterpiece by Sargent, "The Four Doctors/ 5 

At last, however, he began. He leaned back in his swivel 
chair, his head cocked to one side; mentally and physically as 
alert as a man forty years his junior, he recounted the changes 
that had taken place since that autumn of 1871 when, after 
a year of teaching Latin and Greek in a school in Norwich, 
New York, he matriculated in a medical school. 

"I was graduated in 1874," he said, "and after a year 
and a half at Bellevue Hospital as an interne I went abroad 
t6 complete my studies. 

"At that time, you must remember, the germ theory as 
the cause of disease was hardly known. The entire history of 
medicine changed when that theory was established. 

"Leaving out of account superstitious views, rational medi 
cine during antiquity placed small importance upon contagion 
as compared with miasm, conveyed through the atmosphere, 
to account for the origin and spread of endemic and epidemic 

1277} 



diseases. True, the Mosaic sanitary code and certain lay 
writers stressed contagions, but with Hippocrates and Galen 
and the other great doctors of those early times emphasis 
was laid on miasm. 

"In all the years that elapsed up to the time that 1 was a 
student, it would be difficult to exaggerate the importance of 
this doctrine in the history of preventive and curative medicine. 
Indeed, it has survived up to our own time and has been dis 
placed from its dominant position only by knowledge of the 
living agents of infection. 

"For while contagion at last was recognized, its recognition 
occurred before the reason was known. As long ago as the six 
teenth century an Italian physician did everything but dis 
cover that diseases were caused by living organisms. Two 
centuries later Jenner practiced vaccination and then came 
Pasteur, who was delving into the mysteries of bacteria and 
the processes of fermentation and putrefaction when I went to 
Europe. Lister immortalized his own name by applying the 
Frenchman s discoveries to the prevention of accidental, 
surgical infections even before the actual agents of these 
infections had been recognized." 

Dr. Welch relighted his heavy black cigar and continued: 

"You see I go back pretty far. Of course, I am not a con 
temporary of Hippocrates, nor did I have a speaking acquaint 
ance with Galen or Francastorius, but as we look back at it 
now it is surprising to think of the advances in medicine 
since I was a student. 

"The truth is that medical and sanitary science was 
groping in the dark before the discovery that microorganisms 
were the cause of infection. At last, however, the light came 
from the torch kindled by Pasteur. For a quarter of a century 
{278J 



he had been laying the foundations of modern bacteriology, 
but he did not actually attack the problems of human infection 
until about the time when Koch, under whom I was studying, 
entered the field and introduced those technical methods 
which led, in that golden decade in the eighties, to that 
marvelous series of discoveries of the parasitic microorganisms 
causing cholera, tuberculosis, puerperal fever, typhoid, diph 
theria, pneumonia, and other infectious diseases. 

"The mauve decade, in medicine, was marked by the 
introduction of vaccine, serum therapy, and prophylaxis, 
and the exploration of the highly important domain of insect- 
borne diseases. The end of the last century was crowned by 
the discoveries of Walter Reed and the conquest of yellow 
fever. 

"So you can see what has happened since I first took 
the Hippocratic vow. Bacteriology, by revealing the micro 
organisms concerned in those diseases which are of the greatest 
racial and social importance to mankind, and by providing 
methods for the study of their characters and behavior, 
transformed public health from a blundering empirical set 
of doctrines and practice to a science, and laid secure founda 
tions for its further development. 

"Now, 55 he said, "that I have bored you with a history 
of the development of medicine and hygiene, come down 
stairs and I ll let you feast on one of Sargent s great master 
pieces." 

Downstairs trotted this little man eighty years young and, 
opening the door of a great room, with pride he pointed to the 
painting. He told me that Sargent had painted his head in 
one sitting, but that he had any number for one of the hands. 
He described how one day Sargent had walked up and down 

|279i 



the room waving his arm and saying to himself, "This is no 
picture. How can I make it a picture? 5 And then came the 
idea of introducing a globe, and he asked the four doctors 
whether there would be an objection to that. 

For a long time he told me anecdotes, and I felt that In a 
way he was prouder of having posed for Sargent than of being 
the eminent physician that he is. Then we returned to his 
study. On the way upstairs he stopped to show me a new 
statue, an antique figure of Esculapius that had just been 
presented to the library, and he spoke of its position in relation 
to the light, and the color of the marble slab that formed a 
background. He was interested in it, not only because it was a 
representation of the god of medicine, but because it was 
a work of art. 

When we returned I suggested that he was a living proof of 
the falsity of the statement of his great colleague, Dr. Osier, 
that a man did nothing after forty. 

"He did not mean that," he replied. "He was misquoted. 
What he meant was that every man had in him all that he 
would do by the time he was forty, though he might develop 
after that time. In other words, success might come to a man 
later, but that that success would be founded upon ideas which 
he had before he reached that age. 

"However, a man cannot keep on forever. I resigned four 
years ago from the directorship of the School of Hygiene and 
Public Health. Then they made me professor of History 
of Medicine and I had to start this museum, so, in 1927, I 
went abroad again to study a similar institute in Leipzig and 
to buy books for the library. 

"But no general rules can be laid down about individuals. 
I caught myself once addressing a group of young doctors 
f280 



and telling them that they should maintain a spirit of coopera 
tion, and should allow nothing to divert them from their 
professional and scientific work. I found myself saying Resist 
the call to give general addresses, especially at a distance 
from home, to serve on committees, to assume time-consuming 
administrative duties, and to show visitors around laboratories, 
clinics, and buildings. And these are the things I have done 
all my life." 

Reverting to the subject of the change in medicine since 
he entered the profession, "I asked him whether he thought the 
day of the general practitioner was over. 

"Many changes have taken place/ he replied. "Medicine 
is now as much preventive as curative. The hospital, a place 
that was once dreaded as a last refuge for the sick, is now 
looked upon as almost a necessity by those only slightly 
ill. 

"But there is one thought that makes me look back with 
gratitude and love to the old-fashioned doctor. He treated 
people; the doctor of to-day treats a disease. The old family 
doctor, though he had a long beard where germs abounded, 
and even a spotty vest, knew his patient and in many cases 
the patient s family and his physical peculiarities. He did 
not have to jot down the antecedents or the history of a case 
on a card; he had it in his head and in his heart. 

"If medicine were an exact science I would say: Yes, the 
family doctor has outlived his generation. But it is not. 
There is something to mental healing, and the ounce of 
confidence which he instills often proves to be a pound of 
cure." 

When I went downstairs he again came with me, and 
though the day was icy, without hat or overcoat he stood 

| 2811 



outside the door. I asked him to go in, for fear he might catch 
cold. 

"Bother," he said, "I never catch cold." 

Then he showed me where to get a taxi. As I entered it, I 
looked back. There he stood in the sunlight, a very small 
figure in front of the great monument which a grateful college 
has erected in his honor for the furtherance of his ideas. 



f 2821 



XXXI 

I HAD gone to Baltimore to see Dr. Welch, and from Balti 
more I took the train for Washington, My work brings 
strange contrasts. Leaving Dr. Welch, whose life has 
been spent in saving lives and preserving health, I was going 
to the Capitol to see the Commander-in-Chief of the American 
Expeditionary Force. 

I first met General Pershing in Paris, a Paris that was 
being shelled in the daytime by Big Bertha, thirty miles 
away, and bombed during the night by German planes. 
It was a sad and despondent Paris to which he had come, a 
confused and frightened city, where not only terrified and 
pale-faced children, but grown men and women rushed to 
safety when the sirens with melancholy wails warned of 
another attack from the skies. 

His house was on the Left Bank, on the Rue des Varennes. 
It was large and furnished in rococo style, and I shall never 
forget my first glimpse of him as he came down the carved 
marble steps. The fat modeled cherubs, and the gilded wreaths 
with flamboyant bows of carved ribbons, the tapestry hangings 
and the flowered rugs, all seemed trivial and almost ludicrous 
in comparison with the ragged figure in khaki, which breathed 
business-like efficiency. There was a certain grimness about him, 
a determination of purpose, but withal a feeling of optimism 
and sincerity that made an impression which the years since 
have not dimmed. 

1283] 



Time has not changed him much. There is the same fire 
in his eyes, the same wrinkles of concentration above the 
nose. The mouth perhaps is a little more set, and the clefts on 
each side perhaps a little deeper. 

His manner is always cordial but reserved. He is a quiet 
man, not given to the flare of war. Above all else he Is an 
executive, the army is his working force, and like all working 
forces it must of necessity be kept fit. 

No man ever headed our troops who looked more the part 
than he. Tall, erect, square-chinned and shouldered, he is the 
personification of all that a commanding officer should be. 
But there is a tenderness about his manner, almost a shyness, 
that, despite his impressive appearance, does not detract from 
the feeling of authority which he inspires. 

There is nothing military in his present office except a 
bronze bust of himself in uniform and a portrait of a Revolu 
tionary general, and as he sat before his desk in a striped suit 
he might have been the head of some great business. 

The General is interested in art, he realizes its difficulties, 
and he knew that the light was so bad that it would be next to 
impossible to draw him where he sat, so he moved to a large 
chair beside the window. It was a big, heavy chair intended for 
lounging, but that meant nothing to him. He is one of those 
people who never lolls. Sitting absolutely erect, the sharp 
light from the high window throwing dark shadows under his 
brows, he recalled the first time that I had done his portrait. 
It was in March, 1918. 

"At that time/ he said, "we had but three hundred thou 
sand men in France. My early cables had asked for one million 
men by that spring, to be further increased to three million. 
At my first conference with the Allied commanders it was 
{28*1 




John J. Pershing 



decided that a purely defensive attitude should be assumed 
on all secondary fronts, and that all surplus troops should be 
sent to the Western Front, which it was believed could be held 
until our forces should arrive in sufficient numbers. 

"The prospects were not encouraging. All the expected 
shipments of men, animals, and supplies had fallen short 
and all construction of storehouses and railways was behind 
what we had hoped for. 

" Secretary Baker arrived in France during that month and 
he and I went to the headquarters of the French army. 

"On the twenty-first the great German drive began against 
the British right, penetrating thirty-five miles to the vicinity 
of Amiens. Plans for an Allied reserve had failed, and the 
French could ill afford to send many men from their own 
feeble front to check the enemy s advance. 

"That was when decisive action was taken by the Allies. 
A commander-In-chief of all the Allied forces was appointed, 
the British came forward with tonnage that carried across 
over a million men in addition to the million sent by our own 
shipping, and all entered the race to reinforce the Allies before 
the Central Powers could force a decision. 

"You remember what followed, the German attack in 
May which carried their line forward thirty miles, its progress 
suddenly stopped by two fresh American Divisions thrown 
in at Chateau Thierry and in that vicinity. 

"The Prime Ministers cabled President Wilson that there 
was grave danger of losing the war unless the Allied inferiority 
in numbers could at once be remedied/ 

He was living those days over again. Slowly and as if he 
were weighing his words he recounted how by July we had 
one million men in France, and how he had urged that our 

f 2871 



best troops be permitted to attack the CMteau Thierry 
salient. 

"On the fifteenth of July the Germans attempted to 
advance further at this point, and three days later the Ameri 
cans and French launched a counter attack which drove the 
enemy behind the Aisne. 

"This was the turning point of the war; from then on the 
initiative was with the Allies. But ultimate success required a 
new striking force and the moment was opportune for the 
formation of an independent American Army. 

"After a year of the utmost insistence by the Allies that 
our soldiers should fill up their depleted ranks, at last in 
August we were able to organize an American Army, and our 
units were assembled to fight under our own flag." 

He continued and told how in September our Army over 
came the astonished Germans on the St. Mihiel salient. The 
American Army had become an accomplished fact and the 
enemy had felt its power. 

Then came the Argonne offensive and at last the cutting 
of the German line of communications at Sedan and the 
Armistice. 

"Yes," he said, "twelve years have passed, but I can still 
see our men in memory as they move forward in battle, eager, 
resolute, courageous. They did not count the cost, but each 
one thought only of his task." 

He looked at me, and perhaps I imagined that there was a 
watery film over his eyes. 

"If ever men were unselfish, if ever any died that others 
might honorably live, if ever war was pursued that peace 
might reign, it was during that time of untold sorrow when 
France was a modern Calvary. 

f 288 I 



"Coming from patriotic homes, those men were filled with 
a deep sense of responsibility, and they proved that a pacific 
spirit and a sense of justice had not weakened their virility 
or their courage. 

"They showed that initiative and energy are as essential in 
the test of war as in the pursuit of peace. They vied with their 
Allied comrades in tenacity and valor. 

"No army ever entered a war at a more critical period 
and none ever acquitted itself more nobly." 

The talk then turned to the present revival of interest in 
the war and the publication of a number of war novels. 

"Many of them that I have read," he said, "give a true 
picture of the horrors and sufferings that take place in the 
trenches. But with all its futile desolation the rack and ravage 
of war fall most heavily upon women and children. No one, 
especially one who has been in close contact with war, ever 
wants to see another. It is, however, not the man in the . 
trenches alone who is the sufferer in the army. There is some 
thing worse than physical pain. There is the dread and awful 
responsibility that rests on those in command, and when I 
say this I am not minimizing in any way the horrors endured 
by the enlisted men. There were times when it was necessary 
to send half-trained boys into action, and it is a question 
as to who suffered more, the men who led or the boys who 
followed. 

"Think of the feelings of a man who gives a command which 
he knows will make hundreds of widows and orphans. It must 
be done and in him is vested the terrible authority which when 
exercised, he knows, will not only cut off in the flower of their 
manhood untold numbers of his boys, but leave in its wake, 
weary, helpless and lonely women and children." 

| 289] 



The General got up. For a few minutes he walked up and 
down his office. The silence could almost be heard. What 
thoughts were running through his head were his own. He 
sighed and again sat down for me to continue my drawing. I 
hesitated to talk. 

At last I ventured, "Was it all worth while ? ?? 
"It is up to the world to-day to make that peace for which 
they fought as secure as anything human can be made. The 
outcome rests in the hands of those who are now charged with 
directing the affairs of nations. 

"The broadening facilities of intercommunication, the 
exchange of friendly visits, the increasing cooperation among 
nations in finance and government, the favorable growth of 
public opinion among friends and former foes are all working 
together to create an international relationship of common 
understanding and good will. 55 

"What about the League of Nations ? 55 1 asked. 
"That is all right for European nations/* he replied, 
"but we were very wise to keep out of it. There are many 
questions involved in European politics which do not affect 
us and it would be foolish for us to become mixed up in petty 
quarrels in which we have no concern. 

"The United States showed during the last war that it 
did not need either treaties or signed agreements to make it 
do what is its moral duty. We recognize our obligations and 
we are in a better position to carry them out when we have 
nothing to limit our actions. With no secret understandings 
with any nation we entered a war to help those countries 
which we felt were fighting for the right. Removed from 
Europe, so that we can see things in their proper perspec 
tive, we shall always be in a position to act in a way that 

{290} 



will be of most assistance to the progress of the world at 
large. 

"I cannot state too strongly how I feel In this matter, and 
how much better it is for this country, not for itself alone, but 
also for the future of peace throughout the world, to have 
refused to become a member of the League." 

I suggested that European ideas had changed since the 
war. 

"All ideas have changed," he replied, "ideas of war and 
ideas of peace. The fallacious notion that war is an essential 
element of the national policy of government, and the erro 
neous belief that nations become great through aggressive 
undertakings carried on regardless of right and justice 
have always existed. Against such views the reasonings of 
cabinets and the creations of ententes have shown themselves 
powerless. The war showed that the expansion of any 
modern civilized nation at the expense of another cannot 
be permanent. 

"In the future, nations that attempt to achieve greatness 
through unjust aggression are certainly going to incur the 
active hostility of all others. It would incur our hostility 
just as much though we do not belong to the League of Nations, 
as if we did." 

"And what is the prospect of a lasting peace?" I asked. " : 

"In order to make a lasting peace still more probable the 
leading civilized powers have agreed among themselves to 
the general principle of the elimination of war as an avowed 
instrument of national policy. This agreement need not 
interfere with the necessities for reasonable armament. For 
there may occur here and there armed rebellion against con 
stituted authority, or crimes against international obligations. 

f 2911 



"With the cultivation of friendly relations and good will 
toward one another, any differences between nations that 
may arise which cannot be readily adjusted will naturally be 
settled by arbitration, 

"On the other hand, if, despite this agreement, some 
nations continue to accept war as essential to national policy, 
we must be prepared to see the most advanced peoples engag 
ing in periodic wars of destruction in which future genera 
tions will suffer the same hideous loss of human life that we 
have suffered." 

On the wall of General Pershing s present office hangs a 
portrait of Lincoln. He turned to it. 

"Do you remember his words?" he asked. " The better 
angels of our natures might be touched by the mystic chord 
of memory extending from every battlefield and every grave to 
every living heart and every hearth stone/ 

"This prayer we have lived to see fulfilled here in our 
country. The bitterness and hatred that incited brothers to 
take up arms against each other has vanished. 

"What we have accomplished in America between the 
different sections of the country is possible to exist between 
nations. 

"If the people of the countries in the late war sincerely 
wish for peace, and to my mind there is not the slightest doubt 
of that, then there is hope that with old enmities already 
almost forgotten our former enemies will live in peaceful 
and profitable relationship." 



f 2921 



XXXII 

VERY different in make-up and temperament from the head 
of the American Army in France is another general who 
also played an important part in the World War. There is 
nothing conventional about Charles G. Dawes. From the time 
he first took office as vice president and startled the country, 
and incidentally the Senate, by attempting to dust the cobwebs 
of senatorial procedure, down to the present day, no one has 
known what he would do next. Unawed by ceremony, he 
has seen fit to speak when he has felt the occasion demanded 
plain words. That is his nature. The result is that the country 
did not forget that it had a vice president nor what his name 
was. Dawes s personality rose above the office. 

The sandy-haired, rosy-cheeked, kindly, fighting man 
could not help doing things. His vitality and nervous energy 
are all-pervasive. A student of history, he laughs at tradition; 
a philosopher by nature, he turns to material things; a 
musician by inclination, he becomes a leading financier; a 
conservative in business, he does not hesitate to propose 
radical changes. 

He posed for me while he was vice president. His room 
adjoined the Senate Chamber. Its walls and ceilings were 
decorated with scrolls and shields. In the center was a large 
mahogany desk above which hung a huge crystal chandelier. 
Facing the entrance was a gilt-framed mirror above a white 
marble fireplace, while to the right hung a portrait of Washing- 

I 293 



ton painted by Rembrandt Peale, and to the left a huge 
closet from which, so the story goes, Andrew Johnson took his 
spiritual support before he was sworn in as president. It 
was in this room that Henry Wilson, Vice President under 
Grant, died. Here General Dawes, seated behind his desk, 
his underslung pipe in his mouth, posed and talked as I drew 
his portrait. 

General Dawes likes to philosophize on life in general. To 
him people and their actions form a panorama from which he 
formulates theories. Intensely human and practical, he studies 
the lights and shades of human history. Archaeology interests 
him and he reads much ancient history, but his researches 
into the past are translated into the present. Extremely 
characteristic of him is the fact that during the war, while he 
was in charge of purchasing the army s supplies, he spent 
much of his little spare time in the Louvre among Greek and 
Roman sculpture. Here was a Chicago banker, who had 
introduced business methods into an army, devoting his 
leisure to the study of ancient art. 

It is difficult to get him to speak about himself. When I 
asked him to, he laughed and said he would not. "It reminds 
me too much of when I was young," he said, "and some little 
one-horse journal would come around and ask for your life s 
history and incidentally tell you that it was going to cost 
you thirty-five dollars to have it published." 

It is useless to try to direct General Dawes s talk into 
preconceived channels. He speaks so quickly that at times 
it is hard to catch all he says, and he thinks so quickly that 
the association of ideas is not always evident, with the result 
that he appears to jump from one subject to another with no 
apparent connection. 

I 2941 



./ 




Charles G. Dames 



In the same way that I found no opportunity to ask him 
certain questions I had in mind, his drawing turned out as he 
wanted, not as I had planned. He has been photographed so 
often with his pipe that I had determined not to introduce it 
in my drawing. But that pipe never left his mouth for more 
than a minute or two the entire time I was with him. 

The subject of the World War was brought up. I asked 
him to tell me something of his work in it. 

"What do I know about the war?" he said. "Ask the boys 
who were in the trenches. My job over there was a prosaic 
piece of business. General Pershing made me the head of a 
board of ten officers representing all the purchasing depart 
ments of our army and also the General Purchasing Agent in 
Europe for the A. E. F. That, of course, gave me unlimited 
discretion and authority to devise a system of coordination of 
purchases and while much depended upon this work it was, 
after all, a business proposition pure and simple. This purchas 
ing of supplies in Europe worked out to be a much bigger thing 
than we expected, for two-thirds of the entire tonnage consumed 
by our army was obtained in Europe. 

"But the things that I did in the war are not the things 
I remember best. In all the reviews, celebrations, and gather 
ings that I have attended since the war the picture in my 
mind has been what went on to make them possible, and I have 
wondered whether the millions buried in the wheat fields of 
northern France knew of them. 

"Have you ever thought what is behind those boys who 
stand lonely in those front-line trenches, waiting for they 
don t know what? There they stand, the new frontiers of a 
country. Behind them, pushing irresistibly forward, are all 
the forces that a civilized country can muster its ingenuity, 

I 2971 



its wealth, its resources, its man power. Think of those boys 
out in the observation posts, miles from home, of those that 
fall so that the overpowering force behind can advance," 
"And was it all worth it?" I asked. 

"Now this Is getting too much like an interview, 5 he 
replied, "I have been reading Hadley s History of the Roman 
Empire/ After Csesar s death, and with it the end of the great 
wars, there were wrangling and uncertainty for six years. 
Finally Octavius became Augustus and the reaction of human 
ity after one hundred years of terrible warfare throughout 
the civilized world brought a peace unbroken for two hundred 
years. That gives us hopes, to say the least. 

"But, irrespective of all other results, those boys who were 
in the army did learn one thing at least, and that is respect for 
authority. Now I for one believe that authority can best be 
maintained when fortified by reason. The officer must com 
mand the respect of his men, he must be obeyed by them; 
but in my opinion the officer who at times explains what 
seems to be an unreasonable order is more apt to be obeyed 
blindly when the occasion demands than he who treats his 
men like unreasoning automatons. And in this way authority 
commands respect. 

"Of course it is essential that the authority of officers be 
preserved. That s the reason they have set rules for the 
method of communication between privates and the higher 
officers. For, believe me, if there were too much rubbing of 
elbows between officers and men it would soon be discovered 
that there were many captains who should be in shirt sleeves 
and many men in shirt sleeves who should be captains. 

"When Napoleon sent his brother Joseph to Italy in com 
mand of an army, he said, Hold no council of war/ He knew 

298 



his brother s shortcomings. Mediocrity requires aloofness to 
preserve its dignity. Genius alone can afford to mingle. In 
fact, it loves to mix in order to demonstrate its superiority. 
In spite of all that has been said to the contrary, it doesn t 
like to hide its light under a bushel. The man who paints or 
writes superlatively does not destroy his efforts after he has 
accomplished them. Say what you want, he loves public 
appreciation. 

"This does not mean that geniuses alone want approbation, 
or that they are unique in desiring to show their abilities. 
, The superbly ignorant resemble them in this. 

"And," he continued, with a twinkle in his eyes and a look, 
as I thought, in the direction of the Senate Chamber, "if 
combined with ignorance there is sufficient impudence, success 
sometimes results. In fact, a book on the success of ignorance 
could be filled with notable examples. Remember that if the 
empty vessel makes the greatest sound, then the empty vessel 
is bound to be heard. 

"Together with ignorance goes desire for ceremony which, 
while more or less necessary in army life, is not so requisite in 
times of peace. Of course the value of ceremony as a social power 
is unquestioned. It cannot be dispensed with without destroying 
one of the useful agencies of governmental and social discipline. 
At times the individual must use ceremony as the best means to 
noble ends. But to my way of thinking it is well to beware of too 
much ceremony, whether it is directed toward the submerging 
or toward the exploitation of the individual. 

"Here I sit in an office that has the halo of tradition. 
Outside are officers and what not. A certain amount of scenery 
and stage setting are essential to give the office not me, 
mind you its proper importance. My title is Mr. Vice Presi- 

f 299]} 



dent, but do you suppose it makes any difference to me 
personally how I am addressed ? To my friends I am Charlie, 
but to others, whether I am General or Mr. Vice President is 
unimportant. After all, a title is a handle. If I don t count 
without that title, I am not a bit better with it." 

While he was talking, softly from another part of the Capi 
tol came the strains of a military band; through the open door 
were heard Civil War melodies. Later I discovered it was the 
ceremony attendant on the return to some of the southern 
states of flags captured by State of Maine troops during the 
Civil War. General Dawes heard the music. 

"Have you noticed," he asked, "the effect of music upon 
soldiers? I remember when we first landed in England. We 
reached Borden at eleven o clock at night. The men had had 
only a sandwich each at noon. It was cold, dark, and rainy. 
And then occurred a demonstration of the reviving effect of 
music, for there appeared to lead us to camp a British band. 
It played American marches and airs as we marched in the 
dark and it meant much to all of us that we were welcome, 
that we amounted to something. 

"The following day London greeted us. We were the first 
American troops to pass through the British capital, but I 
think that our men were not so uplifted as when we marched 
along that lonely road, hungry, at the end of a weary day, to 
the tunes of our homeland. 

"Aside from the rhythm, the association of ideas with 
music plays an important part in its effect. I was at a review 
of a Scottish brigade by Marshal Haig. And when the bagpipes 
struck up The Campbells Are Coming it was not those 
magnificent and battle-worn troops that I saw. It was the 
Sixth Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry marching down the 

3001 



Emmitsburg Road on that second of July in 1863 with my 
father at their head, his fife and drum corps playing the same 
air; for all my life I had heard that this was the tune they had 
played as they advanced at Gettysburg." 

Realizing that music had meant much in his life, I asked 
General Dawes where and when he had studied it. 

"I never studied at all," he replied. "You see, my parents 
were afraid I might become a musician, with the result that 
they would never allow me to take lessons. And when I say 
that I never studied I mean that I never received any instruc 
tion in any instrument. I always loved music and what little 
I know I taught myself. The flute is the smallest of all instru 
ments, so it was the easiest to smuggle into my room, and 
then, too, it is not as noisy as most others, so it was the one I 
learned to play. 

"When I grew up I made a lot of friends among musicians 
and for years a number of them came to my house in Chicago 
and we had trios, quartets and quintets, in which I often 
played a part." 

"What about your Melody in A Major ?" I asked. 

"When I wrote that, I created for myself no end of trouble, 
and it is always bobbing up to confront me. One of the musi 
cians who used to come to my house very frequently was 
Francis Macmillen, the violinist. I got this tune in my head 
and I set it down and he used to play it. I never gave the thing 
a name. Some publishers heard him and wrote to me asking 
if they might publish it. Like a fool, I said c y es - 

"Shortly after this I was walking down State Street and 
happened to look into a music shop. Imagine my feelings when 
I discovered not only the window filled with copies of it, but 
my name plastered on the glass in large letters. 

f 3011 



"Here was I, presumably a perfectly sane and respectable 
banker, turning out tunes. I feared that my friends would 
say that if all my notes were as bad as my musical ones, they 
were not worth the paper they were written on. 

"Later on I went to hear a concert by Kreisler and on 
looking through the program what should I discover but that 
he had selected it as one of his numbers. Now I am not going 
to deny that I was pleased, particularly when afterward I made 
inquiries and learned he had picked it out without knowing 
who was the author. 59 



f 302 



XXXIII 

rTHAT distant day before General Dawes was consorting 
with royalty, one Herbert Hoover was Secretary of Com 
merce in President Coolidge s Cabinet. That was when I 
first met him. His house was on S. Street, a few doors from 
where President Wilson lived and died, and he had asked me to 
breakfast with him so we could get to work early on the drawing 
which I wanted to do. 

I remember distinctly my first glimpse of him. He was 
standing with a long stick in his hands beside a pool of goldfish 
in the grounds behind his house. Some dead leaves had dropped 
into the water and he was trying to get them out. A cool wind 
was blowing as he turned to greet me and I particularly noticed 
that one lock of smoothed hair had broken loose from the rest 
and drooped low over his forehead, 

He looked up from underneath his brows, a fairly heavy 
man with an almost awkward smile. His handshake is soft, 
repressed, and his voice gives evidence of the same restraint. 
Punctiliously polite, he is cordial without being effusive. There 
is a reticence about him that it is difficult to overcome, a 
reserve that appears impossible to penetrate. 

His niece was stopping with him at the time and we three 
ate together. His manner with her was as detached as with me. 
Over the strawberries and the bacon and scrambled eggs the 
conversation was impersonal, almost forced. A great police dog 
which sat beside him alone broke the formality. Unawed by 

I 303 1 



conventions, he rested his fore legs on the Secretary s chair 
and begged for bacon. The young woman left she was going 
to school and on her departure we talked of the younger 
generation. It was then that his eyes, ordinarily cold, assumed 
a kindlier look. And yet, despite a certain sympathetic interest, 
one instinctively felt it was the problem that was absorbing, 
rather than people. Rationally he could understand, emotion 
ally they were as far away as the dinosaurs. 

"The great difficulty in education," he explained, "is how 
much to leave to choice and how much to prescribe. As a 
member of the Board of Trustees at Leland Stanford I have 
often run up against that question. Are our young people 
securing at the colleges as well-rounded an education as in the 
days when specialization was not the order ? 

"Some of our students make a point of picking out easy 
courses; others, thinking that their lives will run along certain 
lines, specialize in such studies as they believe will aid them. 
After they have graduated they change their minds and are 
left without the benefits of a general education. More and 
more I have noticed that our colleges are turning out specialists 
rather than scholars. 

"Of course I realize that the old system whereby a 
student, no matter what his bent, was compelled to take 
certain studies in which he had no interest, and for which 
he would have no further use, also had its faults. It is only by 
a compromise that the advantages of both systems can be 
retained." 

We had gone into the living room and there by a window the 
future president sat smoking a large black cigar while I made 
my drawing. He had shown me a portrait of himself which 
his wife liked and which had been painted some years before, 
f 304 1 




ve i 



Herbert Hoover 



and he had cautioned me not to make him look like a Mellin s 
Food baby in my drawing. 

It was in my meeting with him before he became president 
that I feel that I got to know Mr. Hoover best, if indeed one 
may say that he got to know him at alL For about him is a 
curtain of secretiveness that in more or less casual meetings 
precludes any deep insight into the man. 

Mr. Coolidge has the reputation of being more or less of an 
enigma; his silence has been stressed ever since he first entered 
public life. Yet that silence is eloquent compared to Mr. Hoover s 
speech. There is a ruggedness and spiciness about the New 
Englander that lend color to his actions as well as his per 
sonality; there is a positiveness even in his most ambiguous 
statements that convinces one that he knows his own mind. 
Mr. Hoover has none of these assertive traits. He appears to 
lack color, and it is this fact which makes it difficult for the 
White House correspondents, some of whom have filled the 
same post during three or four administrations, to send inter 
esting stories concerning him to their papers. 

Several drives through the city of Washington with the 
then Secretary of Commerce come to mind. On one of them he 
was much pleased because Congress had voted him a new 
car without question while there had been opposition to 
other members of the Cabinet having theirs replaced. At 
another time we were speaking of the Mississippi flood which 
had just about that time subsided. From the topic of floods 
the conversation turned to that of earthquakes and hurricanes. 
It was then that he made a remark which has always stuck 
in my memory, and which to me revealed the man. I shall 
not attempt to give his exact words but the gist of them 
was that up to the present, the power of our tall skyscrapers 

I 307] 



to withstand either a convulsion of the earth or a terrific 
windstorm was unknown. And he expressed a keen interest 
in what would happen should either of these cataclysms 
overwhelm a city. What particularly struck me at the time 
was the cold engineering question which he puzzled over; the 
other results of such a catastrophe apparently did not concern 
him at all. 

And yet it was as a humanitarian that Mr. Hoover first 
made his reputation. But as one sees him and speaks with 
him, as one begins to realize his approach to any question it 
becomes more and more evident that he Is above all else an 
engineer, and that even when he sat distributing food to the 
people of Belgium, he would not permit his feelings to be 
touched. He acted as if it were a question involving fuel for 
furnaces rather than sustenance for the starving. 

This does not mean that he does not feel keenly; it implies 
rather that he keeps his feelings in the background, almost as 
if he were ashamed of being human. But when it is. remembered 
that as a ragged boy he worked his way through school and 
college, that his student romance with Lou Henry culminated 
in his marriage, it seems certain that but few people know the 
real Herbert Hoover. 

Before he became president he told me that the only 
exercise which he took was standing before the window and 
inhaling deeply a number of times. Since he has been in the 
White House his daily bouts with the medicine ball have 
been added. But the life of a president Is confining, and 
before Mr. Hoover entered public office his profession had kept 
him much in the open. 

Seven o clock has long been his rising hour. It is interesting 
to learn that he shaves himself with a safety razor, and a 
I 3081 



little before eight he comes downstairs, but prefers to walk 
rather than use the elevator. 

The presidential menu does not vary. It consists of fruit, 
bacon and scrambled eggs, and one cup of coffee. Unlike his 
predecessor his first meal of the day has not assumed great 
importance. In fact, he seems in a hurry to have done with 
it in order to have his first cigar, which incidentally is large 
and heavy. 

Mentioning this cigar again brings Mr. Coolidge to mind. 
He invariably clipped the end of his cigar with a knife or a 
cutter and carefully adjusted it in a pasteboard and quill 
holder. Mr. Hoover squeezes off the end of his with his nails 
and puts the cigar itself in his mouth. 

By nine o clock each morning he is seated in front of his 
mahogany desk in the executive office going over the mail 
which requires immediate attention. When he has read this 
he begins to dictate his replies. He does this slowly and 
evenly. Trained in method, he usually knows exactly what 
he is going to say before he says it, and it is not often that he 
asks his stenographer to repeat what has been said. 

If he is redrafting a paper which has already been typed he 
hardly ever looks up -from it, but with a pencil in hand, he 
will note the changes on the first draft as he makes them to 
his stenographer. Should a question of fact in the matter arise, 
instead of noting it for future corroboration, or disproof, 
he sends immediately for the person who can supply the correct 
information. 

At one -o clock he goes to luncheon. While he was Secretary 
of Commerce he often ate at his desk where sandwiches and 
milk and peanuts, of which he is extremely fond, were the 
menu. Since he became president this meal is taken at the 

I 309]} 



White House and is of a more substantial character and often 
guests are present, 

He is back again in his office at two and from then until 
four he sees people with whom he has appointments. After 
that he is again with his secretaries and continues dictation. 

He likes to leave his office by six, but this is not always 
possible. However, at seven-thirty he dines and when there 
are no visitors this meal is served in the small colonial dining 
room. He Is neither a fussy nor a large eater, and when he is 
particularly rushed he eats most sparingly. 

Ten-thirty is his usual retiring time, and only important 
matters will keep him up past that hour. It is then that he 
goes to his own room to read for a time in bed the latest detec 
tive story upon which he can lay his hands. 

Despite the tax that has been put upon him Mr. Hoover 
looks better now than when he was running for the presidency. 
I remember going to see him while he was campaigning and 
he was thin and appeared very worried. He posed for me the 
first day he was in office and the appreciation of the heavy 
responsibilities that he knew were in store for him showed 
itself on his face. 

At most times he is very serious looking and it would 
be difficult to imagine him ever laughing uproariously; that 
is not his nature. His humor is distinctly a mental process; 
the slightest distortion of a fact would spoil any joke for him. 
On the other hand he is shrewd in his observations. On one 
occasion he was speaking about the changes that had come 
over Washington. 

"The so-called Cliff Dwellers," he said, "the old families 
who have been here for years, are rapidly dying out. A new 
society is taking their place. Now when any man makes a lot 

f 3101 



of money in a small town, let us say Podunk, he immediately 
buys a house in Washington. Through his business interests 
he gets a letter of introduction to his Senator and to the 
representative of his district. He is invited to semi-public 
functions and his wife joins some literary clubs and in a com 
paratively short time they are members of the new social 
class which is in evidence here." 

He did not say this in any spirit of criticism. It was a 
simple statement of facts, and yet though he did not mention 
it, it was evident that he was amused by the entry of small 
town manners in the capital of the country. In a way the 
subject seemed one that Sinclair Lewis would delight to 
write about. For undoubtedly Babbitt in Washington would 
give him another opportunity for a display of fireworks and 
would cause as much discussion as when he hurled a bombshell 
into that long thoroughfare which wends its way from New 
York to San Francisco and passes through Gopher Prairie, 
Zenith and hundreds of other towns of similar character a 
bombshell which rattled the cans on the grocery store shelves 
of Ole Jensen and the windows in the emporium known as 
the Bon Ton Store. 



XXXIV 

IT WAS years and years ago that I first met Sinclair Lewis. 
At a typical Greenwich Village party his brilliant con 
versation made such a deep impression that although 
there were a number of other guests I remember none of them 
except him. 

Sophisticate and satirist though he is, Sauk Center, Minne 
sota, where he was born, has left an indelible mark upon him. 
Tall, red-faced, red-haired, with very blue eyes, in all his 
awkward movements and almost jackknife-like poses, he 
reminds one of a freckle-faced boy with a broad grin in a Briggs 
cartoon. 

It was the day after he was notified of the award of the 
Nobel Prize that I made my sketch of him. 

As he leaned back on a sofa, or nervously jumped up and 
walked around the room, shortly after he had heard of the 
award, protesting that prizes meant nothing, that he was 
just a writing man, that he wrote as well last year as he did 
now, I could not help feeling that all this was an innate 
modesty and shyness a self-depreciation of the country 
boy and that away down in the bottom of his heart Babbitt 
himself could not have been more pleased had he been voted 
the best citizen of Zenith. 

But the personalities of authors are often the antithesis 
of their writings. Mark Twain seemed to be rather acrid and 
sour; the sardonic Shaw is sweet and kindly and, indeed, 

[312J 




Sinclair Lewis 



somewhat like a lovable old Santa Clans; and here was Lewis, 
who laughs loudly at mankind, decrying the value of prizes, and 
at the same time trying to learn Swedish so that he would 
be able to make a reply in that language when he received the 
award in Stockholm. 

Indeed, his entire personality is apparently a mass of con 
tradictions. He scorns patriotism and declares that America 
is the only country in the world in which he cares to live; and, 
while he said this, he showed me his old passport and expressed 
his anxiety to get abroad again as soon as possible. He laughs 
at sentiment but a great part of his conversation was about 
his wife and his son, Mickey. He has made fun of the Babbitts 
and, at the same time, he has no use for the ill-kempt superior 
souls who sit around bare tables in Greenwich Village discuss 
ing art an aversion for which one might find an explanation 
in his own Greenwich Village days and his heritage of Sauk 
Center morality. 

His father was the doctor of the town, which may account 
both for Kennicott in "Main Street" and for Arrowsmith. 
When he was seven years old he determined to be a writer, 
for he had been impressed by the respect and awe with which 
the village editor was regarded. When he was fourteen he 
wrote his first story, but it was four years later before he 
succeeded in selling any of his work. That was when he was 
attending Yale, where he wrote poetry and short stories for 
the college magazine, and gained a reputation for being a 
good and tireless talker. 

After three years at New Haven, Lewis left to join that 
strange colony which Upton Sinclair founded in New Jersey; 
he became the furnaceman of Helicon Hall for every member 
of the colony was assigned to some form of menial labor and 

I 3151 



this job gave him plenty of leisure for writing. It is not hard 
to imagine the effect this communistic experiment had upon a 
youth from Minnesota whose outstanding experience with a 
radical up to that time had been an association with his Sauk 
Center tutor, who, though an Episcopalian clergyman, had 
had the temerity to preach evolution to a body of Funda 
mentalists. When he tired of Helicon Hall Lewis came to 
New York and lived in a tenement in the gas house district. 

A trip to Panama, and a final year at Yale followed, and 
then he became a reporter for an Iowa paper. This job did 
not last long, and for a number of years he drifted about, 
selling a story here and there, and working as a reporter, 
reader, or publicity man in various parts of the country. 
Then he became advertising manager of a publishing house. 
By this time, he had written three novels, which, although 
they had fair success, gave no hint of his later point of view. 
Then came "Main Street." 

"So you see," he said, as he leaned back in his chair, his 
lean legs crossed and his hands clasped behind the back of his 
head, "I have had a varied life and the twenty-seven years 
that have passed since I sold my first story have been filled 
with pretty hard work at a tough game. And a lot of the time 
I had to do stuff that I hated." 

There is nothing dignified about Lewis. The humor of 
most dignity appeals to him too much to permit him to 
assume it. Indeed, about him is something of the actor, and 
when I asked him what had happened to Main Street in the 
last ten years, he immediately became the inhabitant of a 
small town boasting of its progress. 

"Gosh," he said, "you wouldn t know the place, its so 
changed. Remember the mud ? Well it s all paved now, right 

f 316 I 



out past the city limits. And the trolley cars have gone. 
Yes, sir! We had them all ripped up and the most comfortable 
buses you ever rode in pass through our city every half hour. 

"When you first knew the street half of it was filled with 
story-and-a-half wooden buildings. You won t find one of them 
left. 

"Remember the Minniemashie House? Tall, lean struc 
ture, three stories of yellow wood. They covered it with stucco 
and made a regular hotel out of it. Tiled linoleum on the 
floor and not a brass cuspidor in sight. And that dirty old 
dining room with the soiled tablecloths and the catsup bottles ? 
It has been turned into part cafeteria and part dining room 
with glass-covered tables. 

"Dave Dyer sold his drug store to a chain outfit, and I ll bet 
you neither St. Paul nor Minneapolis can boast of a better place. 

"Of course, the saloons are gone. They were a disgrace to 
any self-respecting village. Oh, yes, we have got a couple of 
speakeasies in their place, but they are so dirty that no decent 
citizen likes to be seen in them. We have our stuff in our homes 
or else in the lockers at the golf club. 

"I don t think we had a golf course when you were there. 
We laid that out shortly after prohibition came in. But there 
wasn t anything else for us to do when they closed the bar at 
the Minniemashie House. By the way, the name of it was 
changed to the Harding, but that only lasted for a year or two; 
now it s called Gopher Mansion. They decided it was a little 
risky naming it again after a president. 

"And then, there s the Bon Ton Store. Hay dock and 
Simons owned it ten years ago. Well, do you remember the 
little errand boy, Ikey? He bought them out and enlarged it 
so that you wouldn t know it." 

13171 



And he continued, jokingly describing the architectural 
changes that had occurred in the decade that had passed since 
he immortalized the principal highway of any small town. 

"But speaking seriously, 5 he continued, "even if these 
changes have taken place, Main Street is still Main Street and 
will always be so. For essentially and basically Main Street 
is also Broadway- Indeed, I am beginning to wonder if it Is not 
also Unter den Linden and the Avenue de FOpera and Regent 
Street. 

"Of course, Main Street is progressing, but so are Broad 
way and all of the other streets in the world, and there have 
been on it just as many changes, comparatively speaking, as 
there have been on Regent Street. 

"Though the people of the world vary in certain character 
istics, essentially they are the same. The only difference be 
tween the Babbitts in this country and those in France is that 
over there they wear gray silk gloves. I have seen them and 
heard them in England too. Shell spectacles are not a part of 
their make-up, but in many an English town I have met good, 
hearty British Babbitts whose conversation, apart from its 
pronunciation, might be duplicated in any Kiwanis luncheon in 
Iowa or gathering of Lions in Kansas. 5 * 

"Has Babbitt changed much also?" 

"Of course, he has. Do you think that he has any sympathy 
with Vergil Gunch who wastes his time reading detective 
stories? No, sir, not he. Of course, business had been going 
along well until the slump and he has some definite ideas 
on how that could have been avoided but the trouble has 
been right along that he has only been able to give about two 
or three hours of his time to mental diversion. But there s 
nothing he likes better than to get into an easy chair, with 

318 



his slippers on, and after he has lighted his cigar with his 
patent lighter which he now fills with jelly instead of fluid 
to get deep into a good biography. And of course he keeps the 
radio going all the time. But he keeps it down low unless 
there s something good on. 

"But you know," he continued, "despite all the changes, 
there was something present ten or fifteen years ago that is 
lacking to-day. There was a certain pioneer spirit in those 
days. Of course, as far as churchgoing was concerned they had 
narrow ideas. If you did not attend an evangelical church 
every Sunday, the opinion was that you ought to be lynched. 
On the other hand, there were a certain juice and zest that are 
lacking to-day. There s more talk about automobiles and the 
radio and what proportion of water to use, but there s less 
conversation. People are not interested as much in scandals 
or politics or abstractions as they were. 

"The old pioneers have gone. They have been replaced by 
people who own bathtubs and sedans and limousines, strange 
glass-topped porch furniture, even speed boats and country 
homes people who are determined that these things shall not 
be endangered by the success of radical theories and who are 
more interested in them than in mere speculation on the soul 
of man. 

"This is an age of radio, of the talkies, where religion is 
road paving, patriotism the relation of weather to Sunday 
morning, when contract is discussed with a sanctified 
fervor, and when even the sky is becoming cluttered with 
airplanes. 

"This is an age of industrialism. But one must recognize 
its supremacy to-day or else be submerged. Main Street 
recognizes it and so does Babbitt. They have to." 

I 319 I 



He got up, and strode across the room with his hands In 
his pockets. 

"But this age will pass just as the others have. People 
will come to resent having an entire evening spoiled by the 
boom of a dynamic speaker and hearing morons bawl out 
idiotic banalities. I have faith that the very passion in the 
worship of the Great God Industrialism, together with his 
attendant deities, will bring its own reaction. Even Babbitt 
progresses, and his grandsons will laugh at his gods much as 
he does at the chin whiskers of the Smith Brothers. 5 

"Then you have hope for the country?" I asked. 

"Hope? I should say I have. It s the greatest country in the 
world, and its people have the greatest potentialities." 

So, fearing that Mr. Lewis would sing "The Star-Spangled 
Banner," I left. 



320 



XXXV 

rwAS some time after I had seen Lewis that in a conver 
sation with Gilbert K. Chesterton the subject of Main 
Street came up. The ponderous Englishman at once took 
issue with the picture as drawn by the vitriolic American. 

"When the pioneers of this country started westward/ he 
said, "they traveled in covered wagons with closed minds. 

"The Puritan is likely to be a fanatic. He believes in the 
simplicity of human nature. If there is any defect he thinks he 
can find one thing to cure it. He does not realize either the 
complexity of the world or the complexity of human nature, 

"He suddenly decides that drink is the cause of much 
misery and he promptly adopts prohibition as a panacea for 
all ills. When by chance, prosperity, as a result of a thousand 
and one causes, strikes your land after the adoption of this 
evil, he promptly attributes the prosperity to the measure 
which he has adopted for the spiritual welfare of mankind. 
But when prosperity departs he does not blame it on what 
he considered its cause. He promptly goes looking around for 
another remedy. 

"In other words, he is by nature a professional reformer, 
and is constantly looking for ways to improve the world. 
When he walks along Main Street he is not willing to accept 
what he can see. Behind the attractive grocery stores he goes 
rummaging among the packing boxes and crates, finding a 
spiritual pleasure in discovering rotten fruit and spoiled 

1321} 



olives. He is more gratified by finding one potato with an ulcer 
than a bushel of them without any. For that is something for 
him to reform. 

"Indeed," he went on with a chuckle, "I feel that it is that 
Puritanic idea of reformation that has played a large part in 
Mr. Lewis s writings. He has tried to delve behind the scenes 
on Main Street, but all that he has found were ulcers on 
potatoes. The real motives, the simple but full lives of these 
people have escaped him, at any event he has endeavored to 
improve and reform them. 

"The antimacassar on the back of a fine old chair has 
blinded him to the beauty of the lines of the furniture. In his 
way I find him much like the lady who was trying to bring 
Ibsen to Main Street, except he is trying to bring Mencken 
there. And I am not sure were he to succeed whether the 
people would laugh more at Mencken or Mencken at the 
people." 

The first time I met Chesterton was in London. I had an 
appointment to draw him, and instead of going out to his 
country home he had suggested that I make the sketch in the 
office of G. K/s Weekly. In spite of his detective stories, he 
had always seemed to me a survival of the literary man of the 
eighteenth century. Reynolds s portrait of Johnson always 
substituted itself in my mind s eye for his photograph; and in 
his work, in spite of a certain modernity, I could always detect 
the guiding hands of Addison and Steele. 

I had walked down the Strand from Trafalgar Square. It 
is one of the ugliest streets in the world, a battlefield on which 
the ghostly forces of Victoria are just beginning to give way 
before an army of modernists. In the chemist shops, in the 
tobacconists, and behind the red velvet sofas in dingy hotels, 
| 3221 




Gilbert K. Chesterton 



the specters of Victorianism still cluster, but the hands of the 
wreckers are fast dislodging them. 

Down past Aldwych I strolled, longing for a little bit of 
the London of Johnson, or even Dickens, and turned sharp 
right into Essex Street. I was looking for No. 20, and came to 
a stop before a structure some six stories high, such as any Main 
Street over forty years of age might contain. 

To find the successor of Dr. Johnson in an office building 
was, to say the least, disconcerting, for associations do count, 
and to transplant an eighteenth century character into a mid- 
Victorian surrounding was difficult. When I did find his office, 
I felt as if I had been transported back about a hundred years. 

It is a dirty office and very small. An appalling amount of 
material is crowded into one small room. Against two walls are 
high book shelves filled with papers, while two large walnut 
tables covered with what at one time was green oilcloth, are 
burdened with files of memoranda. An old letterpress, a 
pitcher and basin in the corner, wastebaskets full of pamphlets, 
all add their touches- of character, and had Ebenezer Scrooge 
walked out from one of the two doors that led to other rooms he 
would have been as much a part of the picture as was the fat 
boy in a much worn coat who sat at the table opposite the door. 

As I entered, he was leaning far over the table, licking 
postage stamps. In front of him were thousands of large 
envelopes, at his elbow were sheets of stamps. He stopped 
his performance to say that Mr. Chesterton had not arrived, 
handed me a current number of the publication, and went 
back to his task. First he licked a stamp, then he placed it on 
an envelope, then he pounded it with his other hand to make 
it stick, then another lick, another envelope, and so on, quite 
mechanically. 

I 3251 



How long I sat fascinated I do not know, but I was awak 
ened from reverie by heavy footsteps outside, the quick open 
ing of the entrance door, and the appearance of a large, 
heavy-breathing man, who made everything in the room, 
including the fat boy, dwindle into insignificance. 

He muttered something about being sorry that he was late 
and walked rapidly into his own room, followed by the fat boy, 
who quickly returned and ushered me into G. K ? s sanctuary. 

The first thing that strikes one about Chesterton is his 
abounding good nature. The complexion of a baby, wavy 
blond hair, a drooping reddish brown mustache, kindly blue 
eyes, all contribute to this impression. He was sitting, as I 
entered the room, at the head of another long office table. 
Behind him was a tall bookcase filled with many books, 
principally paper covered ones, and this room, like the outer 
office, presented the same picture of absolute disorder. Papers 
were strewn everywhere, the furniture was old and worn, and 
Chesterton, sitting there in the midst of this chaos, immedi 
ately brought to mind Johnson sitting in much the same kind 
of room writing furiously in order to finish "Rasselas" and 
thereby be enabled to pay his mother s funeral expenses. The 
atmosphere was intensified when, looking through the window, 
I caught a glimpse of the old Temple, very little changed in all 
these years, and realized that within a stone s throw was 
Goldsmith s grave. 

"I want to apologize for this office," said Mr. Chesterton, 
"it is not much of a place compared to what American publi 
cations have in the way of editorial rooms. It must seem very 
small and stuffy to you." 

But I assured him that it was exactly the kind of place I 
had hoped to find in London, but up to then had not found. 

326] 



"In fact/ I said, "it is precisely the setting in which I could 
picture Dr. Johnson." 

"Yes," he began, "it is an old-fashioned place, and it is in 
the very neighborhood in which Johnson lived. He worshiped 
at St. Clement s and that is the reason they put up that 
statue to him over there behind the church; and a strange 
statue it is to put up to Johnson. If he was one thing, he was a 
big man, and in the shadow of that church he is absolutely 
dwarfed, and that Johnson never was." 

Chesterton s voice is pitched high, and as he talks he draws 
in his breath with almost a whistling noise conveying a certain 
self-appreciation of his own remarks. He smiles often, dis 
closing a missing front tooth in his lower jaw, which intensifies 
the impression of absolute disregard of personal appearance. 

Leaving Johnson, he talked about himself and his journal 
istic experiences. 

"A week after I had left Warsaw that great political crime, 
the murder of the Bolshevists, occurred," he said. "I have 
had this strange experience a number of times. Invariably I 
leave a place of interest just before it becomes really interest 
ing. In the first days of the Zionist quarrel in Jerusalem, I saw 
the mobs gathering and heard the cries against the Jews; but 
the first real riots broke out a few days after my departure. 
Just after I left Madrid things began to happen there; and 
while I was away from London and trying in vain to get back, 
even more interesting things happened here. This may some 
times be a relief to a humanitarian, but it is something of a 
tragedy to a journalist." 

I began talking about the interest in spiritualism as one of 
the results of the war and asked Chesterton how he accounted 
for Conan Doyle having embraced it. 

I 327] 



"To my mind Doyle hit the bull s-eye when he wrote the 
Sherlock Holmes stories/ 5 he said. "He was very successful 
with them and as people liked them he kept turning them out. 
He turned out many, and as Holmes always discovered the 
criminal, Doyle in time began in his own mind to associate 
himself with Holmes. This often happens. People say that an 
author puts a lot of himself in one of his characters, when as 
a matter of fact he puts a lot of his favorite characters in 
himself. It is a case where Nature begins, as Whistler said, to 
catch up to Art." 

From Doyle and his detective stories it was an easy step to 
lead Chesterton to talk of his own efforts in that field. 

"Yes," he said, "I have done a number of them; it has been 
great fun doing them. They are a sort of game to me and I have 
often started out with one idea and before I have finished I have 
made an entirely innocent bystander the guilty party. The 
real way to do them, however, is to forget that you are writing 
a detective story at all. Just start out with certain facts; a 
murder or other crime has been committed; a number of 
people are involved; you, no more than your reader, have any 
idea as to the guilty party. Then go ahead and unravel the 
crime as if the problem were actually put up to you." 

While at work on Chesterton s portrait I remarked that in 
arranging to make sketches of various British officials one 
encountered little red tape and that there seemed to be more 
democracy in England than in America. 

"Yes," Chesterton answered, "in some ways there is. I 
imagine that here a Prime Minister is much more democratic 
with his secretary, than in your country, but on the other 
hand, in America I think that the secretary is much more 
democratic to his Minister. When I was traveling in America 
f 3281 



I had occasion to spend several days on a railroad train. Our 
porter was a nice-looking colored fellow, and one day I engaged 
him in conversation. I found him intelligent and fairly well 
read, in fact learned much about the section through which we 
were passing from him. I had been speaking to him some time 
when the call bell rang and he had to leave me, which he did 
with these words, So long, see you again soon. 

"Now that to me was true democracy. He was not in the 
least impudent he had said to me exactly what he would have 
said to any friend of his; but can you imagine what would 
happen to an English porter who said the same thing ? In other 
words, we have the forms of democracy and not the spirit, 
and I fear the forms without that essential idea that goes with 
them are dangerous." 

There was a commotion without and I looked around as the 
fat boy entered, bringing two cups of tea. My drawing was 
finished, so I left after the first cup and accordingly do not 
know whether Chesterton, like his prototype, Dr. Johnson, 
drinks seven at one sitting. 



3291 



XXXVI 

THE mere mention of tea at once brings to mind that 
active old yachtsman. Sir Thomas Lipton. It was on 
the occasion of his last attempt to lift the America s 
cup that I first met him. 

Keen, active, and alert, he belied his fourscore years. 
Perhaps his hair was a little whiter and thinner and his shoulders 
not quite so square as they were when he made his first attempt 
to win the cup, but there was still the same bubbling humor in 
his sharp blue eyes and there was the same engaging smile. His 
complexion was as ruddy and vigorous as it was when he trod 
the deck of the first Shamrock. 

The greatest change in his appearance was the way he 
trimmed his mustache, a mustache that was characteristic of 
the Lipton of old. The ends retained the same whimsical turn, 
but the white hair on the upper lip was clipped short, so that 
the two curls, together with the goatee, would have given him 
a Mephistophelian expression, were it not for the benign humor 
that radiated from his countenance. 

Though he was bronzed, as all men are who sail the seas, he 
looked more like a physician or a college professor than a man 
who had spent part of his life aboard ship. His humor, though, 
was his dominating trait. The minute he began to speak, what 
ever academic air he had, vanished. His was a distinctly Celtic 
humor, heightened, when he spoke, by a mixture of brogue and 
burr. It was that strange mingling of Gael and Scot that gave 
I 330 







Sir Thomas Lipton 



to Sir Thomas those divergent attributes that were so marked 
in him. When I asked him about his nationality he said: 

"I am Scotch-Irish or Irish-Scotch, depending upon what 
company I am in." 

It was his Irish ancestry which prompted the humor of 
the remark, it was his early Scottish environment which was 
behind its shrewdness. 

Indeed, kindliness and canniness were the keys to the 
success of this son of two poor Irish emigrants who went to 
Glasgow, where young Thomas was born. It was canniness 
that enabled him to become one of the leading merchants in 
the world, it was kindliness that made him probably the best- 
loved Briton who has come to these shores. 

But it was not as a cup contender that he first came. 
Indeed, his first trip occurred long before any international 
yacht race to which he was a party. Sixty-odd years ago 
the boy who had helped in a little provision shop, and who 
later had run errands for a stationer for half a crown a week, 
heard the call of the sea. Mooning along the docks on the 
River Clyde he built strange dramas about the lands to which 
the old square-riggers sailed countries where fortunes were 
easily won. 

One day the call was too strong to be resisted. Quietly 
packing his few belongings, he left the gray stone town and 
started on his first great adventure. Through the old, round, 
brick building which had once reechoed to the notes of Jenny 
Lind, the penniless immigrant entered the largest city of the 
New World. Upon his last visit he passed by the same building 
in a flag-bedecked ship, the guest of that same city, cheered by 
thousands, as he once more put foot on this soil. The intervening 
years held an almost incredible story of success. 

f 333] 



It was not long after the Civil War when he first came here. 
Times were hard, particularly so for a friendless boy with no 
money. He tried his hand at many jobs 5 even that of hoeing 
cotton in South Carolina. It was not long before he decided 
that he might just as well work at home as in this strange land 
where he knew no one. When he had saved up enough to pay 
his passage, back he set sail for his native land. 

"But," he said, "even if my pocketbook was not bulging 
with American dollars, my head was filled with new ideas that 
I had gathered in this country. My father and mother were 
keeping a little shop in Glasgow. The principal things that 
they sold were butter, eggs, and ham, and their customers 
were the people whom they had known for years and who lived 
in the immediate neighborhood. 

"What I had learned over here was that shops did not 
depend entirely upon the people who lived near them. Already 
in those days the great American idea of advertising had taken 
hold. I don t know whether I should call it altogether an 
American idea, for one of the men who developed it to a great 
extent happened to be a Scotsman. However it was in America 
that I first saw the great benefits to be derived from it, and 
when I got back to my parents little shop that would barely 
hold six people, I was filled with enthusiasm for a new plan. 
I so impressed them with it that my father decided to risk his 
little savings in trying it out." 

The shop grew slowly at first, but eventually another one 
was opened and then others. This was in Glasgow, but young 
Lipton soon saw that there were the same possibilities in many 
towns, and before long he was opening similar stores in the 
larger cities of both England and Scotland. In order to supply 
them with teas, he bought plantations in Ceylon, and even- 

{334} 



tually, when he owned some six hundred stores, he went into 
coffee and cocoa growing, and even acquired a packing house 
in Omaha, Nebraska. 

I asked him when he built his first Shamrock. 

"Some sixty-nine years ago/ he said with a half-roguish 
smile in his eyes. 

"You see," he said, "no one can live in Glasgow and not 
love the water. The great Clyde River, filled with shipping from 
all parts of the world, is bound to affect a youngster who sees 
it almost from the moment of his birth. As a boy I used to 
frequent the docks and talk to those strange, gruff men who 
had sailed all over the world and who came on land with 
stories stranger and more fascinating than fairy tales. 

"It was only natural that as soon as I was old enough to 
own a knife I should cut boats out of blocks of wood. 

"On puddles near our house I sailed my first yacht, a boat 
crudely made and having paper sails, but a boat that was in 
my eyes the trimmest ship that ever glided through the 
water. It bore the same name as the yacht now at Newport. 

"That was a long time ago, but in all the years that have 
since gone by I have never lost my interest in ships. Of course, 
I have often said that business is my vocation, yachting my 
hobby, and that is true; but it has been a hobby that has 
yielded me many happy hours, and also a few disappointments." 

He smiled as he said this, and I asked him what he would 
do if he did not win the cup this time. 

"Try again as soon as I can build another boat, but I do 
not think that will be necessary, for the present Shamrock 
has so far beaten everything in sight. 

"You know, when Mr. Adams s boat, the Resolute, beat 
mine last time, you made him Secretary of the Navy in 

1335] 



gratitude, so when I come back with the cup this time I have 
no doubt my government will do as much for me. But I will 
not play quite as fairly as you people, for, once I have that 
cup over there, and I am in command of the naval forces, every 
time you send over a challenger I ll order out a couple of gun 
boats to fire shots along your boat s course, so that It will be 
impossible for it to win. 

"But, seriously, seventy-nine years is too long for any 
nation to hold the trophy. After I shall have held it fifty, I shall 
be perfectly content for America to regain it. ? * 

As he sat in a large armchair, his hands clasped in his lap, 
and spoke of plans and purposes, interspersing his remarks 
with his sly humor, he breathed a spirit of optimism. It was 
clearly evident to him that this world is a pretty good place in 
which to live, that life had been a marvelous game, in which 
the bitter never outweighed the sweet. It was difficult for him 
to be serious long, and whenever he could turn his answer into 
a joke he did so. 

Although his humor was ever to the forefront, behind it, 
deeper but perhaps even a little more powerful, was a certain 
Scotch dourness, a seriousness of purpose, unswerving and 
irresistible, begotten in the gray mists in the land in which he 
was born and in which he toiled. It did not come to the sur 
face often he hid it, almost as if he were ashamed of it 
but it showed itself when he replied to the question as to 
whether a poor boy of to-day had as much chance to succeed 
as one in former times. 

"Of course he has. Times have naturally changed," he 
said. "Modern inventions have made the world an entirely 
different place. But take the Leviathan, on which I crossed the 
ocean on this trip, and the little packet on which I made my 

{3361 



first crossing. Do you think that the oil-burning engines, the 
radio, or anything else aboard the new ship has affected the 
feelings of the people ? There are the same joys and griefs and 
hopes in the breasts of the passengers to-day as there always 
were. External conditions cannot change them, nor can they 
change opportunities. In fact, if anything, they only make 
opportunities greater. 

" Success in life depends upon the individual, and no one 
who goes around with a long face, who keeps saying the world 
is not as good as it was, that he has no chance to-day, can 
ever hope to succeed. Indeed, that person is beaten before he 
crosses the starting line. To begin with, he is headed in the 
wrong direction; he is going backward instead of forward, 
and he is looking for squally clouds and rough water, even if 
the sun is shining and the sea is calm. 

"But very often this wrong way of looking at things is the 
result of wrong upbringing. It is home surroundings that, to 
my mind, set a boy or a girl on the road to success. As you 
know, my early days were not the easiest, but our home, 
though perhaps it was not beautiful, was clean and inviting 
and comfortable, and presiding over it was the bravest and 
noblest woman in the world, my mother. 

"When things were not going as well as they should, there 
was nevertheless a smile on her face. She has always been my 
guiding star. It was from her that I learned to look toward the 
future and not to the past. It is expecting better things that 
brings them; it is the conviction that they will come to pass 
that provides the incentive to work to bring them about. 

"The boy who starts out in life with honesty and courage, 
convinced that he will get along, is provided with proper 
weapons to succeed, and modern conditions will prove no 

{3371 



more formidable to him than the old ones did to the boys with 
the same ideas." 

He was intensely serious as he spoke, and then suddenly 
came the look of humor in his eyes. 

"Indeed/ 5 he went on, "modern conditions are going to 
help me lift that cup." 

"What are you going to do with It after you have won it ?" 
I inquired. 

"That s a fine question for a person in a dry country to 
ask," he shot back. "Don t you know cups were made for one 
purpose only? That s for tea." 



f 338J 



T 



XXXVII 

^HIRTY-FIVE years ago Walter P. Chrysler was an oil 
wiper working for five cents an hour. To-day he is the 
head of one of the largest automobile companies in the 
world and is regarded as one of the outstanding figures in 
the motor-car industry. 

"The man who makes good is the man who starts his job 
with enthusiasm," said Mr. Chrysler in his office, "and who does 
a little more than is expected of him. Give the boss a little more 
than he expects and he will see that you are rewarded. And 
if he doesn t the best thing to do is to find another boss." 

Seated behind a large flat-topped desk, which was placed 
diagonally in one corner of the room, this tall, powerfully 
built, sun-tanned man issued crisp orders. 

It is not the peculiar shape of his head, which narrows 
above the temples, that one notices on first meeting Mr. 
Chrysler, nor is it the strong aquiline nose and the square 
jaws; it is the piercing black eyes, which seem to bore through 
any object upon which they are focused. 

"It is not strange that I am in the automobile business," 
he said. "My grandfather drove a covered wagon across the 
plains, my father was an engineer on one of those old wood- 
burning engines of the Union Pacific Railroad, so you see 
transportation is in my blood. 5 

Mr. Chrysler s voice is deep, and he speaks quickly, so 
quickly that he runs one word into another. One feels that he 

339] 



realizes the shortness of life; that as much as possible must 
be crowded into its span. 

He leaned back in his chair and passed the palms of his 
hands over his sleek hair, and went on: 

"I was born in a little Kansas hamlet it wasn t even a 
town called Wamego, near Ellis, and it was there that the 
shops of the Union Pacific were located. 

"I went to school until I was seventeen. Of course, like all 
country boys I had had summer jobs in the grocery store, but 
it was at seventeen that I really went to work, and I have 
been working steadily ever since." 

Shrewd business man that he is, there Is nevertheless in 
Chrysler a touch of the philosopher. He leaned forward and 
clasped his hands on the glass-topped desk. 

" You know," he said, "the poor boy has a great advantage 
over the kid whose father is wealthy a great advantage, I 
mean, in shaping his future life. He can only get pleasure in 
constructive things. The wealthy boy gets pleasure in spending 
money, and in most cases he does that in a purely destructive 
fashion. I still have a real working model of a locomotive that 
I built, and I not only made that, but I even had to make the 
tools with which I worked." 

For four years he worked in the Union Pacific shops, then 
something happened that had a distinct effect on his career. 

"One day traffic had been very heavy," he said, "and a 
locomotive pulled in with a broken cylinder head. In two hours 
a mail train had to leave, and there wasn t another locomotive 
to be had. A chap by the name of Hickey was the Superin 
tendent of Motive Power, and he called me into his office, 
That locomotive has to be fixed in two hours/ he said. Can 
you do it? 

{3401 




^ar^ii^ ^;"^ Jfs::: 

^ , " 



Walter P. Chrysler 



"Believe me, that was some whale of a job. But I said 
I would tackle it and I put in as hard a spell of work there 
as I ever did in all my life, but the engine was finished on 
time. 

" Walt/ Hickey said to me, <I didn t think it could be 
done. I can t pay you anything extra. But I won t forget/ 

"And he didn t. Three months later, on his recommen 
dation, I became general foreman of the Colorado and 
Southern shops at Trinidad. I had given the boss a little more 
than he expected and I had received my reward." 

Chrysler made good here as he had done in the first job. 
In nine years he had become superintendent of motive power 
of the Chicago and Great Western system. 

"I was getting a pretty good salary," he said, "but I was 
thirty-three and I realized that I had gone as far as I could in 
the line I was in. Mechanical men never got further than being 
the heads of their own departments. Executive positions were 
not given to them. Tradition prevented my promotion, but 
it did not prevent my taking another job. 

"And that is something which I have never hesitated to do 
all my life.When I have seen that I have gone as far as possible 
in one direction, I have been willing to take a chance in an 
entirely new field, even when doing so meant an actual 
pecuniary loss for the time being. 

"So at a salary of about half of what I had been getting I 
went to work for the American Locomotive Company in the 
position of works manager. I saw possibilities there for future 
advancement. My job meant more than the actual construc 
tion of locomotives the element of competitive sales entered. 
In two years I was general manager and the company was 
operating at a profit. 

1343] 



"From what I am telling you I don t want you to get the 
idea that I object to punching a time card. As a matter of 
fact, at the office entrance of the Chrysler Company in 
Detroit, card number one has my name on it and every morn 
ing I am in that city that card is punched at eight o clock. 
But what I am trying to drive at Is that I was interested not 
only in the construction details of engineering, but also In the 
purely business side of It. 

"As a matter of -fact," he went on, "engineering is the 
foundation on which all sound manufacturing is developed. 
Engineering, finance, design, production and sales are the 
tools with which the management works. Efficiency Is achieved 
only when each of these functions is scientifically managed. 
And to my way of thinking, the running of large corporations 
is just as purely mechanical as the building of a locomotive 
or an automobile. 

"I suppose you are wondering how I happened to switch 
from locomotives to motor cars. Well, you see in the early part 
of the century horseless wagons began to chug over our roads. 
It did not take a prophet to see possibilities in these primitive 
cars. The day of individual transportation was dawning. 

"Way back in 1905 I went to the Chicago Automobile 
Show. There I saw what struck me as a marvelous car. Its price 
was five thousand dollars and I had seven hundred. But I wanted 
that car. Not to drive, but to see how it was made. I managed to 
borrow the rest of the money and I had the car shipped home. 
By the time I had taken it apart and put it together again I 
knew a lot about the inner workings of motor cars. 

"That was just nineteen years before I brought out the first 
Chrysler, but I had dojie some tall thinking in the meantime, and 
I had been in a number of jobs , In order to get into the automobile 
|344j 



business, I had to do exactly the same thing that I had done in 
order to get out of the mechanical end of the locomotive business. 

"I gave up a twelve-thousand-dollar job to take one at 
six thousand dollars with General Motors. I finally became 
vice president there, but then I left. After the war I reor 
ganized several other automobile companies, but all the time 
I was dreaming of that car of my own. In 1924 my dream came 
true. I started to build it. 

"To-day all our ideas of motors have changed from what 
they were. A quarter of a century ago, the automobile was an 
inventive hope. In the early days of the twentieth century the 
budding automobile industry was experimenting with an 
almost endless variety of self-propelled vehicles and there was 
no agreement among engineers. 

"It was the phase when the industry hoped that the cars 
built would run. It was easy to see the place that the motor 
car was destined to occupy in modern life, but not so easy to 
see the form of the final product which is to-day a vital factor 
in our existence, which is changing our cities and remaking 
the habitable parts of the globe. 

"We were on our way, however. Naturally the first experi 
mental cars were costly. If the automobile was to grow in public 
use and become a factor in modern life, stability had to come. 

"The second phase was the production of more nearly 
standardized types in such volume that they should come 
economically within the reach of the mass of the people. To 
Henry Ford must go the credit for having the vision of quan 
tity production at low prices. He set the pace through the 
years of the second phase the period of low-cost cars. 

"A step behind came the great quantity production era. 
We thought then that the ultimate status of the industry was 

I 345] 



attained. With all the essential variants size, number of 
cylinders, variety of models, and luxury of finish other com 
panies followed the Ford lead; great plants sprang up. Quan 
tity became the keynote of automobile development. 

"And logically following quantity was an era of lowering 
prices. In spite of the interruption of the war period the down 
ward trend of prices continued steadily, with quantity output 
ever growing* 

"An inevitable reaction from quantity production and low 
prices is a demand for quality. The universality of that trend 
affecting all products suggests that it is perhaps sociological 
rather than economic. When an article universally needed 
becomes cheap enough for practically every one to possess it, 
the demand for higher quality, better style, and greater 
luxury naturally follows quickly. 

"And so," he went on, "we now have arrived at the third 
stage; the problem is now quality production on the most 
economical basis. Miracles of manufacturing have been 
accomplished in the last five years, and those miracles have 
all demonstrated the practicability of building the finest 
quality cars in large quantities. 

"Quality from the lowest to the highest priced car is here 
to stay. It is an essential of the modern utility of automobiles. 
We must have power and the capacity for speed, which is 
inherent in power, to cope with modern traffic conditions. 

"And speaking of traffic conditions leads me to speak of 
traffic congestion. That is an economic ill of the first mag 
nitude. Regulation and distribution of trafiic by the con 
struction of highways and byways, instead of by-laws and 
ordinances, is the need of this country to-day/ 

f 346} 




XXXVIII 

SK any ten people to name the three largest corpora 
tions in this country and nine of them will include 
Standard Oil in their answers, yet it is doubtful 
whether one out of those nine could tell who is its president 

This is in a way characteristic of the man who heads the 
Standard Oil Company of New Jersey, for while the name of 
Rockefeller still blazes forth on the front pages of the news 
papers, and although in their time Rogers, Archbold, Flagler, 
and Bedford were often in the public prints, Walter G Teagle 
has remained comparatively unknown. 

From the day in June, 1899, when at the age of twenty-one 
he returned to Cleveland from Cornell University, having com 
pleted its four-year course in three years, and his father handed 
him a pair of overalls and told him to go to work, up to the 
present, he has been too busy working to bother about publicity- 
It is but natural that he should have taken to oil, for his 
maternal grandfather was one of John D, Rockefeller s original 
partners, while his father owned an oil refinery that had been 
bought out by the Standard Oil and of which young Teagle 
eventually became the vice president. His rise from that 
position has been a steady one; besides having been an officer 
in many other companies, he has directed the export policy 
of the Standard Oil of New Jersey, has been largely responsible 
for opening new fields and devising new methods of sales, 
and for the last thirteen years he has been its president. 

347] 



Mr. Teagle s work for the company has carried him to the 
four corners of the globe, and for years necessitated his living 
out of the country. He combined in his work the duties of 
publicity man with those of executives for he not only suc 
ceeded in creating a demand for the company 9 s products 
but also laid plans for their distribution and delivery. In 
Asia he was up against the already matured plans of rival 
companies, but this did not deter him. Through his efforts 
Standard Oil tankers became a common sight in Chinese and 
Japanese harbors. 

Coupled with this business ability goes an aptitude for 
making friends, and also of not antagonizing competitors, so 
that to-day one of his closest cronies is Sir Henri Deterding, 
the head of a rival concern, whom he originally met in the 
Far East. 

More than six feet tall, weighing well over two hundred 
pounds, with a weatherbeaten complexion and an almost 
lumbering walk, he looks more like the captain of a vessel a 
man who has braved the rigors of storms at sea and poured 
oil on troubled waters than like the head of a vast corpo 
ration who has directed the production of the oil. 

In fact his entire manner, his booming voice, his hearty 
laugh, the way he snaps his square jaws, all smack of the sea 
and bring up pictures of the old Yankee skippers. And after 
all, perhaps this is not strange, for upon those sturdy men who 
sailed out of New Bedford and neighboring ports, much of the 
country depended for the oil supply of those days; the whale 
oil that fed the flickering lamps in American homes. Man had 
not then learned to drill into the earth for his lighting fuel, 
nor had engines been constructed that would get motive 
force from the same fluid. And so, in a way, this bluff, genial 

f 348 I 




C. T eagle 



man, in his oak-paneled office, with windows overlooking 
the harbor, is a direct descendant of those old-time mariners, 
who, on shipboard, directed the earlier industry. 

On his desk, as on theirs, was a pipe, a straight one, with 
a mouthpiece almost bitten through, and maps, not of a -small 
part of the ocean but of the entire world. 

I mentioned these thoughts on oil. 

"The world does move/ Mr. Teagle replied. "Only 
twenty-five years ago the principal reason for refining crude oil 
was to produce kerosene. It was practically the only com 
modity that could be sold. Gasoline was an unwelcome by 
product that was difficult to dispose of. 

"In a quarter of a century electricity has practically dis 
placed kerosene as an illuminant, while the development of 
the gas engine has not only transformed our entire business 
but also changed our entire mode of life. Though our great 
cities are important factors in our civilization, after all our 
real prosperity and our greatness rest with the people in small 
communities and in agricultural areas. It is for them that the 
automobile has effected a great change, for it has removed the 
loneliness and handicaps of rural life, and has brought them 
within visiting distance of larger communities, and in so 
doing has necessitated the reconstruction of the primitive 
roads that existed at the beginning of the century 

"But one thing you must remember," he continued. 
"This country has been favored as no other with natural 
attributes to foster this desire for change and travel, which is 
a distinguishing characteristic of our people. There are more 
reasons than one why we have gone chasing around our land 
in automobiles while the citizens of other countries have had to 
walk. The motor fuel supply has been at our call. Not by 

f 3511 



accident, but by fortunate circumstances, an abundance has 
been available to our people. The entry of crude petroleum 
into the field of commerce was coincident with an era of 
commercial expansion. Oil fields were discovered at a time 
when our people were a pioneering folk and the uncertainty 
of oil drilling captivated their adventurous spirit. 

"Our country is not the only one that produces oil, but a 
production great enough to fill our needs was possible at home; 
there was no necessity on our part to go to other lands. Great 
Britain and the other European nations that are commercially 
comparable to the United States have not the raw materials, 
while most of those countries that have oil are hampered by 
climatic conditions less favorable than ours. 

"The development of an oil field to-day is an expensive 
proposition, and before returns begin to be commensurate 
with the investment a minimum of at least twenty-five million 
dollars must be expended. Thus the physical obstacles and the 
large amount of capital required in foreign fields have con 
vinced American business men that dollar for dollar an invest 
ment here would yield greater returns than elsewhere. Foreign 
companies have realized the same thing, with the result that 
there has always been a foreign exploitation of our petroleum 
and even companies primarily formed for the marketing in 
this country of petroleum from other lands have eventually 
found it more profitable to produce a large proportion of their 
crude oil here. 3 

As he was speaking, through one of the doors of the 
room a secretary entered. In this hand was a stack of 
letters. In whispers he consulted Mr. Teagle. The amber 
cigar holder, with its long black cigar, was gripped further 
in his teeth. 

{352 I 



"Look through our files/ he said, "and about February, 
1927, you will find a letter from these people giving us the 
figures that they now ask for." 

It is this remarkable memory that is one of the secrets of 
the man s success. Almost instantly he can quote figures 
years old. And coupled with this memory is a most methodical 
manner of doing things. In his upper vest pocket he carries a 
little black book, in which he jots down ideas as they come to 
him. Then, too, he appears to give off dynamic energy and 
one immediately feels his entire absorption in his business. 
As a matter of fact most of his evenings are spent at his home, 
near Greenwich, going over papers which he carries from the 
office in an old brief case with a trick lock that nobody 
but himself can open. He does not care much for the theater 
or for the opera. 

"But," he said, "don t think that I work all the time. I 
do not play golf, but I get off in the wilds every now and then 
and hunt and fish, and then too I like a good game of contract. 
In fact, on my last vacation somebody at the club said that I 
hunted and fished all day and played bridge all night, but I 
did come back wonderfully rested. 

"I guess I have one hobby, and that is dogs, and by the 
way, this is not a very good day for you to make a sketch of 
me, because I just heard that my best prize winner has been 
defeated for a cup. 

"But these are hobbies; my real interest," he went on, "is 
in the oil business, and, believe me, in these days of big busi 
ness no one can hope to succeed who is not tied up heart and 
soul in what he is doing. 

"I remember a little fellow, bald and unobtrusive, who 
started in on the Stock Exchange about twenty-five years ago. 

1353} 



He specialized in a food product that was not very well known 
at the time, but that fellow got to work; he learned that business 
from beginning to end and he talked the future of this food 
product from alarm clocks to pajamas. To-day that man and 
the stuff he boosted are sensational successes of the time. 
His enthusiasm, based on faith that in turn was based on 
knowledge that was based on hard work, won. 

"I have in mind another chap who was fifty years old and 
flatter than Kansas when for the first time he took his little 
red book out of his pocket and started in to sell life insurance. 
Now that s no easy job in New York, but he himself told me 
that he became enthusiastic over the idea of service; he forgot 
what he was going to make out of it, but the idea in the back 
of his mind was that he was saving families from destitution 
on the death of the bread-winner. He communicated that 
earnestness to the people with whom he was doing business 
and in ten years he had earned enough out of his commissions 
to retire on a comfortable competence. 

"These are not exceptional cases. Right here in this com 
pany I could show you any number of examples of men who 
have succeeded by their enthusiasm. Every large company in 
the world is constantly on the lookout for new men to fill 
satisfactorily new positions that are bound to be created as 
new business is undertaken. And let me tell you right here 
that there are always more big positions to be filled than there 
are men to fill them." 

He had spoken of new business and I asked him about the 
future of oil. 

"No one can answer that," he replied. "At the present 
time it is used either in its semi-crude or finished state as fuel 
for automotive engines; as kerosene for illumination and heat; 

{3S4J 



as light distillate oils for the Diesel engine, and as fuel oil for 
steam generation. What its future will bring forth no man can 
tell 

"But this much I can say. The American oil industry has 
always displayed conspicuous foresight, initiative, and re 
source in the past, and in the face of an ever increasing demand 
it has made petroleum products more easily available at a 
cheaper price than in any other country in the world. In fact, 
the reason for the widespread consumption has been the low 
cost. The price has produced alike the demand and the product 
to meet the demand. Price which is fixed by competition 
finds the oil and produces it. Price controls and limits its use. 
As the American public signals its needs to the industry, the 
response will be as it has been in the past, a supply of those 
products ample for all the requirements which the future may 
require." 



f 3551 



XXXIX 

r THESE days when changes occur so rapidly that It is 
bard to follow them, publicity brings renown that would 
have startled our fathers. When the chimney of Walter 
Damrosch s house caught fire some passers-by, seeing the 
smoke, turned in an alarm. After the fire was put out, Mr. 
Damrosch asked the firemen down into his dining room to 
have a cup of "tea." As he did so, one of them turned to him 
with, "Say, don t I know your voice? Aren t you the feller 
that tells us all about the pieces you play every Saturday 
night?" 

Then and there a discussion of music ensued. It is imma 
terial whether the "Eroica" was preferred to the "Fire 
Music" of the Valkyrie. The point is that the firemen were 
interested in good music. 

As Mr. Damrosch told the story, he was tremendously 
pleased, because it was another bit of evidence that the mission 
ary work which he set out to do is bearing fruit. The music of 
the great masters is being brought right into the homes of the 
people music that has heretofore been unknown to them. 

That this will ultimately mean much to the hearers, that 
it will work not only for their spiritual welfare but will serve 
also as a counteracting influence to the various factors tending 
to the breaking up of home life, Mr. Damrosch firmly believes. 
It is but natural that he should, for his own life has been 
spent in musical surroundings. 

f 3561 




\ ^ 

\ \ , V!W*>v\r* tf v 



Walter Damrosch 



Contrary to general belief, Mr. Damrosch was born not in 
this country but in Breslau. His father, a physician, had given 
up the stethoscope for the violin, and played at Weimar when 
Liszt conducted there. His mother was an opera singer who 
was one of the first Ortruds in Wagner s "Lohengrin." 

It was a toss-up as to whether Walter Damrosch would be 
a painter or a musician, but a house that was frequented by 
Wagner, von Biilow and Rubinstein was bound to exert an 
influence upon a child who was gifted in two arts, and even 
tually he decided to follow in his father s footsteps. 

In his own home to-day he has many mementos and por 
traits of those times. On his desk is a large picture of his 
father, long-haired and bearded, who was largely responsible 
for the introduction of Wagner s music into this country. 
There is a little study of Liszt, done from life, and paintings 
of Mrs. Damrosch and her father, James G. Elaine. 

Above the piano in the music room hangs a large portrait 
of a blond-haired, dreamy-eyed young man, with a strong 
aquiline nose and a determined mouth. Mr. Damrosch showed 
it to me. He was standing directly under it, and the light from 
the window fell on him in much the same way as it had fallen 
on the subject of the painting. 

The daylight that came into the room did not reach into 
the farther corners. Within the pine-paneled walls, among 
early Dutch pictures, there was an atmosphere of mystery. 
The painting, behind the tall, erect figure with its strong face 
and white hair, looked a little like a ghost. The past and the 
present were both there. The Damrosch of the late eighties, 
who was the contemporary of Lehman and Eames and the 
De Reszkes, and the conductor of the thirties of Debussy 
and of Honegger s "Pacific 299" were both looking at me. 

| 3591 



The time that has elapsed since the portrait was painted 
has seen a great development in the musical taste of this 
country and a large part of that development has been due to 
Walter Damrosch. He began to conduct when music was a 
luxury indulged in by the fashionable few who lived about 
Gramercy Park and lower Madison and Fifth Avenues. He 
helped to make good music popular and he is still wielding a 
baton for the benefit of the people of the entire nation. 

During the intervening years he has not only led the opera 
but also several symphony orchestras. He has composed 
chamber music and operatic works. When the war broke out 
he volunteered his services and went overseas to organize a 
school for the instruction of bandmasters in our army. 

"I have seen the musical taste of this country develop from 
what was almost a primitive instinct into a discrimination that 
demands the very best in music in all its forms/ he told me. 
"And what I see now, which assuredly was not in evidence 
when I first began my career, is a love of music among the 
so-called plain people. It is this love which makes for the 
creation of a national school of music. 

"The Italian workman knows his Verdi and the German 
peasant his Schubert and Schumann. For years Italy and 
Germany have been leaders in music. To-day the farmer out 
west, miles from a large city, who heretofore has been denied 
the opportunity of listening to what is best in music, properly 
rendered, can sit down after his day s work and hear the 
masterpieces of all times played, very often, as they should 
be." 

Mr. Damrosch talks very precisely, as millions of listeners 
over the radio know. His voice seems to me to be characteristic 
of a man who, having an almost didactic approach to an art, has 

f 360 I 



also a keen business-like capacity for the financial details that 
are necessary to the fostering of any art project. 

"While any art," he went on, "can be created in poverty, 
its popularization requires financial assistance. No college 
can exist only on the money received as tuition fees from its 
students. There must be an endowment fund which will go 
toward its upkeep. In the same way, there is not an art 
museum in the world that can continue from the sale of its 
tickets and catalogues. The same is true of any orchestra. 
It is absolutely essential that it be supported by the people 
who can afford that form of public service, and the larger the 
sum that is subscribed, the smaller can be the price of the 
tickets to the public at large, and the better the artists it 
can employ. 

"Radio has worked a miracle. It has, in effect, erected a 
concert hall in every hamlet throughout the country. In fact, 
it has gone even further. It has turned every home into a 
potential palace of music, where the finest can be heard. Now, 
too, the children in our public schools, instead of singing 
* Jingle Bells and other similar compositions to the beat of a 
lead pencil held in the hand of some teacher, are being intro 
duced to the great classical compositions of all times. For 
many of the children that means the opening of a door to 
untold treasures." 

I asked how he felt about the broadcasting of modern 

music. 

"So long as it is music," he said, "I believe in it. But 
unfortunately, I think much that is broadcast tinder the name 
of music does not fall in that category. By that I do not mean 
to say that there is not good and interesting music being 
written today. But there is also a lot of trash. Luckily it will 

| 3611 



soon die a natural death. It has always been so. While every great 
musician is an innovator, his art, nevertheless, is built upon what 
has gone before, no matter how much it may differ from it. 

" Catholicity in music was a distinguishing characteristic 
of my father. He made a great fight for Wagner, Berlioz, and 
Liszt, who in those days were moderns. However much he 
admired them, and often though he conducted their works, 
he kept me pretty close to Bach, Beethoven, and Handel when 
I started to study music. The moderns/ he used to say to me, 
will take care of themselves/ 

"I believe that is true. The great trouble has heretofore 
been that classical music has been regarded as non-under 
standable by people who had never had the opportunity of 
hearing it. They looked on it in much the same way that they 
looked on heavy books in the library which could be appreci 
ated only by specialists. 

"What is happening now is that these very people turn on 
their radios and cut in on some delightfully charming compo 
sition. They do not know what it is, and when it is finished 
they are surprised to learn from the announcer that it is by 
Beethoven or Mozart." 

Mr. Damrosch went on to speak about the little talks he 
gives before playing his pieces. 

" While the essential attribute of music," he said, "is to 
produce esthetic emotion through the medium of sounds, very 
often the so-called literary side of music will create an added 
interest in the composition. I do not try to instruct my lis 
teners, but I know that many of them are not acquainted 
with musical forms, and often I try to give a concise outline 
of the particular type of composition that I play as well as the 
idea that is expressed. 

f 362f 



"All of these things contribute to a greater appreciation of 
music, but this does not imply that they are necessary for the 
enjoyment of any piece of good music. Nothing is essential for 
that but its performance in a proper way. And that is the 
reason I am so much interested in the work I am doing. It 
has been pioneer work. But I have been no keener in my 
interest than the people who are connected with the radio 
industry. From the highest official down to the man who 
arranges the orchestra seats, each one of them has done his best 
to help. As you sit in your living room and turn the switch that 
fills it with music little do you realize the technical difficulties 
that have been overcome, or some that still vex us. 

"The placing of the various instruments has been a problem 
In itself, and as it has been worked out it differs essentially 
from the way in which the musicians are placed when playing 
in public. That is the reason concerts in the studio sound better 
than concerts broadcast from large halls. 

"That is but one of the problems that we have encountered. 
There have been countless others of a technical nature, and 
besides these there is always the question of programs. How 
ever, I know we are progressing and creating a larger interest 
in musical art. 5 



3631 



XL 

A HER the tumult and the shouting had died at the 
Democratic Convention in Dallas in 1928 there was 
one dramatic note which stood out above all others. 
It was that moment when a man in the prime of life, but 
walking with canes to the rostrum, began to speak in a mellow 
voice, calmly and deliberately. 

"I come for the third time," said he, "to urge upon a con 
vention of my party the nomination of the Governor of the 
State of New York. The faith which I held I still hold. It has 
been justified in the achievement. The whole country has now 
learned the measure of his greatness." 

It was not only the sweltering audience in Houston which 
became interested; the people with radios throughout the 
country at once sensed that this was no ordinary nominating 
speech. Without any futile attempt at suspense, simply, 
directly, and sincerely, Franklin D. Roosevelt stated at the 
outset his purpose The nomination of Alfred E. Smith for the 
presidency. Compared to the bombastic effusions that had 
gone before, his earnestness and simplicity seemed all the 
more striking. With no striving for theatrical effect, honest 
and straightforward, he represents the best influence of the 
college man in American politics to-day. 

Mr. Roosevelt was born in Hyde Park, Dutchess County, 
New York, the son of James Roosevelt, who was president 
of the Delaware & Hudson Company. Like Theodore Roose- 

1364 




Franklin D. Roosevelt 



velt, his famous distant cousin, and, in fact, like most of the 
Roosevelts, he went to Harvard from which he was graduated 
in 1904. While there he was managing editor of The Crimson, 
the college daily, and also a librarian of the old Hasty Pudding 
Club. After his graduation he attended Columbia Law School, 
and, having been admitted to the bar at the end of three years, 
he went to work for the legal firm of Carter, Ledyard & 
Milburn. 

He had been practicing law but a short time when he was 
offered the nomination for State Senator. This, however, did 
not mean much. For years Dutchess, Columbia, and Putnam 
counties had been represented by a Republican in the Senate. 
In fact, the Republican nomination was regarded as the 
equivalent of election. But young Roosevelt did not see it 
that way. He accepted the nomination in no spirit of party 
sacrifice; he was determined to win and made a whirlwind 
campaign. Employing an automobile, then a novelty in 
campaigning, he thought no village too small to be visited. 
For weeks he made six speeches or more a day, and by the 
time election day came around most of the voters had seen the 
candidate and obtained a fair statement of his opinions re 
garding the issues they were called upon to settle at the polls. 

The tall young man, with clear blue eyes, sharp aquiline 
nose, strong mouth and chin, made a favorable impression 
upon the people, and when the votes were counted the candi 
date of the Republican bosses was defeated by the young man 
who had fired verbal fusillades at the men who for years had 
run things in those counties. 

But he had not been in the Senate a week when he showed 
that he was as much opposed to Democratic bosses as he was 
to those of the Republican Party. Charles F. Murphy of 

f 367} 



Tammany Hall had given orders to the Democratic Legis 
lature to elect John C. Sheehan to the United States Senate. 
That was before senators were elected by popular vote. But 
Roosevelt was not taking orders from Murphy. His mind did 
not work that way. He was regarded as the leader of the 
insurgents in the Senate, though he disclaimed it. 

"Leader? 35 said he. "I should not claim that title; there 
really was no leader, there was no need for any. We just deter 
mined to stay out. Our districts wanted us to. We laid no dark 
and deep plots to confound the enemy. We waited for public 
sentiment to perform that function." 

It did. Sheehan was defeated. Roosevelt was reflected to 
the State Senate in 1912, Then, in 1913, President Wilson 
appointed him Assistant Secretary of the Navy, a post he held for 
seven years and from which he resigned when the Democratic 
Party made him its candidate for the vice presidency in 1920. 

It was in his New York house that I made a drawing of 
Mr. Roosevelt and had a talk with him. The house is filled with 
ship models and naval pictures. And as he seated himself in his 
library, its walls lined with books, the man who had just 
returned from a meeting of the Democratic National Com 
mittee seemed much more the scholar than the politician. On 
the table beside him, surrounded by hundreds of papers and 
magazines, was a glass-inclosed model of the Constitution. Above 
the fireplace hangs a marine by Claude Lorraine, while resting 
on the tops of the bookcases are prints and engravings of war 
vessels and a portrait of John Paul Jones. 

In that room there is no likeness of his illustrious cousin. 
That hangs in the bedroom, on the wall facing the bed. In 
that room is also the original of one of the first cartoons in 
which the late President figured. It is by Nast and shows 

{ 3681 



him, still a very young man, standing before President Cleve 
land a sort of prophetic picture. 

" It s going to be much easier for you to make a drawing of 
me/* he said, "than to get that article. The trouble with me 
is that I have never specialized in any one thing; I am in 
terested in too many things, and the result is that there is 
nothing to say about me. 

"Take my library, for instance. It is almost accidental 
that I have so many naval books. It did not begin that way. 
When I was at college I was librarian of one of the societies, 
and I started collecting. But a general library, such as I 
wanted, was out of the question, and I just happened to gather 
one on our naval history. To-day I have practically every book 
and pamphlet that has been published on the subject. 

"I have a small collection of ship models also, not as many 
as I would like, but they take up too much room. I have also 
built a number of them. 

"However, the thing in which I am most interested at the 
present time is the sanitarium down at Warm Springs, Georgia. 
In 1921, I contracted infantile paralysis. It left me with very 
little power in my legs. I determined that I was going to be 
cured. I heard about the curative powers of these springs 
which, in addition to containing mineral properties that are 
beneficial, have a temperature of eighty-nine degrees. I went 
down there and started a course of treatment, exercising as 
much as possible in these warm waters. In a short time an 
improvement was apparent, and this improvement has been 
steady and progressive. I felt that here was something of 
inestimable value to the world, here was a means of benefiting 
thousands of crippled children. The place, however, needed 
development, and I accordingly interested some philanthropic 

I 369 I 



friends in starting a foundation, and we are now getting 
excellent results. 

"Another hobby of mine is forestry. Up at Hyde Park 
we have a large acreage in woods. You see T. R. was the Roose 
velt who chopped down trees; I like to plant them. 35 

Endeavoring to turn the conversation to politics, I asked 
him how it came about that a Roosevelt should be a Democrat. 

"Nearly all of them: used to be Democrats/ 5 he answered, 
"all except T. R/s father; he was the only Republican of his 
generation. 

"After all, one has but to compare the two parties to see 
why most of the Roosevelts have been Democrats. Place two 
facts of history side by side by way of example. Eight years of 
Democratic administration in Washington produced a slate 
free from election scandals, free from a single act of public 
dishonesty on the part of any responsible official. These 
years included the responsibilities for the conduct of the 
vast operations of the World War. On the other hand, the 
succeeding years have given to, the nation examples of public 
turpitude which we would like to forget. 

"If we select the proper leader the United States can 
regain the world s trust and friendship. And in foreign affairs 
we can point the way to the reduction of armaments; we 
can cooperate officially and wholeheartedly with every 
agency that studies and works to relieve the ills of mankind; 
and what, to my mind, is very important, we can for all time 
renounce the practice of arbitrary intervention in the home 
affairs of our neighbors. 

"Needless to say these are my own individual ideas, but, 
thank goodness, with the spread of education throughout the 
land, the younger generation is learning to think for itself." 

f 3701 




XLI 

JT m ^I*E younger generation is a much discussed subject 
Youth has always proved of interest to age, and to 
each passing generation the succeeding one appears 
an enigma. 

One day I happened to notice in the paper that Booth 
Tarkington was in New York on a visit and it occurred to me 
that It would be interesting to learn what the author of "Pen- 
rod" had to say about the boys and girls of to-day. 

I called him up on the telephone, and while he declared 
that by this time the generation of which Penrod was a type 
had grown to manhood, and that he knew but little about 
the present youngsters, nevertheless he was most cordial 
about making an appointment. 

But it is unsatisfactory to talk with a gentleman from 
Indiana in the living room of a Park Avenue hotel. The stock 
steel engravings of Benjamin Franklin and Lafayette express 
none of the personality of the temporary tenant, nor does the 
near Duncan Phyfe furniture give any hint as to his taste 
in interior decoration. There Is a singular sameness of arti 
ficiality about all hotel rooms, from the monotone carpet to 
the French telephone. And then, too, it is hard to hear the 
murmur of the Wabash above the clank of the trolley cars a 
short half block away. 

Mr. Tarkington did not leave me, long alone in the cold 
formality of the hotel room. A man nearing sixty, he does 

I 371 1 



not look much over fifty, and, though rather stoop shouldered, 
this seems a fault of posture, not a sign of age. A tall building 
opposite threw the room into shadow and it was necessary 
for him to sit very close to the window. Remarkably keen- 
looking, well-groomed, a cigarette in his long, thin fingers, he 
seemed in every way a man of to-day, capable of seeing things 
as they are, with a knowledge of the past, but with his mind 
open to the present; a man whose feet were firmly planted 
on the ground and who was in no danger of being swept away 
by sudden fads or fancies. There is nothing of the dreamer 
about Mr. Tarkington; nothing of the studied negligence of 
the professional writer. 

Almost as soon as I had begun to draw he asked me whether 
I had read a book which tried to show that Sargent was not an 
artist. I told him I had not seen it, and he went on: 

"But I am not surprised. They have denied God, why stop 
at Sargent ?" 

"To whom do you refer, the younger generation ?" 

"Not necessarily to them," said Mr. Tarkington, "but 
rather to a certain class of disgruntled individuals who hate 
the world and the people in it, and who believe, as a matter of 
course, that every thing that is established is wrong. It goes 
without saying that this class has an immense influence on 
young people, for the rising generation is always looking for 
the faults of the one immediately preceding it; but this is as it 
should be; otherwise we should not have progress in the 
world. 

"It is not only our ideas that the youngsters criticize, but 
also our clothes and our household articles. Have you ever 
noticed that anything less than thirty years old is old-fashioned ? 
As time goes on it becomes quaint, then interesting, later on 
f 372f 




Booth Tarkington 



rare, and finally it looms forth as an antique. And so, the furni 
ture and bric-a-brac used by our parents to adorn their parlors 
and got rid of by us to make way for the uncomfortable mission 
atrocities, our children are beginning to drag down from attics 
and are using in their own homes. But, of course, we did the 
same things when we were young," 

"In what way then," I asked, "does the present youngster 
differ from Penrod ?" 

"Essentially he is the same; superficially, he is entirely 
different," Mr. Tarkington replied. "Human nature does not 
change very much, but environment and the material things 
which surround us naturally influence our ideas of life. Remem 
ber the period in which the Penrod stories were laid. The 
garage had not replaced the stable, the man who owned a 
car still kept it in a building in which stray wisps of hay lurked 
in the cracks between the boards on the wooden floor; the odor 
of horses had not been driven out by the fumes of gasoline. 
It was not a cold-blooded mechanistic age, and efficiency had 
not swept over the country like a plague. 

"Not that I object to efficiency, everything is all right 
in its proper place, but what I am trying to get at is the reason 
for the apparent change in the young. I believe the boy of 
fifteen years ago was very much the same as the boy thirty 
years ago. The big change has come in the last fifteen years, 
and to my mind one of the biggest factors in that change is 
the automobile. Of course, I am speaking particularly of the 
boys in middle western towns ; they are the ones I know best. 

"Before the automobile became so common, some families 
had horses, the majority did not. If a boy went to call on a 
girl, what did they do ? They sat on the porch, the doors and 
the windows of the house were open, a gas lamp was usually 

I 3751 



within fifty feet of them, and if they wanted to go some place 
they walked a half a mile or so to the village drug store and 
had an ice cream soda. If by chance the boy s father did have a 
horse, it was hitched to the red-wheeled buggy, but they could 
not get very far with that, not far enough, anyway, not to 
be recognized. But to-day space has been eliminated by the 
motor car. When a boy takes a girl out in an automobile I 
have no more idea where they go or what they do than their 
parents have. You see I am too old to find out, but unless I 
do, I can t write about them. 

"Girls, too, are much less chaperoned than they were. 
This is a logical outcome of the growing economic independence 
of woman and in many ways it is a fine thing. Mothers to-day 
look back at the time when they had to drag their own mothers 
along and many a harmless party was spoiled, and the result 
is that they give their daughters much more freedom than 
they had. Besides, girls are working and demand rights of 
which their mothers would never have dreamed. 

"Why, when I was a boy, people threw up their hands in 
holy horror if a girl hinted that she would like to go on the 
stage; to-day a girl can become a scientist or a chorus girl and 
nobody will say a word/ 

The remark about girls becoming scientists led to a question 
as to what Mr. Tarkington thought of colleges at the present 
time. 

"To my mind," he said, "the principal trouble with the 
colleges to-day is that there is too much education and not 
enough human nature. I know a boy who was graduated from 
Princeton last year and he was so educated that I was afraid 
to speak to him for fear that I should show my ignorance. The 
only person who appeared to be cultured enough to hold a 

I 376 I 



conversation with him was a professor of< Greek. The finest 
things that I found in college, and what I retained long after 
I forgot my Latin and Greek, were my friends, but judging 
from the amount of knowledge that boy had, I can t see how 
he found time to make any. 

"Knowledge is a fine thing, but if it goes to the making 
of an intellectual snob it defeats its own purpose and breaks 
down the inherent and natural sense of democracy that exists 
in the young." 

"Do you mean that the Penrod of to-day no longer plays 
with Herman and Verman ?" I asked. 

"Left to himself he invariably does. The boy whose father 
owns a Rolls Royce is tickled to death to go for a ride in the 
dilapidated flivver belonging to the father of a friend. Speaking 
of these very things brings up another reason for a great change 
in children, and that is the fact that the luxuries of fifteen 
or so years ago have become the necessities of to-day, with 
the result that what used to be a treat is now tiresome. 

"I have a friend who has a daughter eight years old. At 
her last birthday her parents could not think of a thing to 
give her that she had not already had. At last a great inspira 
tion came to them. They finally hit on something that would 
be a complete surprise. They gave her a live baby elephant. 
By the time that girl is sixteen they will have to blow up an 
entire navy to give her a thrill. 

"Now, if that child is blase at an age when we were getting 
the time of our lives out of circuses, it surely is not the child s 
fault. What our generation does not seem to realize is that it is 
responsible for what the younger generation is to-day. Take 
all this sex talk that is so prevalent. There is no doubt that we, 
revolting against the false modesty and prudery of our child- 

I 377 1 



hood, and inspired by such plays as Wedekind s Spring s 
Awakening/ may have gone a little too far in clearing up the 
sex mystery. In order to get away from the foolish reticence 
of our parents, we may have stressed sex too much, and the 
result is the younger generation Is sex-conscious* In fact, it 
goes around with the idea that it has suddenly made a great 
discovery: there is such a thing In the world as sex. Strange 
as it may seem to them, sex existed long before they were 
born. Spring was spring ever since this world began, and 
youth has always been youth. The boys and girls who two- 
stepped to the "Washington Post March and those who 
waltzed to The Merry Widow* had the same feelings as 
those of to-day, and I don t honestly think there is much more 
side-stepping. 

"There is no doubt that there are dances that would not 
have been tolerated years ago, dances indulged in solely to 
awaken emotions I begin to feel old when I talk this way 
but I s wonder whether the proportion of young people who 
indulge in these is any larger than the proportion that found 
equally exciting pastimes in years gone by." 

"Do you believe," I asked, "that there is a lowering of 
moral standards ?" 

"For the large part, I don t think there is," Mr. Tarkington 
said. "Of course, youth is impetuous. It always has been. 
It has seized on the idea that we have given it and perhaps it 
has gone a little bit further than we expected. But if the 
pendulum does not swing far to one side, it will never get to 
the other. The principal thing that I fear may result from 
our children going to this extreme is that our grandchildren 
may be brought up in the same way as our grandmothers. 
And that would be a calamity. 

f 3781 



"As a matter of fact, I think that a large part of the so- 
called let-down in morality is rather a change in vocabulary 
and a freedom of speech. I wonder how much more there is in 
the c petting parties than there was in the old-fashioned 
* spooning. What is the difference between *sex appeal and 
f coquetry, charm, and c allure ? As far as I can see, they 
an? all It. 

"But even this change in vocabulary is not so marked as 
some of the twenty-year-olds imagine. With a great air of 
superiority they go around and say, Why, you people used to 
call legs " limbs." Now, as a matter of fact, who did that but 
maiden aunts who could boast only of a couple of toothpicks ? 

"The older folks are saying: The young girls wear nothing 
to-day. I leave it to you, are their dresses cut a bit shorter 
than those of their mothers ? But so far as this curtailment of 
clothes is concerned, I can see that it has done nothing but 
make it unnecessary for a bunch of men to congregate on 
corners on windy days. In other words, we have removed the 
veil I don t say seven from a lot of things that required no 
mystery. And the very fact that mystery no longer exists 
makes natural things as they should be, natural. But here 
again when our children take a natural view of things, some 
Aunt Maria for they still exist excitedly exclaims, What 
has become of the modesty of our ancestors ? Thank goodness 
it is buried with them. 

"There is another thing very similar to this. When we were 
young and were told to do a certain thing, very often there 
were good reasons why we didn t want to, but we knew 
enough to keep our mouths shut. Realizing the injustice of this 
method, we have treated our children as reasoning human 
beings. When a child is told to do something to-day which does 

f 3791 



not seem right to him, he asks Why? 5 Now this is perfectly 
proper. Still, the minute he demands to be treated in the way 
that we have taught him he should be, some one is bound to 
say, What has become of parental authority? Where is the 
respect that we had for our parents ? * 

"Of course, in a civilization as complex as ours, there are 
countless contributing causes to these superficial changes. 
Much has been said about the sex trend in literature, but that 
is not as new as it seems. I remember a copy of *Sapho ? in my 
father s library, and the English translations of Zola have 
served as models for any number of our modern novels." 

"But surely," I remarked, "books like these are more 
universally read than they used to be." 

"Up to fifteen or sixteen, the average boy still reads Henty 
and his successors. So-called love stories are mush 5 to him. 
After that he reads what his elders do, and as sex talk is no 
longer taboo I don t feel that it has much effect, that is, on 
the average boy or girl. But there is one class on which this 
type of writing has had a direct influence. The sex novel, the 
sex play and the psycho-analytical books have all contributed 
to the creation of the young intelligentsia who, in striving for 
apparent sophistication, do very foolish things. There are 
undoubtedly more of these than there used to be. Before the 
last few years those that there were, were the near-Bohemians. 
They did as they pleased and blamed it on their souls and 
temperaments. Now they find justification for their actions 
in the dangers of repression and the resultant complexes. 

"One cannot speak of this sex literature without also 
mentioning the movies as they are to-day. At one time, there 
was a prevalence of pictures in which there were gun fights 
and hold-ups. To my mind that kind of picture did have 

I 3801 



a bad effect on the youngsters by youngsters I mean on the 
boys ten, twelve, or fourteen years of age. To-day I feel that 
the influence of the movie is nil. The younger ones have as 
much use for love on the screen as they have for it in books. 
The older ones have as much sense as we, and after they go to 
them they wonder why they did. 

"I think I have told you what, to my mind, are the super 
ficial differences between this generation and the preceding 
ones, but now I am going to tell you something else. When I 
started out I intended to be an artist. I studied in the art 
schools of Paris. Once I managed to sell a drawing to Life. 
That was way back in 1894. Though I have given up art as a 
profession, it was my first love and I am still true to it. It 
means much to me and always will. But in spite of a life-long 
interest, I ll confess that I cannot understand modern art. Do 
you think the younger generation can tell me what it means ?" 



381 



XLII 

^ - ^Q THE younger generation must be left the answers to 
I many of the questions that are puzzling the world 
JL to-day. Already they have begun to give them. A 
twenty-five year old boy spanned the ocean in a plane while 
older and perhaps more experienced heads hesitated and waited 
for more favorable conditions. Lindbergh s flight was an expres 
sion of youth. It was the younger generation s first answer to 
one of the world s old questions, old as Icarus himself. 

One day off the Irish coast the steward brought word into 
the smoking room of an ocean liner that the "flying fool" 
had landed in Paris. Many of the passengers did not even 
know his name, but there was a scene there that I shall never 
forget. Yet few realized the true import of that flight; few 
realized that in those previous thirty-six hours a boy had 
opened the way to the junk heap for the speeding boat and had 
made the air as subservient as the sea to man s will. The world 
sped forward years in that day and a half, carried along by 
the will of youth. 

I first saw Lindbergh in the American Embassy on the 
Avenue de lena. Two or three days had passed since he had 
landed at Le Bourget and my first glimpse of him was obtained 
as he stood on the stairs of Ambassador Herrick s house and 
answered questions that the press of the world hurled at him 
a tall almost awkward figure who, hesitating, replied to inane 
inquiries. And yet there was the charm and bashfulness of 

{382 




Charles A. Lindberg 



boyhood, the bewilderment of one who had done something 
of which he did not fully recognize the signifigance. It bore 
out the story that before setting flight he had gone to young 
Colonel Roosevelt and asked for a letter of introduction to the 
American Ambassador. 

After the reporters had left I went up to his room with 
him. The haze of perplexity was still evident. In body he 
had come to earth, mentally he was still at sea. And yet 
there was a discernment of realities and a keenness sufficient 
to prompt him to put himself in the trusted hands of the 
Ambassador. True to youth, Lindbergh had shifted respon 
sibilities. And tired Herrick, reclining in his bed and eating 
his petit dejeuner in true French fashion, as he picked up large 
strawberries by their stems and dipped them in sugar, 
expressed fear that Byrd might land before he had finished 
with Lindbergh. 

It was a new experience for the American representative. 
Men did not drop from the skies every day and the rigid rules 
of etiquette were stretched. Diplomacy is not accustomed to 
dealing with the unexpected. Yet Herrick liked it though it 
tired him. He liked the boyishness of the adventurer and the 
almost childlike obedience which he gave. 

Weeks afterwards, hunched, snarling Briand said in his 
office in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs: "The first reception 
which we gave to Lindbergh we would have given to any one 
who had made the trip; the following ovations were as much 
for the sweet, simple boy as for the daring aviator/ From an 
appreciation of bravery it became a glorification of youth. 

And it was youth that I saw in that upper room in the 
American Embassy on that May afternoon in 1927. It was 
youth, forgetful of the dangers, though still stunned. It was 

f 385] 



youth, anxious about a new suit of clothes which he had just 
ordered, for the very ones on his back were borrowed and fitted 
none too well. 

He is not articulate. He seems unimaginative. And yet when 
I asked him when he first got the idea of crossing he said: 
"I was carrying the mail. In the daytime I could see what was 
below me. But in the nighttime it was different. Looking down, 
often there would be nothing but blackness, and I had to 
strain my eyes to catch some familiar light which would be 
my guide. 

"One night I was traveling eastward. It was terribly dark 
and I had to keep my eyes wide open to catch the guiding light. 
As I flew through the blackness and saw nothing, suddenly 
the idea came to me. Suppose I should miss my bearings and 
keep on flying eastward. Eventually I would strike Europe." 
He smiled. It was a sort of shamefaced smile, as if he were 
half-ashamed for having let himself go. And then the talk 
changed and he spoke of the crossing. The shield was once more 
in place and it was "We" not "He" that said words. It was 
not revealing, it served to carry him further away than did the 
silence. 

Often I have thought of that time, of the crowds outside 
the embassy iron gates, of* the only talk that one heard on the 
boulevards and avenues, of the conversation over the tables 
outside the cafes. Paris forgot she was French, the drone of a 
motor had drowned out even the "Marseillaise." I had seen 
Paris in war time. While bombs from German airplanes over 
head were dropping, old men pruned rose bushes in the garden 
of the Tuileries. But even the shears, which would not stop 
for the enemy, halted as this messenger from over the seas 
sailed through the skies, and business which carried on as best 
f 386 J 



it could under German guns, ceased in homage to youth and 
bravery. 

It was the world s expression of praise of accomplishment. 
And yet even as I sat in that room drawing the first human 
being who had flown alone across the ocean, as the cheers of 
thousands were still literally sounding in his ears, memories arose 
of Langley and his dashed hopes as his airplane crashed into the 
Potomac, and Lillienthal and his death as he tried to soar in a 
motorless plane. And the thought came, too, that one sudden 
gust of treacherous wind, over which no one had control, 
might have put an end to this flight before its object was 
accomplished. 

How close are failure and success. 



f 387 



The type used for the text is Monotype No. 37 E. Set, 
electratyped and printed by The Maple Press Company, 
York, Pa. Illustrations reproduced and printed by the 
Fredrick Photogelatine Press , Inc., New York, N. Y. 



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