Woodrow Wilson As I Know Him Chapter XLVI - The Last Day byTumulty, Joseph P.
I was greatly concerned lest the President should be unable by reason of
his physical condition to stand the strain of Inauguration Day. Indeed,
members of his Cabinet and intimate friends like Grayson and myself had
tried to persuade him not to take part, but he could not by any argument
be drawn away from what he believed to be his duty--to join in the
inauguration of his successor, President-elect Harding. The thought that
the people of the country might misconstrue his attitude if he should
remain away and his firm resolve to show every courtesy to his successor
in office were the only considerations that led him to play his part to
the end. When I arrived at the White House early on the morning of the 4th
of March, the day of the inauguration, I found him in his study, smiling
and gracious as ever. He acted like a boy who was soon to be out of school
and free of the burdens that had for eight years weighed him down to the
breaking point. He expressed to me the feeling of relief that he was
experiencing now that his term of office was really at an end. I recalled
to him the little talk we had had on the same day, four years before, upon
the conclusion of the ceremonies incident to his own inauguration in 1917.
At the time we were seated in the Executive office. Turning away from his
desk and gazing out of the window which overlooked the beautiful White
House lawn and gardens, he said: "Well, how I wish this were March 4,
1921. What a relief it will be to do what I please and to say what I
please; but more than that, to write my own impressions of the things that
have been going on under my own eyes. I have felt constantly a personal
detachment from the Presidency. The one thing I resent when I am not
performing the duties of the office is being reminded that I am President
of the United States. I feel toward this office as a man feels toward a
great function which in his working hours he is obliged to perform but
which, out of working hours, he is glad to get away from and resume the
quiet course of his own thought. I tell you, my friend, it will be great
to be free again."
On this morning, March 4, 1921, he acted like a man who was happy now that
his dearest wish was to be realized. As I looked at Woodrow Wilson, seated
in his study that morning, in his cutaway coat, awaiting word of the
arrival of President-elect Harding at the White House, to me he was every
inch the President, quiet, dignified; ready to meet the duties of the
trying day upon which he was now to enter, in his countenance a calm
nobility. It was hard for me to realize as I beheld him, seated behind his
desk in his study, that here was the head of the greatest nation in the
world who in a few hours was to step back into the uneventful life of a
private citizen.
A few minutes and he was notified that the President-elect was in the Blue
Room awaiting his arrival. Alone, unaided, grasping his old blackthorn
stick, the faithful companion of many months, his "third leg," as he
playfully called it, slowly he made his way to the elevator and in a few
seconds he was standing in the Blue Room meeting the President-elect and
greeting him in the most gracious way. No evidence of the trial of pain he
was undergoing in striving to play a modest part in the ceremonies was
apparent either in his bearing or attitude, as he greeted the President-
elect and the members of the Congressional Inaugural Committee. He was an
ill man but a sportsman, determined to see the thing through to the end.
President-elect Harding met him in the most kindly fashion, showing him
the keenest consideration and courtesy.
And now the final trip to the Capitol from the White House. The ride to
the Capitol was uneventful. From the physical appearance of the two men
seated beside each other in the automobile, it was plain to the casual
observer who was the out-going and who the in-coming President. In the
right sat President Wilson, gray, haggard, broken. He interpreted the
cheering from the crowds that lined the Avenue as belonging to the
President-elect and looked straight ahead. It was Mr. Harding's day, not
his. On the left, Warren Gamaliel Harding, the rising star of the
Republic, healthy, vigorous, great-chested, showing every evidence in his
tanned face of that fine, sturdy health so necessary a possession in order
to grapple with the problems of his country. One, the man on the right, a
battle-scarred veteran, a casualty of the war, now weary and anxious to
lay down the reins of office; the other, agile, vigorous, hopeful, and
full of enthusiasm for the tasks that confronted him. Upon the face of the
one were written in indelible lines the scars and tragedies of war; on
that of the other, the lines of confidence, hope, and readiness for the
fray.
The Presidential party arrived at the Capitol. Woodrow Wilson took
possession of the President's room. Modestly the President-elect took a
seat in the rear of the room while President Wilson conferred with
senators and representatives who came to talk with him about bills in
which they were interested, bills upon which he must act before the old
clock standing in a corner of the room should strike the hour of twelve,
noon, marking the end of the official relationship of Woodrow Wilson with
the affairs of the Government of the United States. It was about eleven-
thirty. Senators and congressmen of both parties poured into the office to
say good-bye to the man seated at the table, and then made their way over
to congratulate the President-elect.
It was a few minutes before twelve o'clock. The weary man at the table was
still the President, still the ruler of a great people, the possessor for
a little while longer, just a little while longer, of more power than any
king in Christendom.
Presently there appeared at the door a gray-haired man of imperious
manner. Addressing the President in a sharp, dry tone of voice, he said:
"Mr. President, we have come as a committee of the Senate to notify you
that the Senate and House are about to adjourn and await your pleasure."
The spokesman for the committee was Henry Cabot Lodge, the distinguished
senator from Massachusetts, the implacable political foe of the man he was
addressing.
It was an interesting study to watch the face and manner of Woodrow Wilson
as he met the gaze of Senator Lodge who by his attacks had destroyed the
great thing of which the President had dreamed, the thing for which he had
fought and for which he was ready to lay down his life. It appeared for a
second as if Woodrow Wilson was about to give full sway to the passionate
resentment he felt toward the man who, he believed, had unfairly treated
him throughout the famous Treaty fight. But quickly the shadow of
resentment passed. A ghost of a smile flitted across his firm mouth, and
steadying himself in his chair, he said in a low voice: "Senator Lodge, I
have no further communication to make. I thank you. Good morning."
Senator Lodge and the committee withdrew from the room. I looked at the
clock in the corner. A few minutes more and all the power which the weary
man at the table possessed would fall from his shoulders. All left the
room except the President, Mrs. Wilson, Admiral Grayson, and myself.
The old clock in the corner of the room began to toll the hour of twelve.
Mechanically I counted, under my breath, the strokes: "One, two, three,"
on through "twelve," and the silent room echoed with the low vibration of
the last stroke.
Woodrow Wilson was no longer President. By the votes of the American
people he had been returned to the ranks of his fellow countrymen. A great
warrior had passed from the field, a leading actor had made his exit. The
dearest wish of his political enemies had at last been realized. The
prayers of his devoted friends that he would live to see the eight years
of his administration through, had been answered. His own bearing and
attitude did not indicate that anything unusual had happened.
Quickly Woodrow Wilson, now the private citizen, turned to make his way to
the elevator, leaning on his cane, the ferrule striking sharply on the
stone pavement as he walked; but his spirit was indomitable. A few minutes
before all interest had been centred upon him. Now but a few loyal friends
remained behind. Interest was transferred to the scene being enacted a few
feet away in the Senate Chamber, the induction into office of Vice-
President Coolidge. By the time we reached the elevator, the brief
ceremony in the Senate Chamber had ended, and the multitude outside were
cheering Mr. Harding as he appeared at the east front of the Capitol to
deliver his inaugural address. We heard the United States Marine Band
playing "Hail to the Chief." For a few seconds I looked toward the
reviewing stand. The new President, Warren G. Harding, was taking his
place on the stand amid the din and roar of applause. He was the focus of
all eyes, the pivot around which all interest turned. Not one of the
thousands turned to look at the lonely figure laboriously climbing into
the automobile. The words of Ibsen flashed into my mind:
The strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone.
