Toward the end of the war, when my grandfather was already in poor health, my grandmother was not always sensitive to his growing fatigue. She might harangue him over supper about a domestic issue she felt was of critical importance, but one he didn’t feel had the same priority for him as overseeing the immense war effort. My mother once intervened, saying, “Mother, can’t you see you’re making Pa ill?” Indeed, Franklin finally had to limit the number of items Eleanor could put into the basket on his bedside table, materials she wanted him to go over before he went to sleep, not even allowing him the possible respite of some lighter reading.
As some readers may know, Lucy Mercer did reappear on the scene—and without my grandmother’s knowledge. Perhaps Franklin felt his promise not to see her again had been limited to the near future after they had parted. In the late 1920s he and Lucy had begun to correspond occasionally. In 1933 he invited her to view his first inauguration as president from a White House limousine parked near the Capitol where he would take the oath of office. He did not actually see her, however, until early in the 1940s when he visited her on her estate in New Jersey—Lucy was by then the widow of Winthrop Rutherfurd, a wealthy stockbroker. It is not generally known that throughout this New Jersey visit, which lasted several hours, Margaret “Daisy” Suckley, his distant cousin, accompanied FDR.
Later, toward the end of World War II, my grandfather more than once invited Lucy to visit him at the White House. They went on drives through Rock Creek Park together and had lunch or supper, meals at which my mother, Anna, was usually present.
In fact it was my mother who was burdened with the duty of making the arrangements with the Secret Service and the White House staff for Mrs. Rutherfurd’s visits. She felt great guilt about this, torn between not wanting to do anything behind her mother’s back and yet following her father’s wishes. We had returned to living in the White House by then, and my mother was functioning as FDR’s personal assistant—unpaid. Her office was in her bedroom, with a card table serving as her desk. But a great many telephone lines!
She told me later that she recognized her father’s increasing loneliness and his great need for convivial company during this period of extreme personal stress. His role as commander in chief during the war was exhausting—twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Understanding this, she felt that the most important thing she could do to help keep him going was occasionally to provide company he could relax with.
Indeed it had been my mother—not my grandmother—who had insisted, with Admiral Ross McIntire, the official White House physician, a nose and throat specialist, that a cardiologist be brought in daily to monitor her father’s heart condition. Dr. Howard Bruenn had been instrumental in making the diagnosis of FDR’s heart problems several months earlier and he now became his attending physician.
When FDR died at Warm Springs on April 12, 1945, Daisy Suckley and cousin Laura Delano, along with Lucy Rutherfurd and Elizabeth Shoumatoff, who was there painting FDR’s portrait, were all present. Mrs. Rutherford and Mme. Shoumatoff left quickly enough. My grandmother arrived from Washington as fast as she could. Cousin Laura sidled up to her and reported sotto voce that Lucy had been present. My grandmother nodded and moved on, not wanting to give our gossipy cousin any satisfaction. But she did confront her daughter upon returning to the White House. My mother’s explanation did not assuage Eleanor’s pain—and her feeling of being humiliated again. But although the rift between mother and daughter was quickly healed, the hurt remained inside both of them; for many years it was something neither woman talked about except for my mother’s explanations to me, which I have noted above.
As my mother and others had often observed, Franklin Roosevelt enjoyed his role in the White House from the day he arrived. He liked being president. He liked being the focus of attention. It fulfilled his dreams—and considering that he had been decisively written off as a potential candidate when crippled by polio, it was an unheard-of achievement. Would we elect a cripple as president today? And do so four times in a row?
My grandmother would come to find the White House useful, although I never heard her directly admit it. She remained detached, always saying she would be glad when she could leave there and return home. Yet there’s no denying that her position as first lady provided a platform that launched her as one of the most influential women of the twentieth century. More importantly, her reputation for courage and integrity was such that these personal hallmarks followed her all through her life. Four presidents and one vice president (Lyndon Johnson) attended her funeral in the Rose Garden at Springwood in 1962, where she was buried next to my grandfather.
“Mrs. Roosevelt” was still her identification in 1948 when I was with my grandmother in Paris for the United Nations’ General Assembly. When I remarked on her extraordinary popularity with the French people, her reply was, “It’s all because of Pa, dear!” I don’t feel that she meant to be humble, or in any way demeaning of her own achievements. It was only simple recognition of the fact that if my grandfather hadn’t been president, she would not have been first lady—and thus able to benefit from the opportunities available through occupying the White House. I think she fully appreciated this element of the relationship they had shared.
Whatever your view or opinion of their bond—“the partnership of Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt”—it has become a legend. I regard these two people, both separately and together, as having provided us with unprecedented political leadership. They influenced how the American people developed, how we endured the Great Depression, and how this country carried on through World War II. When Time magazine chose a dozen people as “the most outstanding” of the twentieth century, both Franklin and Eleanor were among them.
Some historians reduce Eleanor and Franklin’s relationship to functionality, simply a utilitarian use of each other for political purposes, yet I personally observed the quiet affection and deep respect they continued to have for each other. Of course, their partnership was useful to both, but it grew out of, and was maintained by, their commitment as a married couple.
Their bond in the later part of their marriage did not suddenly blossom in the White House. Rather it had emerged after much travail. As a married couple theirs was a long road, a slow process of emphasizing the positive in an exceedingly difficult marriage—and it could easily have taken a different turn, one not conducive to developing a partnership. But a common heritage and the values they shared shaped the course of their long union. Over the years, they instinctively found ways of supporting each other. Only too well did they know the flaws of the other, but the many things they had in common moved them to continue working together, and caring for each other.
How do you describe a relationship, a marriage of forty years, especially when for nearly fifteen years their home was that bustling overheated palace of rumors known as the White House? The husband was the most active and perhaps the most skillful president of the century. The wife was also bent upon continuing her own interests, but found—and without calculation—that being First Lady was an extraordinary stage from which to do even more effectively what she truly desired to do. Eleanor gave of her time and imposed upon herself a strenuous schedule. Her style and prodigious energy set a precedent for all future first ladies.
The White House provided the opportunities but also the limitations, the unique box within which my grandparents had to make the most of their partnership. FDR did what came naturally to him. As president he was our leader. In her own way Eleanor was also our leader. Review the profound influence she had upon many Americans, especially American women, and continued to have even after her husband died.
It was an extraordinary marriage. Without hyperbole, it can be said that the American people gained greatly from their relationship. The leadership they provided, both separately and together, was dependent upon their relationship as a couple. That the marriage endured is one thing, but that it prospered in its own particular way—and under the glare of public
life—is quite unusual. It had its obvious limitations and periods of rockiness but these did not stand in the way of doing what was necessary to “get on with it.” They adapted and adjusted. They remained committed to each other as husband and wife, and as partners. Is not this steady devotion a form of love?
4
White House Pleasures of the Table
One of the comforting things about life in the White House was the regularity of some events—like teatime in the afternoon, at about 4:30. Sis and I would be dressed up, looking proper with hair combed and all in place. But while I much enjoyed the tea and cakes, it was being included in the adults’ company—and also being the object of a good deal of attention—that appealed to me the most.
In the evening the president presided at the dining table. My grandmother, as his hostess, sat opposite him. Even in the so-called family dining room, the table was quite large and easily seated twenty people, so the distance across the table between them was at least ten feet. Yet no matter how crowded the table was, Franklin Roosevelt’s personality prevailed. But at teatime my grandmother was in charge, my grandfather rarely present.
When I was young many American families still followed the English tradition of afternoon tea. Granny daily had tea at Hyde Park, even if she was alone. There was always tea at the White House. It might be for a few of us gathered in the West Sitting Hall or a reception for several hundred on the first floor of the White House.
If it were only a dozen of us, Eleanor would be there behind her lovely old tea service ready to ask, “How would you like your tea?” My grandmother was very proud of that service, for it had belonged to her own grandmother. (Once, in an expansive mood, she gave it to her second son, Elliott. He promptly sold it and she had to buy it back from the gallery whose owner, Victor Hammer, was, luckily, an old friend.)
At teatime Eleanor would request the company of those she wanted to see and talk to. The West Hall on the second floor, the family quarters, was screened off from the elevator and hallway and made an informal enclave. By that hour the butlers would be in tails with stiff boiled shirts and white ties. Around a table in the middle of the room, chairs were set casually about. Little tea tables would be placed near each.
Her guests ranged from old friends to newspaper reporters she liked, and also family, like my sister and me and our mother. There might well be several newcomers. Some guests might be scared stiff, wondering how to behave when having tea with the first lady in the White House. But whether friend or stranger, it was an invitation you did not turn down.
For my sister and me it was always an occasion not to be missed. We looked forward eagerly to the pleasures of such treats as the delicious pound cake and my own favorite, cinnamon toast. But what equally mattered, as I’ve said, was the opportunity for us just to be there. Otherwise, I never sat at table with our family—not until I was nine and Sis was twelve years old.
At teatime I encountered people from all over the country and, occasionally, foreign visitors as well. The atmosphere was subdued but intense and the conversation, often about serious issues, was always good-humored. Any laughter was polite, restrained, and suitable for the occasion. Everyone was on their best behavior, acting as they thought they should. When family members were present, they would sit back and allow Grandmère to lead the conversation—and care for her guests. “Tea with lemon or milk? And sugar?”
Eleanor Roosevelt also made use of these occasions to entertain people that she might not wish to invite to dinner. (Supper with FDR made for a different sort of social occasion.) The teatime guests, though, might be selected for many reasons: for example, they might be persons to whom she felt an obligation, or those who had had experiences she wanted to explore. It was at tea that I met Mr. and Mrs. Walter Reuther, Mary McLeod Bethune, Frances Perkins, and Harry Hopkins. There would also be complete strangers, whom my grandmother had run into and found interesting on her many journeys to the four corners of America, and to whom she had said simply, “If you’re ever in Washington . . .”
While not lacking in discrimination in her invitations, it was nevertheless clear that she paid no attention to class or educational background. My grandmother simply responded spontaneously to those to whom she felt drawn, anyone who intrigued her in some way, whose story caught her imagination.
There might be ten or more people turning up, or just as possibly only a few. It could wind up an odd mix. There was one afternoon, a year after we had moved into the White House, where those assembled were only Sistie, age seven, Buzzie, age four, and the Polish ambassador, just the three of us with my grandmother. As Grandmère later reported to her friend Joseph Lash, she “read poetry to the assembled.”
Among the selections I remember—certainly eclectic—were Noyes’s “The Highwayman,” Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” Milton’s sonnet, “On His Blindness,” and Kipling’s “Danny Deever.” All were over my head. I wonder what the Polish ambassador thought.
When Sis and I made our entrance into the West Hall at teatime, escorted of course by our nurse, everyone stopped talking. Introductions were made all around. Our nurse, as custom dictated, would withdraw. Sis and I, well trained, said “How do you do?” to each guest, and then sat down, our places indicated by a nod from our grandmother. She then poured weak cambric tea for the two of us, with not too much in the cup as it had to be carefully balanced on a very small and delicate high-legged table next to the chair. We sipped slowly as we’d been taught to do, and I tried not to eat too greedily the cake that had been passed to me by the butler. Fascinated with the details of my own contained world—as any little boy is—I noted that these small tea tables, off of which we ate our cake, came in sets of three or four, one fitting under the other, like a nest. That seemed very clever to me.
Only once did I disgrace myself—at least, that was the way it was viewed—by spilling in my lap the small cup of very hot tea I’d been given. Actually it was quite a painful burn, although not a serious one. It was a few weeks before I was again allowed to join my grandmother for tea.
Looking back, it seems amazing to me that we would be expected to eat a full supper so soon following tea and pastries. But, after it was signaled to the nurse that our appearance as Eleanor’s guests was over, up to the third floor we went. From the basement kitchen came our meal, brought up by the creaking pantry elevator. The cart carrying it was rolled in by another of our “buddies” from the staff. I liked the “repartee” we shared—silly, but just right for setting me off into giggles.
We ate what was put before us, never complaining. Supper, like lunch, was inevitably meat or fish, overcooked, just as were the vegetables—usually canned peas and carrots along with either rice or potatoes. And such a heap of food likely was preceded by a soup! A dessert followed, one of these “sweets” I particularly disliked, and my sister knew it. She would gleefully describe the tapioca we were served as “fish eyes and glue,” and then enjoy my look of distress.
Just as often a dish of sickly sweet, tinned fruit, cut up into small pieces, was presented. Quite awful. Bread pudding was marginally better, though it seemed to me little more than stale bread mixed with custard and then moistened with evaporated milk. Occasionally there would be a real treat, ice cream, which pleased me no end. During our supper on the third floor, our mother or grandmother might pop in to chat with us for a couple of minutes before they went off quickly to change their clothes for the cocktail hour. After this brief visit they could report that the children were getting along just fine though neither seemed to be very hungry.
My bedtime followed soon after, quite early by today’s standards, probably between 6:30 and 7:00 p.m. Saying good-night, too, was another family ritual. When I’d been tucked in, Beebee would “send word.” This message was passed to FDR’s study on the second floor where the cocktail hour was still underway. My grandmother, working in her own study, was also informed. She picked up my mother and Missy LeHand from his study, and they all proceeded upstairs.<
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Gathered around my bed, each intoned the wish that I should sleep well, each kissed me, and then returned downstairs. But once, my response in front of this little delegation embarrassed them all: I’d noticed that Missy had a little dark fuzz on her upper lip, and when she bent over to kiss me good night, I took it into my head to announce, “Missy has a moustache!” Nobody knew quite what to say. There was confusion all round, including my own: it is my first memory of putting my foot in my mouth.
For a child my life was formidable, scheduled to the quarter inch, a formal routine carried to extremes. Still, it didn’t bother me. There was a security in knowing what I was doing, or scheduled to be doing, at every moment. It was actually quite comforting.
At age nine I began to eat with the adults. Again, I ate what was served and never thought of complaining. I knew nothing in contrast. My grandmother felt that one should not pay undue attention to food, an attitude picked up by my mother and echoed by my sister. What I liked or didn’t like didn’t occur to me. When moving out into the world, however, I awoke. And when doing the research for this book, I read how others, including my uncles and mother (secretly), felt that the White House food was really inexcusable.
“Just awful!” commented Harold Ickes, the secretary of the interior. “We always have something to eat before going to dinner at the White House.” In short, the meals at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue were notoriously poor. The family complained. The president complained. But we had no influence. My grandmother remained oblivious. The first lady would brook no criticism of her housekeeper.
It was a topic always reviewed—and always with sarcasm—when family members got together. My grandfather frequently complained of the unappetizing lunches he was served at his desk. Yet all to no avail. My grandmother blamed it on the squeeze of the small budget she was allowed, but every one of us knew only too well that she was a puritan at heart and didn’t approve of such “indulgences” as tasty food. Grandmère was supported in this by Mrs. Nesbitt who was just as rigid in her own belief in frugality.
Upstairs at the Roosevelts' Page 7