Colonel Roosevelt - Edmund Morris [91]
In conclusion, he wrote:
Surely we must all recognize the search for truth as an imperative duty; and we ought all of us likewise to recognize that this search for truth should be carried on, not only fearlessly, but also with reverence, with humility of spirit, and with full recognition of our own limitations both of the mind and the soul.… To those who deny the ethical obligation implied in such a faith we who acknowledge the obligation are aliens; and we are brothers to all those who do acknowledge it, whatever their creed or system of philosophy.
THE YEAR ENDED WITH the Colonel insisting “I am not and will not be a candidate.” He declared over and over that his nomination would be a “calamity” both for him and the Republican Party. But privately he equivocated, for reasons implicit in his confessional article. All the books he had discussed concerned progress from one state of held beliefs to another—whether from paganism to Christianity, or clerical orthodoxy to free-market capitalism, or from rationalism to theism in science. All accepted, or tried in vain to deny, that belief itself was as transformative a force as materialism, and a necessary chastener of it. After a lifetime of rejecting spiritual speculation, in favor of praise of the body electric and the physics of military power, Theodore Roosevelt had conceded the vitality of faith—not necessarily Bible-thumping, but at least the compulsive “ethical obligation” that distinguished the unselfish citizen from the mere hoarder of gold.
His best interest would have been to announce that under no circumstances would he run, or accept a draft, for the presidency. But that prospect was beyond his present policy of noncommital. He did, however, entrust a strange message to his elder daughter, who he knew was a friend of Major Butt in the White House.
“Alice, when you get the opportunity, tell Archie from me to get out of his present job. And not to wait for the convention, but do it soon.”
CHAPTER 8
Hat in the Ring
Nothing will help that man.
You see the fates have given him so much,
He must have all or perish.
ONE OF THE FOLK SAYINGS that Roosevelt liked to share with audiences was “They say that nothing is as independent as a hog on ice. If he doesn’t want to stand up, he can lie down.”
As 1912 dawned, he found himself faced with the hog’s dilemma. He could run and slip, and this time there would be no recovery. Or he could maintain a low profile, and feel the chill of inactivity slowly spreading through his bones.
Were it not such a momentous year, politically speaking, he might keep himself warm with literary production: perhaps write his “big work,” or continue pouring out editorials for The Outlook on any subject that interested him. (He was proud of his latest essay, on medieval scholarship, and sent a copy to Edith Wharton.) The life of a dignified elder statesman, such as Arthur Balfour had embarked on in Britain, was what Edith Roosevelt wanted for her husband. She felt that biweekly trips into town, with a busy schedule of meetings and lunches, would be worldly action enough for him. On other days, he could satisfy his intellectual hunger at home with books, and there was always the estate to take care of excess energy.
“You can put it out of your mind, Theodore,” she said. “You will never be President of the United States again.”
The problem was putting it out of the minds of other people. His response to the U.S. Steel suit had created the general impression, which no number of denials could dispel, that he was running. A convention of the Ohio Progressive Republican League declined to endorse Robert La Follette,