The Definitive FDR

by James Macgregor Burns

  From the standpoint of immediate political gains, however, Roosevelt’s way was most effective. The congressional elections of 1934 were coming up. In an “off” election year, with no presidential contest to give a national orientation to the thousands of state and local contests across the nation, American elections tend to break up into forty-eight different arenas, and each of these arenas in turn presents a jumble of guerrilla contests revolving around personalities, patronage, local issues, and hardy election perennials such as corruption and crime. Parties and programs tend to be lost in the dust of battle as candidates and their personal factions struggle for votes.

  Speaking for “all the people,” unhampered by rigid party control or obligations to a set program, the President was able to adjust his tactics to the needs of each state. He was all the more effective because of his pretense that he was taking no part in state or local campaigns, even in state Democratic politics. Actually, he stuck a finger into a number of crucial contests. Nothing better illustrated his opportunism and flexibility than his handling of the Pennsylvania situation.

  Pennsylvania in the early 1930’s presented the materials for major political realignment. Governor of the state in 1934 was Gifford Pinchot, the onetime chief forester who had been ousted by Taft in a cause célèbre, and later a Bull Mooser with Theodore Roosevelt. Pinchot had long led the progressive elements in the Republican party against such regulars as the oldtime bosses Pew and Grundy. Coming up for re-election to the United States Senate in 1934 was David Reed, a Republican regular. The Pennsylvania Democrats, who had lost part of their liberal potential to the Republican progressives and had not won a Senate seat in sixty years, nominated two able, colorless, organization Democrats, Joseph F. Guffey for Senator and George Earle for governor.

  Roosevelt and Pinchot were old friends. They had both fought the Old Guard in their parties, Pinchot far more bellicosely and openly than the other. Although a Republican, Pinchot was vigorously supporting Roosevelt in 1934, and some kind of political tie-in seemed desirable. Early in 1934 the President suggested to Pinchot that he run for the Senate and indicated that Democratic support might be forthcoming. It soon became clear, however, that the Pennsylvania Democrats would not nominate the governor, for they expected to win with a man of their own. So Pinchot had to run in the Republican primaries, denouncing Old Guard Republican Reed as a mouthpiece of the Mellons and praising Roosevelt. But Roosevelt kept hands off; he would not even allow Ickes to speak for Pinchot in the primary, and Reed won. The governor—and his wife, who was indefatigably ambitious for her husband—thereupon tried to work out a new Progressive Republican-Democratic ticket on which Pinchot would run for Senator and Earle for governor. The Pennsylvania Democracy was not interested, and Roosevelt would not help. In the end Pinchot came out for his arch-enemy, Reed.

  It was a bitter Pinchot who wrote Roosevelt shortly before the election. He wanted to continue to support Roosevelt, Pinchot said, but he could not support Guffey and Earle. “The nomination by the Democrats of two utterly unfit men for the highest offices of this Commonwealth, and my opposition to them, will not make me your enemy unless you so elect.… The last word is yours.”

  Roosevelt’s reply was a bit lofty—and revealing. He could not understand why Pinchot would support a reactionary like Reed.

  “Also, my dear Gifford, I know you won’t mind my telling you that I think you and I have always worked for principles in government above anything else—i.e., the purposes and objectives. You and I also know from long public experience that time and again we cannot get just the men we would select to help us attain these principles and objectives. I am not speaking of Pennsylvania but I do know in New York that I have had to work through many people whom I did not like or even trust—but I have worked with them and through them, in order to obtain the ultimate goal.”

  That being the case, he concluded, in Pinchot’s place he would have kept his hands out of the fight. After this exchange, the breach between the two men was complete, and a Progressive Republican-Democratic coalition was never achieved.

  In other states too, the President followed tactics of expediency. California posed a special problem. In that turbulent state Upton Sinclair, the old muckraker and long-time Socialist, had won the Democratic nomination for governor with the backing of hundreds of thousands of supporters of his End Poverty in California plan to enable California’s jobless to produce for their needs in state-operated factories and farms. Sinclair’s thumping primary victory over the old-time McAdoo-George Creel faction late in August 1934 put the White House in a dither. Should Farley issue the usual routine congratulations to Democratic primary winners? What position should the President take? When Sinclair forced the issue by asking to see the President, Roosevelt decided to deal with the situation personally.

  Arriving in Hyde Park, Sinclair found Roosevelt at his most charming. The President told stories with gusto, listened sympathetically while Sinclair described his plan, and then intimated that he would himself come out for “production for use” in a few weeks. He even told the improbable story that his mother had read Sinclair’s The Jungle to him at breakfast and spoiled his appetite. Striking a liberal posture, he told the Californian, “I cannot go any faster than the people will let me.”

  Roosevelt thoroughly charmed Sinclair, but if he thought he had weakened the old radical’s determination to wage an all-out campaign for EPIC, he mistook his man. By October California was witnessing the most bitter campaign in its history, and regular Democrats like Creel were deserting Sinclair in droves. Faced with this thorny situation, Roosevelt kept hands off. The President’s instructions on Sinclair’s candidacy, Early told Eleanor Roosevelt, were “(1) Say nothing and (2) Do nothing.”

  Other administration officials did not follow this injunction. Comptroller of the Currency J. F. T. O’Connor returned to his native state to size up the situation and to try to induce Sinclair to withdraw in favor of the nominee of the Commonwealth and Progressive parties. Failing in this, O’Connor talked with Governor Frank F. Merriam, the Republican candidate for re-election. Whether or not an out-and-out deal was made, the upshot was that Merriam put out some pro-Roosevelt statements, the President never spoke out for either Sinclair or “production for use,” and the Republican trounced the Democrat at the polls.

  Wisconsin presented another ticklish situation. For some time Roosevelt had maintained close political relations with Senator Robert La Follette, Jr., and other Progressive Republicans. In spring 1934 the La Follette Progressives broke away from the Republican party and established the Progressive party. La Follette had supported Roosevelt measures in the Senate, and the President hoped that he would be re-elected. Wisconsin Democrats felt differently. They had plans of their own, and hoped to exploit the split between Progressives and regular Republicans. To complicate matters further, Progressives in 1932 had combined with Democrats to elect A. G. Schmedeman the first Democratic governor in half a century. But now, in 1934, the Progressives had a gubernatorial candidate of their own in Philip F. La Follette, and Schmedeman was running for re-election.

  Worried Democrats in Wisconsin urged Roosevelt not to endorse Bob La Follette. Aroused Progressives demanded recognition for the “best New Dealer in the Senate.” What would Roosevelt do? “My own personal hope is that they will find some way of sending Bob La Follette back here,” Roosevelt told reporters off the record. “But I cannot compel the Democracy of Wisconsin to go ahead and nominate him.” Lacking presidential direction, the Wisconsin Democracy put up a regular Democrat against Senator La Follette.

  Faced with this predicament, Roosevelt decided to take a bipartisan stand. Speaking at Green Bay, Wisconsin, early in August, he patted both Senator La Follette and Governor Schmedeman on the back and praised them for their co-operation. Election time brought happy results for Roosevelt, but not for the Wisconsin Democrats. Both La Follette brothers won over their Democratic foes, and the local Democracy continued as a weak opposition
party lacking New Deal support either in Washington or at home.

  Minnesota combined still different hues in the splotchy pigmentation of state-by-state politics. Here, too, a New Dealish third party—the Farmer Labor party—was involved, and here, too, the Democrats were shot through with factionalism and dominated by patronage bosslets; but in Minnesota, one Democratic faction had been virtually an adjunct of the Farmer-Laborites. Who wore the Roosevelt mantle in Minnesota? By 1934 regular Democrats suspected that Roosevelt would recognize the Farmer-Laborite governor, Floyd B. Olson, and the Farmer-Laborite Senator, Henrik Shipstead, both candidates for re-election against regular Democrats.

  They suspected correctly. Roosevelt wrote in longhand to Farley: “In Minnesota hands off—don’t encourage opposition to Shipstead or Oleson [sic].” Roosevelt himself was “in a quandary” about Minnesota, he told reporters. In the end both Farmer-Laborites won handsomely.

  In New Mexico, a childhood friend of Roosevelt, Senator Bronson Cutting, was running for re-election as a progressive Republican. The President and Cutting had had a falling out over the bonus bill, and administration patronage had gone largely to the Democratic organization. Cutting and his Democratic opponent, Dennis Chavez, fought a close race that went into the Senate as a disputed contest; flying back to New Mexico for some election affidavits, Cutting was killed in a plane crash. Roosevelt said later that he had told Cutting that he was willing to give Chavez a job to drop the fight, but Cutting had turned down the offer. Roosevelt had taken no further action except to tell reporters that Cutting was a “very old boyfriend of mine” but Chavez was a pretty good congressman.

  “I am trying to get across the idea that if we have the right kind of people,” Roosevelt had said to his press conference, “the party label does not mean so very much.” Of course, he added amid a burst of laughter, that had to be kept off the record.

  RUPTURE ON THE RIGHT

  The President’s tactics paid off at the polls. One of the few permissible generalizations about American politics had been that a President’s party loses some strength during nonpresidential or off-year elections. Such was not the case in 1934. Democratic strength rose from 313 to 322 in the House and—incredibly—from 59 to 69 in the Senate, and Democrats took over governorships in a number of states.

  “Some of our friends think the majority top heavy,” Garner wrote the President, “but if properly handled, the House and Senate will be all right and I am sure you can arrange that.”

  Certain results were especially satisfying to the President. Both Guffey and Earle won in Pennsylvania. Bob La Follette, Jr., swept Wisconsin. Olson and Shipstead triumphed in Minnesota. Pittman won in Nevada, Wheeler in Montana, and a newcomer named Harry S. Truman in Missouri. Roosevelt was by no means disturbed by Sinclair’s defeat in California.

  The outcome was a tribute not merely to Roosevelt’s tactics in 1934. It was a tribute much more to Roosevelt himself—and to the New Deal, which in all its excitement and ambiguities he symbolized. As no President had since Theodore Roosevelt, he towered over his administration and his age. At a time when Americans wanted a man of action in the White House, he provided action or at least the appearance of action. At a time when they wanted confidence, he talked bravely, reassuringly about the future; whatever the mistakes, we were “Looking Forward,” we were “On Our Way,” the titles of two books he put out in 1933 and 1934. At a time when Americans wanted good cheer, he filled the White House with laughter.

  Some leaders have the power to inspire intense love and devotion in the circle of friends and subordinates immediately around them, while appearing frigid and aloof to the millions out beyond. Other leaders possess just the reverse qualities. To a remarkable degree Roosevelt appealed both to his immediate circle and to the great public as well. “I have been as close to Franklin Roosevelt as a valet,” said Louis Howe, no sentimentalist, as he lay slowly dying in a Washington hospital, “and he is still a hero to me.” Even crusty, churlish Harold Ickes melted under the Rooseveltian charm. “The President is a fine companion …” he noted in his diary after a trip with Roosevelt. “He is highly intelligent, quick-witted, and he can both receive and give a good thrust. He has a wide range of interests and is exceedingly human.” Watching the patients at Warm Springs swarming around Roosevelt’s car, singing to him, laughing with him, treating him like a big jolly brother, Ickes said, “I have never had contact with a man who was loved as he is.”

  But Roosevelt’s ultimate strength was always his hold on the people. During his second year in office he maintained his popularity through timely action, unfailing cheerfulness in public and private, and a masterly grasp of public opinion. Millions sat by their radios to hear his warm, reassuring words; hundreds of thousands saw their radiant Chief Executive during his extensive trips throughout the country. These trips were tonic for the people; they were also tonic for Roosevelt. He believed that he could read people’s feelings by their faces. Telling his Emergency Council after a Western trip the difference between the faces of 1932 and those of 1934, he said: “You could tell what the difference was by standing on the end of the car and looking at the crowd. They were a hopeful people. They had courage written all over their faces. They looked cheerful. They knew they were ‘up against it,’ but they were going to see the thing through.…”

  It was not strange that a Chicago welder or an Atlanta housewife or a Waco filling station proprietor wrote the President letters of affection, told him of their hopes and worries and troubles. But it was notable that men who were themselves leaders turned to the President for direction and support. Late in 1934 McIntyre informed his chief that publisher Roy Howard, who had been “carrying the flag for the New Deal,” had reached the point now where he would like to come in to get fresh information before he got off on the wrong tack through misunderstanding. Businessmen, labor chiefs, bankers, newspaper editors, farm leaders left the White House cheered, impressed, relieved.

  He needed people, too, and he reached out for them. A visiting professor like Harold Laski, the British Socialist, or a prominent businessman with ideas, or a traveler with an interesting report on a foreign land, or an elder statesman like Colonel House, or an observant politician in from the West—any of these might expect an invitation to the White House. Mrs. Roosevelt continued to have “interesting” people in to tea, and Felix Frankfurter assiduously sent along men with fresh minds. Roosevelt exploited visitors as more introverted leaders might use books—as sources of information.

  Aug. 1, 1933, Jerry Doyle, Philadelphia Record

  In projecting his charm out to the masses, the President made full use of the two great media of communication, press and radio. He continued to captivate the reporters in his press conferences with his joshing and fun-making, his swift repartee, his sense of the dramatic, his use of first names and easy geniality. Again and again the press conferences erupted in bursts of laughter.

  But Roosevelt’s most important link with the people was the “fireside chat.” Read in cold newspaper print the next day, these talks seemed somewhat stilted and banal. Heard in the parlor, they were fresh, intimate, direct, moving. The radio chats were effective largely because Roosevelt threw himself into the role of a father talking with his great family. He made a conscious effort to visualize the people he was talking to. He forgot the microphone; as he talked, “his head would nod and his hands would move in simple, natural, comfortable gestures,” Miss Perkins noted. “His face would smile and light up as though he were actually sitting on the front porch or in the parlor with them.” And his listeners would nod and smile and laugh with him.

  In his first two years in office Roosevelt achieved to a remarkable degree the exalted position of being President of all the people. Could it last? Could he keep a virtually united people behind him?

  He could not. Even during his first year there were subdued rumblings of discontent. In 1934 opposition was taking organized form, especially on the right.

  The opposi
tion on the right was a mixture of many elements. It was compounded in part of a national reaction to certain elements of the New Deal: the reaction of nineteenth-century individualists to the collectivism of NRA and AAA; of believers in limited government to the leviathan that Roosevelt seemed to be erecting; of champions of thrift to government spending; of opponents of labor organization to politicians who admitted union leaders into high places in the new partnership; of fanatic believers in the sanctity of the gold standard. But there must have been a deeper, more pervasive explanation for the hatred of Roosevelt on the part of people who in many cases had benefited from the New Deal. In the outcries of the anti-Roosevelt sections of business and industry was a sharp, querulous note betraying loss of status, class insecurity, lessened self-esteem. The President was remarkably sensitive to pinpricks from the right, especially from people in his own class. Writing to a Boston banker and Harvard classmate, he went out of his way to mention remarks that he had heard his friend had made, and concluded “because of what I felt to be a very old and real friendship these remarks hurt.” Roosevelt’s ire rose at reports of conversations about him in business circles. “I wish you could have heard the dinner-party conversations in some of the best houses in Newport,” he wrote to a business friend. He talked caustically to reporters about “prominent gentlemen” dining together in New York and criticizing him.