The Definitive FDR

by James Macgregor Burns

  The President’s immediate problem was not, of course, isolationist feeling in general but the mighty isolationist phalanxes in Congress. Doubtless he feared that defeat of a crucial bill on the Hill might mean a permanent setback for his hopes to aid the democracies and might so dishearten friends of America abroad as to encourage more appeasement. If such was Roosevelt’s tactic with Congress, the fate of embargo repeal in the spring of 1939 suggests that he failed. Perhaps if he had taken a position against the embargo much sooner and much more openly and consistently, he could have won repeal in the spring of 1939. But the fact is that only when he knew he had the votes on the Hill did he utter the clarion call that resulted in repeal in October of that year. Once again events, not the President, had done the job of educating—and once again the time was tragically late.

  No leader is a free agent. Even Hitler had to cope with grumbling and foot dragging among the military; even Stalin had to deal with backward peasants and with party rivals grasping for power. Roosevelt’s plight was far more difficult. He was captain of the ship of state, but many hands reached for the tiller, and a rebellious crew manned the sails. It was only natural that this vessel should move ahead by hugging the shore, threading its way past shoal and reef, putting into harbor when the storm roared. The test of great political leadership is not whether the leader has his way; it is, first, whether the leader makes the most of existing materials he has to work with, and, second, whether he creates new materials to help him meet his goals.

  At the end of 1939, as Roosevelt neared the last year of his second term, it was time to apply to him both tests of leadership. His goal had always been clear in broad outline—a prosperous people in a secure nation. By the end of 1939 this goal was still far off. Economic conditions had improved since the recession, but only back to the uncertain levels of the mid-1930’s, with millions out of work. And as the President himself saw more clearly than most Americans, the nation was in grave peril.

  The ship of state had not reached port; neither had it foundered. How had the captain done?

  Undeniably the reefs and shoals were formidable. Any attempt to chart a clear course to port—in this case to build a liberal program for New Deal objectives—ran head on into the absence of a cohesive liberal tradition in America. Any effort to shape long-term economic programs ran up against limited understanding of economic problems. Any effort to build a consistent foreign policy that would throw the country’s weight toward peace and against the aggressors encountered the fierce isolationism of most Americans. The political and governmental means to these ends were equally hard to forge. Attempts to build a stronger “presidential party” behind the New Deal fell afoul of the federal, factional make-up of the existing party system. Any effort to establish a cohesive rank-and-file group for New Deal policies in Congress splintered against the entrenched power of seniority. Even the attempt to fashion a more cohesive executive branch ran into the centrifugal tendencies of the American system and the pervasive popular fear of executive power.

  But what was the factor of creative leadership in these lost battles? Could it be said that Roosevelt had tried and failed? Was it bad luck, or a rebellious crew, or a flimsy ship that had kept him from reaching port? Or was the blame his alone?

  There is an important difference between the politician who is simply an able tactician, and the politician who is a creative political leader. The former accepts political conditions as given and fashions a campaign and a set of policies best suited to the existing conditions. The latter tries consciously to change the matrix of political forces amid which he operates, in order that he may better lead the people in the direction he wants to go. The former operates within slender margins; the latter, through sheer will and conviction as well as political skill, tries to widen the margins within which he operates. He seeks not merely to win votes but consciously to alter basic political forces such as public opinion, party power, interest-group pressure, the governmental system.

  There were times—most notably in 1935—when Roosevelt brilliantly capitalized on every opportunity to convert New Deal aims into law. There were times—most notably in the court fight—when he tested and found the outer limits of his power. But sometimes he made no effort at all—especially in gaining lasting influence in Congress. Sometimes he tried too little and too late. And sometimes—as in the case of party consolidation and realignment and of economic program—he seemed to lack the intellectual qualities necessary to the task.

  During his second term Roosevelt seemed to forget the great lesson of his inaugural speech of 1933—that courageous affirmation in itself changes the political dimensions of a situation. That speech was more than a speech—it was an act that loosened a tidal wave of support behind the new administration. The most important instrument a leader has to work with is himself—his own personality and its impact on other people. When the people’s opinions are vaguely directed the way the leader is headed but lack depth and solidity, action by the leader can shift opinion in his own favor. In the parallelogram of forces in which the leader operates, such action alters the whole equation. To be sure, more than speeches was needed after 1937, for the feeling of crisis had gone and popular attitudes had hardened. But the inaugural speech of 1933 stood as an index of the leader’s influence when he takes a posture of bold affirmation.

  Roosevelt’s failure to build a liberal coalition and a new party behind the New Deal is a further case in point. For here the materials were available for the right shaping and mixing. To be sure, most Americans during the mid-1930’s as an abstract matter opposed realigning the parties along liberal and conservative lines. But when confronted in 1938 with the question of following “President Roosevelt’s” proposal that old party lines be disregarded and that liberals of all parties unite to support liberal candidates for Congress, twice as many people favored as opposed the idea. The missing key was long-term and effective organization by Roosevelt of firmer support for realignment. Despite its failure, the purge showed the great potential of party realignment in the North and in the border states.

  As for foreign policy, at potential turning points of public opinion—most notably in 1935 and 1936, when the people’s fear of war might have been directed toward internationalist policies rather than isolationist ones—the President had failed to give the cue the people needed. Roosevelt did not exploit his superior information about the foreign situation and his understanding of foreign policy in order to guide popular attitudes.

  Indeed, Roosevelt to a surprising degree was captive to the political forces around him rather than their shaper. In a democracy such must ever be the case. But democracy assigns a place for creative political leadership too. The forces handcuffing Roosevelt stemmed as much from his own actions and personality as from the unyielding political environment. He could not reshape his party, reorient foreign policy attitudes, reorganize Congress and the bureaucracy, or solve the economic problem largely because he lacked the necessary intellectual commitment to the right union of ends and means.

  A test of Roosevelt’s creative leadership, of his willingness to alter the environment—the pressures working on him—when he had the capacity to do so, was provided by the inner circle of his advisers. Haphazardly brought together, embracing conservatives and liberals, isolationists and internationalists, his brain trust helped him mediate among opposing policies and ideas during his first term. But, despite the comings and goings of individuals, the brain trust remained an amorphous and divided group during Roosevelt’s later period of party leadership, at a time when he needed program guidance more directly and clearly pointed toward the aims of an expanded New Deal at home and toward firmer action abroad. Instead of compelling his advisers to serve his new needs, he allowed them unduly to define his own purposes. Fearing commitment to any one adviser or faction, he became overly involved in the divisions among all of them.

  Roosevelt, in a sense, was captive to himself as well as to his political environment. He was c
aptive to his habit of mediating among pressures rather than reshaping them, of responding eclectically to all the people around him, of balancing warring groups and leaders against one another, of improvising with brilliance and gusto. Impatient of theory, insatiably curious about people and their ideas, sensitively attuned to the play of forces around him, he lacked that burning and almost fanatic conviction that great leadership demands.

  Roosevelt was less a great creative leader than a skillful manipulator and a brilliant interpreter. Given the big, decisive event—depression at home or naked aggression abroad—he could dramatize its significance and convey its import to the American people. But when the crisis was less striking but no less serious, and when its solution demanded a union of intellectual comprehension and unified and continuing strategic action, Roosevelt saw his efforts turn to dust, as in the cases of court packing, the purge, and putting his country behind efforts toward collective security. He was always a superb tactician, and sometimes a courageous leader, but he failed to achieve that combination of tactical skill and strategic planning that represents the acme of political leadership.

  Finally, though, the President had to take account of another crucial factor that must finally be weighed in the scales. This was the election of 1940. All his past, all his future, would come into balance in the fateful, turbulent year that lay ahead.

  LEAN DAYS FOR THE ROAD SHOW, Sept. 14, 1938, S. J. Ray, Kansas City Star

  PART 5

  Through the Traps

  TWENTY

  The Soundless Struggle

  CHRISTMAS EVE, 1939. Bareheaded in the chill of the oncoming night, Roosevelt stood on a wooden platform next to the Washington community Christmas tree. Several thousand people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the big, glowing face. The President’s words were solemn. “In these days of strife and sadness in many other lands, let us in the nations which still live at peace forbear to give thanks only for our good fortune in our peace. Let us rather pray that we may be given strength to live for others—to live more closely to the words of the Sermon on the Mount.…”

  In the distance loomed the brilliantly lighted White House. Bright holly wreaths festooned every window. In the gleaming East Room stood a magnificent Christmas tree trimmed in white and silver. On game racks in the kitchen hung pheasants, quail, ducks, grouse, woodcocks. Ushers and clerks staggered under the weight of tens of thousands of Christmas cards and hundreds of presents from the people to their President—fruitcakes, books, ship models, bric-a-brac, even a buck deer.

  The upstairs was filled with the hustle and bustle of four generations of Roosevelts. For days they had been arriving—from eighty-five-year-old Sara, down from Hyde Park, to the newest presidential grandchild, eight months old. Around the family tree, gaily decorated under the personal supervision of the President, stacks of presents were piled waist high. By the tree on Christmas Eve, as was his cherished custom, the President read Dickens’ Christmas Carol, holding the rapt attention of even the little children as he acted out the parts of old Scrooge and the ghosts. Then every Roosevelt, young and old, hung a red stocking over the fireplace in the President’s bedroom. After the children had kissed “Grandpa” good night, the President helped stuff the stockings with presents, including toothbrush, nail file, and brightly wrapped bar of soap.

  Early next morning the youngsters burst into the President’s room and attacked their stockings. Roosevelt sat up in his bed, a small grandchild perched on his lap, while the room filled with Christmas wrappings and squeals of delight. Later he helped distribute presents around the family Christmas tree, expertly carved a huge turkey at the Christmas dinner, and presided over an evening party for forty persons.

  Next day snow came, and in the little interval between Christmas and New Year’s the White House seemed to lie quiet and hushed under its soft white blanket. It symbolized an America at peace. Thousands of miles away French poilus made little sorties into devastated villages of no man’s land. German tank commanders squinted through their sights. British bombardiers watched as their bombs fell lazily in long arcs below. But even the Western Front was relatively quiet—so quiet that some Americans dubbed it the “phony war.” Only in Finland did war live up to its reputation. Invaded by Russia a few weeks before, the little nation was putting up a heroic resistance.

  New Year’s Eve came. Over a million screaming, cheering, festive men and women jammed Times Square. In the White House the President had a few friends in for a quiet evening gathering. Eleanor Roosevelt was there, gay and spirited as ever after holidays crowded with six Christmas tree ceremonies, a host of parties for children and for the poor, church services, and a hundred other duties. Shortly before midnight the radio was turned on in the President’s small oval study. The group waited, eggnog glasses in hand. At the sound of midnight the President raised his glass and said with solemn emphasis: “To the United States of America.”

  It was 1940.

  THE SPHINX

  It had long been certain that 1940 would be no ordinary year in American history. For three years politicians in both parties had been jockeying and maneuvering in preparation for a crucial election year. Since fall it had seemed likely, too, that the waiting armies and bombing squadrons in Europe would swing into full action during the new year. And decisive events overseas would have fateful consequences for America.

  Above all, 1940 would bring an answer to the riddle of the Sphinx: Would Roosevelt seek—and, if so, could he win—a third term? At one of the annual Gridiron dinners in Washington where costumed newsmen mocked the nation’s mighty in verse and song, there had been unveiled a huge papier-mâché Sphinx. Out of the grinning mouth protruded a long cigarette holder.

  The reporters had good reason to celebrate the Sphinx. For three years they had been seeking the answer by every guile and wile. For three years the President had been deftly turning aside their questions, sometimes with a quick counterthrust, sometimes with real or simulated irritation. More than once Roosevelt had told a reporter to go into the corner and don a dunce cap. But the questioning had continued. In the last press conference of 1939, Earl Godwin had tried a new approach; as the reporters trooped in he called out cheerily:

  “We wish you an eventful 1940!”

  “Don’t be so equivocal!” the President shot back with a laugh.

  “We have learned it here, Mr. President,” Godwin went on.

  “It is all right,” said Roosevelt, still laughing. “That is very sweet of you.”

  What were the President’s secret thoughts on the matter? Every shred of evidence, every offhand presidential remark, every list of presidential appointments was scoured for possible hints. By 1940 his intentions were a national guessing game. Most of the guessers, however, jumped to the false assumption that Roosevelt had made his decision to run or not to run, and that all his actions stemmed from this set decision.

  They did not know their man. Roosevelt was not one to make a vital political decision years or even months in advance and then stick to that decision through thick and thin. His method through most of his career was to keep open alternative lines of action, to shift from one line to another as conditions demanded, to protect his route to the rear in case he wanted to make a sudden retreat, and, foxlike, to cross and snarl his trail in order to hide his real intentions. More than any situation Roosevelt ever faced, the third term demanded this kind of delicate handling.

  For one thing, the President was genuinely unsure of his own desires. By 1940 both the fieldstone library at Hyde Park and his hilltop “dream house” were near completion, and they were standing invitations to return to Hyde Park life and to the memoir-writing that had enormous appeal after the grueling presidential years. More than ever by 1940 his talk was turning to the details of Dutchess County life and history. Too, the exactions and frustrations of his second term were beginning to take their toll physically. The strenuous Christmas activities left him tired rather than exhilarated. It took him weeks to
subdue a case of flu during the early weeks of 1940. The weariness of his last years had already begun.

  “No, no, Dan, I just can’t do it,” Miss Perkins remembered his saying to President Tobin of the Teamsters union early in 1940. “I have to get over this sinus. I have to have a rest. I want to go home to Hyde Park. I want to take care of my trees. I have a big planting there, Dan. I want to make the farm pay. I want to finish my little house on the hill. I want to write history. No, I just can’t do it, Dan.”

  Feb. 21, 1940, H. M. Talburt, © by the Washington Daily News

  The Sphinx

  March 30, 1940, H. E. Elderman, Washington Post

  July 15, 1940, © Rube Goldberg and the New York Sun, Inc.

  But it was not so simple as this. Roosevelt could not ignore the compelling reasons that might force him to run again. Certainly he would take the nomination himself if otherwise it would go to an anti-New Deal Democrat or to a fence straddler. Certainly he would take it if the international situation took a serious turn—if, for example, Germany should seem to be winning the war.