Everybody laughed, and someone asked: “What did you say, Mr. President?”
“I said I didn’t know, but I hoped so, because I was very fond of biscuits, crackers, and pretzels.”
“You get a lot of fun out of your job, Mr. President,” remarked the author’s bright little wife, having evidently made up her mind not to be scared.
“I take the fun as it comes. One of our O.P.A. men told me a good story this afternoon. It seems that somebody prepared a nine-page typewritten order on the subject of cotton duck, and it was passed around among the officials who had to do with it, prior to its being mimeographed and sent out to the industry. Each official had to sign it, and eight or ten did so before the discovery was made that it wasn’t all about cotton duck—somebody had inserted a paragraph about Donald Duck!”
They all had another good laugh; and then the President, enjoying himself hugely, looked across the table at John Bull and said: “By the way, before I forget. Someone has sent me a painting of you. It’s on my desk in the office; don’t let me forget to show it to you. The man is a Canadian; Vancouver, I believe. He admits that he has never seen you, but I think he’s got a pretty good likeness—except that he’s given you a little more hair than you actually have.”
The Prime Minister of Great Britain rubbed a gentle hand over his sparsely covered pate and grinned a little ruefully at his lack of immunity to the ravages of time. “Perhaps I have lost some since the painter started.”
“There’s a new portrait of me, too. Have you had a chance to take a look at it?”
“Which one, Mr. President?”
“Now see here, Winston! There are not so many portraits of me. There’s a curious story about the one I refer to. The painter has a considerable reputation in his own country, which is not one of the lesser parts of the Western hemisphere. His country’s ambassador requested three sittings, and I gave two of them, but then the Secret Service forbade me to sit any more for him. It turned out that the man was a two-time spy, working for a faction of his country’s government and for the Germans at the same time!”
Everybody gasped; and F.D.R., waiting for the next course of his dinner, lighted a cigarette and waved it in the long holder, as if to say that he was still alive and it was all in a presidential day’s work.
“What did the man do then?” inquired the Prime Minister.
“He finished the portrait without me, and it’s quite good. I’m supposed to be making a fireside chat. The fireside is not shown, but one side of my face is flaming red. I thought I’d entitle the picture ‘Roose-velt in Hell,’ and offer it to somebody who might like to have me that way.”
“Until recently the Wall Street boys would have been delighted to have it,” remarked Churchill, and there was a gust of laughter.
VII
The situation which these statesmen confronted at this hour was perhaps the worst in the history of their countries. There had been a veritable deluge of bad news in the last few days. General Rommel had taken Tobruk, with more than twenty-five thousand British prisoners; his forces had advanced a hundred miles into Egypt, and the peril to Alexandria and the Suez Canal was extreme. The outer defenses of Sevastopol had been pierced. The submarines were sinking ships all up and down the Atlantic coast, a situation which could not be hidden by the strictest censors. At the same time the Japanese had taken nearly all of Burma and were threatening Calcutta and Ceylon; they had taken Kiska in the Aleutians and had shelled Vancouver and a point on the Oregon coast.
The President’s cousin by marriage was worried about all these things and brought them up in the midst of a dinner party. F.D.R. refused to abate his cheerfulness, but said that measures were being taken and preparations being made. “We can’t expect to make much of a showing as yet; but our boys in the air have shown the Japs what is in store for them. You perhaps don’t realize the full significance of the victories we have won in the Coral Sea and at Midway.”
“It has been hard for me to realize anything from so far away, Franklin.”
“Well, we have shown the definite superiority of our carrier forces; and be sure that we are going to have plenty of them. The enemy is taking territory which he will not be able to hold.”
The watchful hostess intervened. “Tell Franklin what you have observed of democracy in South America.”
“I have heard much talk about it,” was the dry reply.
The President took up the conversation: “I was down there and visited Vargas in Brazil. Wonderful people—they gave me a grand reception. In this country, when we make a to-do over a visitor, we throw confetti and ticker tape and torn telephone books. In South America they throw flowers, tons of them; roses, carnations, even orchids. Vargas met me at the quay in Rio and we got into an open car and drove through the city. For miles the streets were lined with people, and the windows and balconies were full—everybody throwing flowers and shouting ‘Viva la democracia! Viva Roosevelt!’ as though the two were synonymous.”
“Friend of the underdog!” rumbled Churchill.
Laughing, the other continued: “As we rode along, Vargas leaned over to me and said: ‘Perhaps you have heard that I am a dictator.’ I leaned over to him and said: ‘Perhaps you have heard that I am one, too.’” Everybody laughed again, and then F.D.R. continued: “Vargas said to me: ‘But I really am.’” There was another laugh, in which the narrator joined.
Said Adamic: “I recall that in your last re-election campaign you used that phrase ‘Viva la democracia!’”
“Yes,” replied the President. “Those are about the only Spanish words I know. In Rio, of course, they were supposed to be Portuguese.”
“In your Columbus Day speech,” put in the author, “they were supposed to be Italian.”
“I hope I did not mispronounce them,” remarked the President, again joining in the laughter.
VIII
Did the First Lady make up her mind that this dinner party had given enough time to wisecracks and anecdotes? The main course had been served, which meant that the affair was half over; suddenly she remarked to her husband: “You know, Franklin, I am taking our guests to a concert, so we won’t have time for a chat with you. I want you not to fail to talk to Mr. Adamic.”
Never did the President fail to follow a lead from his wife. “By all means,” he responded cordially. “I think it is important that people from overseas should understand that America is an amalgam of a great number of races and nations. Because we speak English and have so many Anglo-Saxon features in our culture, our British friends are apt to forget how many non-British people we have; and what an important part they play in our political and international decisions.” The President was looking across the table as he spoke, and everyone at the table was listening to him. “It is a painful fact that distrust and dislike of the British Empire have been in our national tradition since the Revolution and the War of 1812; later there has been the Boer War, and India. Despite our intense admiration for a great statesman personally, these feelings remain, and anyone in our public life must reckon with them.”
It was a little sermon, directed at the Right Honourable Winston Spencer Churchill, who sat as silent as a sphinx, holding a big cigar and looking at the long ash at the end.
“You, Mr. Adamic,” continued the preacher, “remind us in your books that these foreign peoples, too, have their traditions, whether they are Yugoslavs or Irish, Germans or Italians, or Jews unhappy about what is happening to their fellows. The feelings of these people and of many old-time Americans about the British Empire may not seem very intelligent to the British, but they are natural enough, and justified from our different angles. The fact that they exist makes for all sorts of difficulties—all sorts—all sorts of—”
Had the President intended to go into details, and then thought better of it? He smiled suddenly and said: “I am English myself, but also I am Scotch and Dutch. That combination makes for a good bargainer.” He was looking directly at his house guest. “I remembe
r well,” continued F.D.R., “when I was a boy of seven or so my mother took me to England, and I saw Queen Victoria being driven down the street, and I was quite sure that I disliked her greatly.”
That was rather rubbing it in, and Lanny could only wonder what arguments had been going on and what tensions developing in the conferences between these two strong-willed men. Certain it was that the First Lady knew about them and was supporting her husband by bringing to Washington a writer who had put emphasis upon the non-Anglo-Saxon elements of the American community. She had tried to get the head of the Conservative party of Great Britain to read a book which said in substance that the peoples of Central Europe wanted democracy and not any kings; but Churchill, in the slang of his own land, “wasn’t having any”! What a difference, Lanny thought, between him and the genial, overflowing conversationalist of five years ago! Also, Lanny wasn’t forgetting that he was the man who had saved England and the world in 1940–41. Give him full credit.
IX
Mrs. Roosevelt spoke a few words to the butler, and the dessert and coffee were served quickly. “We must not be late for the concert,” she said. “I dislike that because it makes people stare so.” When she rose the others followed suit, and they went out into the hall, leaving the President to be transferred to his wheel chair. While they were saying their farewells, Lanny stood near Churchill, listening, while Adamic attempted to say a few words about Yugoslav affairs. The Prime Minister still wouldn’t have it; he hadn’t relished this dinner, and his disdain for a “Pinko” author was apparent in his face and in his grumbled words. To be sure, he was a guest in this household and had no right to be rude to any other guest; but he didn’t have to talk unless he felt like it, and he played the role of his ancestor, the haughty duke.
As Adamic turned away, Lanny followed, and caught a glimpse of the President being wheeled to the elevator. It was as if a different man had been put into the chair. Gone was all the bonhomie, the laughter; his face was drawn and lined with care, perhaps with grief for the ten or twelve million boys whom he was getting ready to send into the inferno of war. Lanny remembered some history and knew that it was just so the tender-hearted Lincoln had grieved in these same rooms eighty years ago. That had been another black time for the Union; and the tall ungainly railsplitter from the West had done just what the Squire of Krum Elbow was doing—trying to keep himself cheerful by hearing and repeating funny stories.
Now the President’s wife and her guests were going off to enjoy fine music, but there would be no such respite for the Chief. He was going up to his room to engage in a wrestling match with a stubborn British Tory, a match which might decide the future of the world for a long time to come. Lanny knew enough about the situation to be able to guess what the topics would be: Palestine and Egypt, India and Hongkong, the Ruhr and the Dardanelles, and what kind of government should be had by Yugoslavia and Rumania and Hungary and Bulgaria and Greece and Italy and Spain.
The guests and secretaries were to be driven to the concert in two limousines. In the first of these Mrs. Roosevelt sat in the back seat with Mrs. Adamic, while the author and the cousin sat in the two movable seats, facing the ladies. The obscure Mr. Prescott sat beside the chauffeur, and that suited him, because he didn’t want to talk but to listen. Doing so, he discovered that his guesses about the evening’s events had been correct.
Said Mrs. Roosevelt to the Adamics: “I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you two came tonight. The President has been having considerable difficulty in getting the Prime Minister to grasp what kind of country we are. I’ve tried to help out. I talked with Mr. Churchill yesterday and again this afternoon. I explained that many of our Americans have strong ties with the countries from which they came, or from which their parents came. The Prime Minister was somewhat impatient, as I am afraid I was with him. He said he understood, but I don’t think he does. Not really.”
X
When they were getting out of the car the hostess said to Lanny: “You understand that I am taking you back to the White House after the concert.” He thanked her and followed the rest of the party into the hall. It was a hot night, so although the hall was not very large, it was only partly filled. Lanny saw by the program that there were several performers, and he could guess what had happened—this kindhearted lady had been persuaded to further the careers of a group of aspiring young musicians. The first, a violinist, played the Mendelssohn concerto, and that is always pleasant to hear, even though it was not as well played as Lanny was accustomed to hear it from his brother-in-law Hansi Robin. The second artist, a young lady, played a Chopin étude; and Lanny thought that he could have done almost as well himself; so he took the liberty of losing himself in thought about what he was going to say to the Prime Minister of Great Britain.
Very certainly he wasn’t going to take up the task of turning a rock-ribbed Tory into any sort of “friend of the underdog.” No, indeed; it would be better to go back to his ivory-tower attitude and give the Duke of Marlborough’s descendant to understand that the son of Budd-Erling was helping Roosevelt as an American patriot and not as any sort of New Dealer. Churchill would approve that, and Lanny would get what he wanted on that basis. He was invited, not as an adviser on policies, but as an expert on France and Germany, and especially, at this moment, on North Africa.
After the concert the other guests were delivered to their hotels, and then Lanny and the First Lady were taken back to the White House. With them rode a well-known columnist whom they had just met in the lobby; he was going in the same direction, and while they were driving he told a story which was going the rounds of Washington. It had to do with Churchill’s previous visit. The President had then brought up the subject of Hongkong and the necessity of returning it to the Chinese. John Bull had declared: “You have nothing to do with Hongkong! I won’t talk about Hongkong!” He wouldn’t talk, but he had to listen, and the President had climaxed his efforts by saying: “Very well then, if you won’t take my advice, I’m going to have to go over your head and appeal to the King.”
That of course was a most horrible thing. The Prime Minister fairly shouted: “The King has nothing to say about the matter!”
“Maybe not, Winston,” the tormentor continued, “but I am going to take a chance on it. I shall write him a letter, something like this: ‘Dear King: Your Prime Minister is so stubborn that he will not listen to reason, so I am venturing to point out to you personally that we must have the continued help of our valiant and long-suffering allies, the Chinese people, and that they are in danger of falling into despair and giving up to their Japanese conquerors. I suggest that the way to hearten them is to make clear that in the peace settlement they will have all their territories returned to them, no matter by whom the territories are held.’ Don’t you think the King might be interested to read such a letter?”
“He would know that it would be unconstitutional for him to do so.”
“At the same time I would write to Chiang Kai-shek, saying: ‘I enclose a copy of the letter I am sending to the King of England, and I suggest that you might write him in return, assuring him that if Hongkong is returned to the Chinese people, their government will show its gratitude by guaranteeing to the British all trade rights and privileges which they have enjoyed in the past.”
Such was the story. It was received with laughter, and then the columnist revealed why he had told it. Turning to the First Lady, he inquired: “Can you tell me if that really happened, Mrs. Roosevelt?”
Lanny, listening attentively, made note of social training in operation. With her most friendly smile the First Lady replied: “I was not there.”
Inside the White House, Lanny had a few minutes with his hostess. All that evening he had been listening, saying very little, and now, with her customary graciousness, she asked his reaction to the principal topic of discussion. He told her: “I have an interest in Central Europe and its problems because I have visited Silesia, Poland, and Austria. The Germans, by a carefu
lly thought-out policy, have integrated the whole industrial system of that region with their own, making it impossible for anyone to replace conditions as they were before the war. It seems to me that it would be folly to try. The thing to do is to turn the system into one public-service corporation under international control, and put it to work to restore the ruined cities and serve the welfare of all the people in that region.”
“But what about the national boundaries, Mr. Budd?”
“The great cartels of Europe have shown us that boundaries need not interfere with the production and exchange of goods. The French and the German steel masters got along together before Hitler, and will do so again. Why cannot the consuming public do the same?”
Late as the hour was, the First Lady sat down to ask questions about that idea; and when she excused herself she said: “I will talk to the President about that. It is a service I am able to render—to bring him ideas which seem likely to be helpful.”
XI
Left to his own devices, Lanny wandered about the ground-floor rooms, examining the many portraits which hung upon the walls. They were more interesting to him as a student of history than as an art expert. Having taken government by popular consent as his religion, he was concerned to see what sort of men the people of his fatherland had chosen as their guides and counselors. He stood in front of each, trying to recall what he had read about that statesman, and asking him mentally what advice he now had to give to the Republic, standing at bay against its foes on all the continents and all the seas of the world.