The Autobiography of Eleanor Roosevelt (35 page)

It was this admiration of good sportsmanship that made my husband so bitter again Mussolini when he came into the war against France. The familiar phrase “stab in the back,” which some of his advisers begged him to leave out of his Charlottesville, Virginia, speech was largely a tribute to the spirit which he recognized in the people of Great Britain and which he felt the leadership of Mussolini never fostered in the Italian people.

The occasion for that speech was the commencement at the University of Virginia Law School, where Franklin Junior was graduating. It was a curious trip; we were all there; a trip to one’s son’s commencement is normal; but that was not a normal and happy occasion. The times were fraught with promise of evil. Franklin’s address was not just a commencement address; it was a speech to the nation on an event that had brought us one step nearer to total war.

Immediately after the speech I went to Hyde Park, leaving my husband and Franklin Junior in Washington. I knew by that time that those who thought the war inevitable had persuaded Franklin that he could not refuse to run for a third term if he were nominated.

So much has been said about the third term issue that I can contribute only my own impressions. I never questioned Franklin about his political intentions. The fact that I myself had never wanted him to be in Washington made me doubly careful not to intimate that I had the slightest preference.

Although I never asked my husband what he wanted to do, it became clearly evident, from little things he said at different times, that he would really like to be in Hyde Park and that the role of elder statesman appealed to him. He thought he would enjoy being in a position to sit back and offer suggestions and criticism. There were innumerable things that all his life he had meant to do—write on naval subjects, go through his papers, letters, and so on. He had the library at Hyde Park and had even agreed on a job which he would take on leaving the White House. As I remember, he was to write a longish editorial or article at stated intervals for one of the large New York magazines. He had built a small stone cottage to which he could retreat when too many people came to the big house; and while he was furious when people called it his “dream house,” nevertheless it was part of his dream.

I had every evidence to believe that he did not want to run again. However, as time went on, more and more people came to me saying that he must run, that the threat of war was just over the horizon and no one else had the prestige and the knowledge to carry on through a crisis.

I had been deeply troubled by the fact that I saw no one being prepared to take Franklin’s place, and on several occasions I asked him if he did not think he should make a definite effort to prepare someone. Franklin said he thought people had to prepare themselves, that all he could do was to give them opportunities and see how they worked out. I felt that he, without intending to do so, dominated the people around him and that so long as he was in the picture it was hard for anyone to rise to a position of prominence. Finally, I came to realize that no man could hand another more than opportunity.

I heard many other people discussed as possible candidates, but as the time for the convention drew nearer I could see that it was going to be extremely difficult to have anyone else nominated. First, the Democratic party had not found anyone else it thought could keep it in office and, second, serious-minded people were worried about the war.

Before the convention actually opened it was evident that Franklin was going to be nominated and would run; I think he had been persuaded that if he were nominated he could not refuse. I believe he did not honestly want the nomination. If he had not been nominated, he would have been completely satisfied, and would have lived his life very happily; and yet when you are in the center of world affairs, there is something so fascinating about it that you can hardly see how you are going to live any other way. In his mind, I think, there was a great seesaw; on one end, the weariness that had already begun, and the desire to be at home and his own master; on the other end, the overwhelming interest that was the culmination of a lifetime of preparation and work, and the desire to see and to have a hand in the affairs of the world in that critical period.

Finally I said to Franklin: “You have made up your mind you will not go to the convention even if you are nominated but that you will speak over the radio, and that means, I hope, I do not have to go.” He said firmly that it was his definite intention that neither he nor I should go. I told him in that case I would go to Hyde Park and stay at my cottage and get the big house ready, so that when the convention was over he could come up for a rest.

Miss Thompson and I went to Hyde Park. Life was going placidly when one day the telephone rang. Frances Perkins was on the wire. She said: “Things look black here; the temper of the convention is ugly. The President should come to Chicago if he wants Mr. Wallace nominated; but if he won’t come, I think you should come.” I told her I thought it utter nonsense for me to go, but she ought to tell my husband her feeling and that he ought to go if anyone went. Miss Perkins rang off, saying she would talk to Franklin. When she called him, he told her he was not going to the convention, but that if he were nominated he wanted Henry Wallace as his running mate.

The next day Frances Perkins called me again and said that my husband had told her he would be willing to have me go if she felt it was essential. I said: “Franklin may be willing, but how do I know how Jim Farley feels about it? I certainly am not going out there unless he invites me. I know there is bad feeling because Harry Hopkins has been more or less running things and perhaps has not been very tactful, and I am not going to add to the hard feelings.” She then wanted to know whether I would go if Jim asked me to, and I said I should have to ask my huband first. After she had finished talking, I called Franklin and told him what Frances Perkins had said and asked him what he wanted me to do. He said: “It might be nice for you to go, but I do not think it is in the least necessary.” said: “If Jim Farley asks me to go, do you think it would be wise?” He replied: “Yes, I think it would be.”

Then I waited, and later in the morning the telephone rang and Jim Farley asked me to come out. Since he was in rather a hurry, he asked me to talk to Lorena Hickok, who was then working with Charles Michelson on publicity for the Democratic National Committee. She told me she felt it was important for me to come and that Jim Farley really wanted me.

The next day we landed in the late afternoon in Chicago. Jim Farley met me at the airfield. The newspaperwomen were in the airport, and he asked me to see them at once. I told him I had nothing to say, but he thought I had better see them, so I got through the interview as best I could, saying as little as possible.

Then Jim Farley and I drove alone into Chicago. On the way he told me that Franklin had not talked to him since the convention opened and had never told him who was his choice for vice-president. I was horrified to realize that things had come to this pass between the two men, because I always had a feeling of real friendship for Jim Farley. He told me why he thought that Jesse Jones or William B. Bankhead or Paul McNutt or some other candidate should get the nomination. He also told me that Elliott, who was a resident of Texas at that time and a member of the delegation from that state, was planning to second Jesse Jones’ nomination.

I said that before anything happened he should talk to my husband. I went directly to the hotel where Jim Farley had his office and called Franklin. I told him what Jim had said. I also told him I had just learned he had not talked to Jim and I suggested that he talk to him and tell him how he felt. I expressed no preference for any candidate; and I think the account of the convention which Jim Farley gave in his book, as far as my part is concerned, was his impression of what I said rather than what I actually said. He quoted me as saying to my husband: “I’ve been talking to Jim Farley and I agree with him, Henry Wallace won’t do. I know, Franklin, but Jesse Jones would bolster up the ticket, win it business support and get the party contributions.” Jim Farley had said these things to me and I repeated carefully what he had said, but I never expressed a preference or an opinion on matters of this kind, and I am sure I did not change my habits on this occasion.

When Jim Farley got on the telephone, my husband evidently told him that Mr. Wallace was the person he wanted. Jim argued with him rather halfheartedly and Franklin finally said it must be Wallace. He felt that Wallace could be trusted to carry out our policies on foreign affairs if by chance he, Wallace, found himself hurled into the Presidency. Franklin’s feeling then was so strong that he was willing to insist on his running mate and thereby give him a chance to prove his ability. It was then that Jim Farley said: “You’re the boss. If you say so, I will do all I can to nominate Wallace, but I will have to work fast.” He turned to me and said he would have to get hold of Elliott, because he was about to second the nomination of Jesse Jones, that Paul McNutt was strong too, and we would have to get to the Convention Hall as quickly as possible. We drove there immediately and I could see that Jim was much disturbed.

As soon as we got to the Convention Hall he turned me over to Frances Perkins and Lorena Hickok, and disappeared. I went to my seat immediately, got hold of Franklin Junior and told him to find Elliott, because I was most anxious that he should not nominate anyone and so appear to be in opposition to his father’s desires. Elliott came over and we talked for a minute, and I found that Jim Farley had already reached him with the information, so he did no nominating.

I saw Ed Flynn and a number of other people walking about, and many of them spoke to me briefly. Suddenly in the midst of the turmoil and confusion, Frank Walker came over to me and said: “We think now is the time for you to speak.”

I made up my mind that what I said would be brief. I had prepared nothing, but I decided to base my short speech on the conversation I had heard in the hotel. If Franklin felt that the strain of a third term might be too much for any man and that Mr. Wallace was the man who could carry on best in times such as we were facing, he was entitled to have his help; no one should think of himself but only of the job that might have to be done.

The only way to accomplish my aim was to persuade the delegations in the convention to sink all personal interests in the interests of the country and to make them realize the potential danger in the situation we were facing. While I spoke there was complete silence. It was striking after the pandemonium that had existed.

Then the balloting began. Franklin Junior and I kept tallies on the roll calls, and for a while Mr. Wallace did not do well. The convention was decidedly out of order; the galleries were packed with special groups favoring different candidates, and confusion was rampant. Word began to get around, however, that Mr. Wallace was to be the candidate. Mrs. Wallace sat beside me. I doubt if she had ever tried to follow a roll call before. She looked very unhappy and asked: “Why do you suppose they are so opposed to Henry?” I did not have time to explain that probably most of the people had been sent in purposely to demonstrate for someone else.

As soon as Henry Wallace’s nomination as Franklin’s running mate was announced, I left Convention Hall, asking Mrs. Wallace to congratulate her husband for me. I drove directly back to the airfield and got on the plane. As we started to taxi down the field someone waved frantically. We stopped and I was told to come back, that my husband was on the telephone. He told me that he had listened to my speech and that I had done a very good job. Harry Hopkins was on another wire, waiting to speak to me, and he said practically the same thing. Then I dashed back to the plane and we took off.

The next morning my car was waiting for me at LaGuardia Field and I drove straight to Hyde Park, where I found myself in time for a nine-o’clock breakfast. I felt as though it had all been a dream with a somewhat nightmarish tinge. I had to come down to earth quickly, however, and write my daily column just as though the past eighteen hours had not seemed the longest I had ever lived through.

When Franklin and I next met we talked the whole thing over. I told him that he should not leave Jim so uninformed, that I realized that the rift had become deep and that he had simply hated to call him. Franklin always insisted, however, that Harry Hopkins had had no headquarters and no official authority. Harry had simply gone ahead and acted on his own. I believe it was one of those occasions when Franklin kept hands off because to act was so disagreeable to him; only when he was forced to act did he do so. My going out, talking to Jim, and calling Franklin forced him to say definitely what he wanted, but he never told me this in so many words, though on several occasions he said to others, “Her speech was just right.”

All this was in July. The campaign really began in September. On September 2 Franklin spoke at the Chickamauga Dam celebration, near Chattanooga, Tennessee.

The next day he announced the agreement to send Great Britain fifty of our over-age destroyers in exchange for naval and air bases in Newfoundland and the West Indies; and about two weeks later, on September 16, he signed the Selective Service Act.

Then I began to feel that war was close. Elliott had already enlisted. He had had some aviation training and hoped to get into the Air Force. His eyes were bad but a new kind of lens, which he had acquired, enabled him to take off and land an airplane, and he had his civilian pilot’s license.

A little while later he was commissioned captain and sent to Wright Field. Inevitably, he was attacked in the 1940 campaign because he had been made a captain. It was one of the many issues used by the opposition in the hope of defeating Franklin. It always seemed unfair to me that Elliott should have to suffer because his father decided to run for a third term, but fairness does not enter into political strategy. Franklin and I had long since learned to accept such personal attacks; but Elliott was bitter, because he saw other people appointed to the same rank in exactly the same way, frequently with less background and fewer qualification than he had.