The Accursed Read online

  In a melancholy mood on my balcony, dear Ellen, I have written a poem for you; my sweet, I miss you so much. For you are my better angel—you keep me from despair & all temptations to darkness. These feeble words cannot hope to express my boundless love for you. When I am cast down in gloom, I seem to crave you then with even greater passion. Forgive your foolish Woodrow, your adoring husband—

  You were the song I waited for.

  I found in you the vision sweet.

  The grace, the strain of noble sounds,

  The form, the mind, the mien, the heart,

  That I lacked & thought to find

  Within some spring within my mind,

  Like one awakened from dreaming

  To the blessed confidence of light.

  (If put to music, I imagine a bagpipe melody—we Campbells of Argyll are shameless sentimentalists, as we are stalwart warriors!)

  Tomorrow, Mrs. Peck is giving a luncheon at Sans Souci—Amanda FitzRandolph has wrangled an invitation for me, to meet Mr. Mark Twain—but I believe I will decline, as I prefer solitude; & peace & calm; & have much work to prepare, for upcoming speeches etc. How I wish my dear little Ellen were with me, at my side! For I am cast into gloom without you, though presenting a “smiling” face to the world . . .

  Your loving husband,

  Woodrow

  ADMIRALTY INN

  19 APRIL 1906

  7:40 A.M.

  My precious darling,

  God be praised, my dear—I spent a moderately peaceful night—& this morning rose before dawn, to stride along the beach in the brisk wind; it is chill at that hour, & not cloying-warm like most of the day. I find myself positively giddy with the prospect of a morning of undisturbed work on my speech for the Philadelphia Society & an article for the Atlantic. Separation from my darling gives me less pain if I immerse myself in work; & pretend that she will summon me soon, to massage my neck if she has time, for it is beginning to stiffen, without her “magical” touch.*

  Beneath the clear blue dome of heaven, in this paradisiacal place, nations & all “significant” events of the world seem remote & theoretical—& not a little absurd. There is Lilliput, & I am Gulliver.

  Luncheon at Mrs. Peck’s “palatial” villa overlooking the ocean, a larger gathering than I had expected; & there was Mr. Samuel Clemens, clad in white, fierce-moustached & with bristling eyebrows, seated like royalty on the terrace, & surrounded by admirers. Yet, Mr. Clemens condescended to shake my hand, & to crack a joke or two at the expense of the university; for, as he likes to say, he has had no schooling at all, except the roughest sort, in Missouri as a boy; & on the Mississippi, as a steamboat captain. Yet again, Mr. Clemens quite surprised me, for having read A History of the American People, and my biography of George Washington, & for saying quite respectful things about them—in the hearing of others.

  Mrs. Peck is very friendly also. “Ah, you are ‘Woodrow Wilson’! Such things are said about you” & I asked politely what these things could be; & the lady said, seriously, “Things that pertain to the future—the future of our country.” Her eyes were so probing upon me, I felt almost dazed; & can’t think that I was very articulate, amid much festivity, & a powerful scent of hibiscus . . . Dear Ellen, I miss you so! I am very, very lonely amid this tribe of Lotus-Land revelers!

  You will be startled, my dear, but I hope not disapproving, to learn that I have drafted several letters, to our redoubtable chairman of the board,* to David Jones & his brother Tom; to Cyrus, & Edward, & Moses, & Dr. Patton, & (not least) W*** himself, allowing that I have rethought my position, & wonder if the quad plan might be somewhat modified & the location of the Graduate College be made a compromise . . . Do not think that I am weakening, dear Ellen! Though I know in my heart that I am right yet I am (in fact) a Gulliver surrounded by Lilliputians, & must govern accordingly. (As Pearce van Dyck has consoled me, I must not wreck the university for my ideals; though I grew angry with Professor van Dyck at the time, I see now that he spoke wisely.) Now, I must dress for dinner, though, after the luncheon orgy at Sans Souci, I have little appetite & “social conversation”; & less still, without my dear little wife at my side.

  Your loving husband,

  Woodrow

  ADMIRALTY INN

  20 APRIL 1906

  My precious darling,

  Thank you, my dear, for your lovely letter! Though as you say you have not much “substance” to provide—& your news of our household & of Princeton is “but minor”—yet this is precious to me, so distant from my darling, as your dear voice in your letter is music to my lonely ears.

  Here, there is golfing, & lawn tennis!—(at which your husband is poorly talented); & a tour of the island by “electric car”—it seems, my sweet one, that my social duties have begun. Strolling on a flower-bordered lane beside the hotel I heard a voice—“Woodrow Wilson? Can it be?”—& there was Francis Pyne, in the company of several others; & I could hardly escape our neighbor & university benefactor, & have been dragooned into further social gatherings at Sans Souci. The Chief Justice of Bermuda, Mr. Gollan, chatted with me this afternoon, in a genial & rambling fashion; my pleasure in this white-haired old gentleman being that he knows (& cares) nothing of mainland politics; in fact, he is a British citizen; & Princeton University is but a “very pleasant” place where a relative of his attended school, some years ago. & there came Mr. Sam Clemens in dazzling white, & straw hat atilt, & pernicious cigar clenched between his teeth to invite Mr. Gollan & me to “thwack” him at billiards; which Mr. Gollan laughingly accepted, while with the excuse of having a speech to write, I declined. “Another time, perhaps, eh, Dr. Wilson, when you are not embarked upon saving the world?”—so Mr. Clemens muttered in his customary manner, that some think rude & others amusing.

  It is flattering, I will admit—Mr. Clemens seems to like me.

  So very tired, dear Ellen, from these blandishments, & others! I have yet to write final drafts of my letters to the board; but will do so, tomorrow morning. Wiser to compromise my ideals than to “wreck” the university, I think; & better to compromise, than to wreck my own health & jeopardize the health of my dearest wife whom I love beyond all ability to express . . .

  Your loving husband,

  Woodrow

  ADMIRALTY INN

  21 APRIL 1906

  My precious darling,

  Again, what a magnificent surprise, to receive a letter from you, & the packet of very nice responses from alumni!—which helps to mitigate, somewhat, the bitterness of the Charleston episode. (Hints have been made to me, that several Charleston alums have actually written to the trustees, to demand my resignation. I would not even dignify such an outrage with a response.) Today I shall be drafting letters to a number of influential parties including Cornelius Cuyler, Henry Bayard, Jack Hibben, Moses Pyne, Winslow Slade—can you think of anyone else of importance?—in addition to those I listed yesterday. In this paradisiacal place my brain is abuzz with this new attitude of accommodation. (Which I shrink from deeming mere “compromise” for I detest the word.)

  “Elevenses” here in the open, sun-dappled air, & I hunch myself over this missive to my beloved little lady, that none of my fellow guests will feel the urge to join me on the veranda, & “rescue” me from my solitude. (Word has spread, you will be amused to know, about who I am; one of the eccentric rumors being that I am an “exiled” or “disgraced” monarch of some small European principality! So Mrs. Peck has told me, with a peal of laughter.)

  Rose early, & golfed this morning; my companions being Francis Pyne & his house guest Count English von Gneist, of whom I think you might have heard, in Princeton; for he has been a guest at Drumthwacket this winter. The Count speaks with a strong accent yet knows English well; his full name is Count English Rudolf Heinrich Gottsreich-Muller von Gneist. Well-bred he assuredly is, from ancient Wallachian stock. I begin to see why the Pynes & several other West End Princeton families have warmed to him. Were it not for his European background one c
ould imagine him a Campbell of Argyll!—that is, a man among men. His hair rises nobly from a high, craggy, brooding forehead; his nose is aquiline, and his ears long and slender; his eyes a striking tawny hue, that changes with the light. Though a titled nobleman admitting to being linked by blood to most of the noble houses of Europe, the Count claims to be “without a homeland” & “grateful for the hospitality & charity of his American friends.” In the most charming way imaginable he said to me, “Mr. Wilson! You gaze upon the Sole Living Heir of Nothingness.”

  As it turns out, the Count too has read A History of the American People & was quite flattering about its worth; claiming that he had learned a good deal from it, for, in Europe, as he said, “we don’t ordinarily think of Americans as a people but rather as a mixture of hardy mongrel stock.” He was particularly impressed by my commentary on the infamous Pullman boycott of 1894 as well as the Populist threat in general: the labor agitations, strikes, & outright crimes, as in the recent outrage in Paterson. Both the Count & Francis Pyne think that my observations on the necessity for intelligent Caucasian discrimination, in the matter of Negroes, Orientals, and the multitudes from the lower classes out of Europe, to be quite the best, because the most reasonably argued, presentation of the subject he has read. “I’ve always thought it unfortunate,” the Count said, “that such opinions, which are perfectly self-evident to any clear-thinking man, are often voiced, in the public press, and on the platform, by demagogues, knaves, or raving lunatics!—which is, as you know, highly embarrassing for our cause.” The only demurral this gracious gentleman expressed had to do with my stated belief that the American people are blessed by God, elevated above the common run of humankind by a “guardian destiny” & intended—nay, obliged—to spread our ideals throughout the world. That is, Christianity, and Democracy. In our debate, we were joined at the club house by others, including Edgerstoune FitzRandolph. I think that I spoke convincingly, dear Ellen—you would have been proud, I believe—for after all, it is common knowledge in 1906, & has been since the time of McKinley, that the United States is charged by God with the evangelical mission of spreading Christian democracy throughout the world, and opening the markets of the East as well—by diplomacy if possible, by power otherwise. “We are a sort of pure air blowing in world politics, destroying ancient illusions, and cleaning places of morbid miasmatic gases,” I explained to the gentlemen. We debated whether it was an “American” obligation or rather more an “Anglo-Saxon” one, which allowed us to ponder the issue over luncheon, & to shake hands with mutual respect, & now I am feeling quite “bully” indeed . . . These are people who are on my side. & how many more, yet undeclared.

  Mrs. Peck insists upon inviting me to dinner!—quite flatters me by insisting that Mark Twain himself bids you attend, Mr. Wilson!

  “Thank you, but I am afraid that I must decline”—these words distinctly uttered & yet—(somehow)—the very antithesis seemed to be registered by the shiny-faced American heiress who twirled her parasol in very delight—“Thank you, Mr. Wilson—I will send my driver to pick you up at 7 p.m. on this very veranda—& hope that, by such time, you have put aside your many papers & books & lifted your head, that you might use your eyes to see.”

  & so it seems, my precious darling, I must go out after all, though very unwilling—very! Without my dear wife to tie my tie, & see that I am “properly attired” to mingle in decent society.

  The only boon, I will stamp & mail this letter in the hotel lobby, that it will be hurried to my precious darling, early tomorrow!

  Your loving husband,

  Woodrow

  ADMIRALTY INN

  25 APRIL 1906

  My precious darling,

  How my head spins & reels with the intensity of this paradisiacal place!

  Forgive me, my darling, for not having written for several days—for I have been entirely immersed in work—barricaded in this hotel room like a monk!

  Feeling a bit breathless, my dear wife, for much of this day I have been preparing my modified statement of purpose offered in lieu of a resignation from the presidency—the most profound single document of my life!

  You will say Woodrow do not exaggerate! You will cause your heartbeat to accelerate & your brain to turn feverish—do not exaggerate!

  Of course you are correct, my precious darling. Always, you are correct.

  It is Woman’s genius, to know us as we FAIL TO KNOW ourselves.

  How I wish, dear Ellen, I might read this statement to you; in which, while managing to skirt “humbling” myself—(as a descendant of the great clan of Argyll, I am hardly a “Uriah Heep”)—I yet explain & quite calmly the reasons for my former adamant position about the Graduate School, & offer an apology—(yes it is SINCERE)—to Dean West in particular whom, I concede, I have somewhat maligned, this past year.

  Thus, the work goes well; but I must prepare another draft. & think it best if I type all the letters myself, & not rely upon a hotel secretary-for-hire; badly missing my precious darling, at such a time. However—I WILL TYPE THE G-D LETTERS MYSELF—& mail out in a day or two.

  As my brain felt feverish I thought it therapeutic to walk along the beach, in the wind; for luncheon was much chatter—& afterward two carloads of guests were driven to Government House for tea with the Governor—who (as Mrs. Peck explains) is brother to the esteemed General Kitchener. In the party were Samuel Clemens who quite dazzles the eye with his white linens, & his snowy-white hair & gruff-bristling dark brows—& the FitzRandolphs—& Francis Pyne—& Count English von Gneist; & Mrs. Peck of course for it seems, Cybella (as she bids me call her) knows everyone—& is never so happy as when she “mangles her guests together” as she laughingly says. & so—we are mangled . . .

  Governor Kitchener is a dignified older man & a shining example of “splendid isolation”—even in the minuscule domain of Bermuda. For, while charming enough, this island paradise under the benign British protectorate is one of those regions of the world that cannot matter to history. How envious I felt of this gentleman!—ruling his island empire with no opposition, at least of which he is aware; a population of educated & genteel whites of whom many are clearly well-to-do tourists & visitors, who never present any political problems, as they are transient & indifferent to the island’s politics; & all these very capably serviced by a population of Negroes well-trained & speaking, unlike our American Negroes, a very distinctive English. (You would be astonished to hear them, dear Ellen! Almost it seems, it is a kind of joke, or leg-pull, that so very black a Negro will speak such precise British English, like a wind-up doll; & not give any hint, to the U.S. tourist, that there is anything the slightest bizarre in such; for the servants here, that I have encountered, are exceedingly well trained & unfailingly competent. Would that I could transport some of these home with me, to our household at Prospect!)

  “Excuse me, sir”—for, a second time, as I tramped along the beach thinking such thoughts sans shoes & socks, I came very close to stepping on a swarm of jellyfish; & am grateful for a young man, with a bemused smile, who came handily to my rescue. & grateful, dear Ellen, that you are not with me, for you would have been repulsed in horror & disgust by these translucent blobs of gelatinous matter, with hideous trailing tentacles, washed upon the beach with the tide; though at luncheon as I recall, though distracted by others’ conversation, I had overheard Francis Pyne commenting on the “remarkable” phenomenon of these particular jellyfish, i.e., lion’s mane, appearing in these waters, at this time of year.

  Ah, a disturbing rumor, also at lunch, that blowhard “TR” & family may visit Bermuda; Sam Clemens expelling a cloud of the most foul cigar-smoke caused the luncheon party to convulse in laughter with a droll remark as to the Bull-Moose President being more bull than moose & I confess, I laughed with the party, for Mr. Clemens is very funny, if cruel & cutting. Cybella Peck turned to me to ask my judgment of the President & I demurred, like any diplomat; yet made the party gasp with laughter sharing with them a “fantas
tical vision” of an Anarchist assassin making his way to peaceful Bermuda to throw a bomb at the broad-grinning President—here, there would not be sufficient police protection for him . . . For which scathing wit your poor husband was properly punished with, at the end of the two-hour luncheon, a sudden gastric attack in the equatorial regions, necessitating an abrupt departure.

  My precious darling, I fear that these new friends whisper of me, behind my back, that I am “not well-looking”—for Mr. Clemens is often most cutting, seeing foibles & flaws in others that a more benign eye might overlook; & Cybella made a most cruel observation, regarding a buck-toothed British baroness at a nearby table; & I felt a hurt, that our dear daughters would be wounded could they overhear such thoughtless remarks. (Mrs. Peck is much doted-upon by both Brits & U.S. guests here & is often seen with Count von Gneist & Mr. Pyne—it is a minority report, yet I fail to see the woman’s serene Botticelli beauty as Mr. Clemens praises it, & so much prefer a less “cultivated” & “calculated” charm, by far! It is good to recall how Jesus bids us to see into the soul & not be dazzled by the outer self; the more so, as Mrs. Peck is one of those individuals whose (alleged) beauty, good breeding, & wealth have not conferred kindness or charity upon her, but rather the reverse—for like her companion Mr. Clemens, Cybella cannot seem to resist a sly or cutting quip, to provoke laughter in listeners.)*

  Forgive, dearest wife, this somewhat disconnected letter; as my thoughts fly about like the disturbed moths that throw themselves against the screen here, yearning to immolate themselves in heat & light! I have not wished to alarm you, but a fresh attack of neuritis as well as “equatorial mutiny” have cast down my spirits, & now I must dose myself with Pinkham’s & Oil of Tartar (that mix so sickeningly together, the patient is anxious not to vomit) & hope for sleep; & if not, will have no recourse other than the pump you have begged me not to use, when you are not at hand.