Prohibition sharply divided the country. Roosevelt understood its difficulties firsthand. He had developed a love for the cocktail hour and seems always to have maintained his access to good whiskey. His mother favored banning hard liquor. Eleanor, the child of an alcoholic, semipublicly supported prohibiting all alcoholic beverages. The issue sharply divided urban and rural New York. In 1922, Roosevelt lamely suggested to an upstate Democratic candidate that it might be possible to argue that 3 or 4 percent beer could be classified as nonintoxicating, but “I would go a little slow on the question of light wines.”22
Roosevelt eventually discovered a way to reformulate his sense of progressivism along distinctly Democratic partisan lines in a rather unlikely place. Toward the end of 1925, Claude G. Bowers, editor of the New York Evening World, a popular historian, and a Democratic Party intellectual, asked him to write a feature review of Bowers’s latest book, Jefferson and Hamilton: The Struggle for Democracy in America. Roosevelt leaped at the offer, using the opportunity to deliver a message to the newspaper’s predominantly Democratic audience. He probably genuinely discovered a quite different Thomas Jefferson from the figure introduced to him through neofederalist lenses at Groton and Harvard; scorned by Theodore Roosevelt and Republicans generally, that Jefferson had been depicted as an exponent of states’ rights, individual liberty, small frugal government, and national weakness.
Northern urban Democrats vehemently opposed to federal Prohibition enforcement might find the idea of states’ rights attractive; later on, moreover, Roosevelt and New Deal policy intellectuals would discover a Jeffersonian resonance in such concepts as grassroots democracy and regional planning. All the same, Jeffersonian ideas would most likely serve as arguments against top-down social reformism and as a rationale for a limp foreign policy. It was not by chance that the brunt of early-twentieth-century progressivism had been Republican; the party’s tradition of Hamiltonian nationalism enabled Washington-administered reform. Woodrow Wilson’s administration, characterized by a vast expansion of federal authority, had suggested a reinterpretation of his party’s adherence to states’ rights. Still, well into the 1920s, Democrats who took Jefferson seriously were more likely to invoke him in arguing against anti-child-labor acts or maximum-hours laws.
Bowers’s book focused on the Jefferson-Hamilton rivalry and the development of political parties in the 1790s. Where it had been the habit of progressive intellectuals to picture Jefferson along Hamiltonian lines as a decentralizer and the leader of an essentially reactionary agrarianism, Bowers depicted him as the American nation’s first great democrat, the master political organizer of a struggle against greedy special interests, and a tribune of the common man. This interpretation appealed to Roosevelt’s conception of himself as a country gentleman with an interest in the welfare of his community, his instinct for activist reform, his sense of progressivism as the promotion of democracy, and his increasing inclination to be critical of the business and financial interests that seemed to be running the country (“malefactors of great wealth,” Uncle Ted had called them two decades earlier). His review in fact revealed a politician whose sense of himself and his mission had changed.23
The Evening World published Roosevelt’s eulogistic piece on December 3, 1925. An American patrician, born to wealth, accustomed to a lavish lifestyle, trained to lead, once scornful of Bryanite populism, and all too cognizant of his superiority, now found himself denouncing Alexander Hamilton’s identification with “the organized compact forces of wealth, of birth, of commerce, of the press.” Jefferson, by contrast, was “a veritable Westerner” attempting to organize “the working masses” and solicitous of what Hamilton “thought of as the rabble—the poor, the uneducated, the average human being who, even then, made up the masses of the country.” In the end, Roosevelt concluded, “Jefferson’s faith in mankind was vindicated; his appeal to the intelligence of the average voter bore fruit; his conception of a democratic republic came true.”
Jefferson and Hamilton, Roosevelt declared, had left him with a “breathless feeling” about the young nation’s escape from the clutches of wealth and aristocracy in its early years. “But I have a breathless feeling, too, as I wonder if, a century and a quarter later, the same contending forces are not again mobilizing,” he concluded. “Hamiltons we have to-day. Is a Jefferson on the horizon?” Whether from the crippling experience of polio, from his contact with the impoverished rural South, or from sheer political ambition, an American aristocrat was now ready to lead a populist crusade that Bryan, who had died four months before the review appeared, would have appreciated.24
Roosevelt indeed directed much of his political effort over the next few years at Bryan’s old constituency, the residual progressives of the hinterland South and West, among them men such as the still influential Josephus Daniels, with whom he maintained a fond relationship, and Senator Walsh, perhaps the foremost advocate of a modernized version of Bryan’s populism. This meant giving attention to the grievances of a primarily rural, small-town constituency largely unintelligible to an Al Smith but comprehensible to the country squire Roosevelt imagined himself to be. Early on, he was committed, if a bit vaguely, to some sort of relief for farmers struggling with low commodity prices. He would become a champion of rural electrification and a critic of the private electrical utilities.
None of this damaged him in New York, where he kept one foot in the city and the other upstate. He had reached enough of a modus vivendi with Tammany that the machine probed his interest in running for mayor of New York in 1925. He wisely turned that possibility aside, then found the state party eager to draft him for a US Senate candidacy in 1926. Thinking the time still not right and still pursuing greater physical rehabilitation, he declined. The Senate nomination and eventual victory in the general election went to an old acquaintance of his days in the state legislature, state supreme court judge Robert F. Wagner—like Smith, a Tammany man much admired for his rectitude and ability.
Roosevelt had also determined that the Senate was not a goal he wished to pursue. “I am temperamentally unfitted to be a member of the uninteresting body known as the United States Senate,” he told a correspondent. “I like administrative or executive work, but do not want to have my hands and feet tied and my wings clipped for 6 long years.”25
In 1927, he found another issue in the great Mississippi River flood, which inundated vast areas along the river’s route to the Gulf of Mexico. Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover headed a major relief effort that won widespread praise, but Roosevelt found it far short of what was needed. Denying any intention of criticizing his “old friend” from the Wilson administration, he nonetheless dismissed Hoover’s estimates of relief costs as much too small. He called on President Coolidge to meet with leaders of both parties, fashion a nonpartisan “constructive rehabilitation plan” for the Mississippi Valley, and convene a special session of Congress to enact it.
Coolidge ignored Roosevelt’s plea for a special session, but in the spring of 1928 the Republican Congress satisfied most Mississippi Valley residents by voting an enormous appropriation for rebuilding and strengthening the river levees. Roosevelt incurred neither harm nor political advantage from the episode. It did demonstrate, however, certain characteristics that would resurface in the future and serve him well: an interest in river valley development, a tendency to think big in terms of money and planning, and a zeal for immediate action rather than extended deliberation.26
By 1928, Roosevelt had not only preserved but in many respects broadened his status as an important Democratic politician. He had cultivated ties to all major groups in his party. Eleanor’s contacts with practically every reform movement of the 1920s were especially helpful. His struggle against polio had brought him to rural Georgia, given him a second identity as a part-time southerner, and made it easy for him to relate to Dixie Democrats. In the spring of 1927, the South’s leading newspaper, the Atlanta Constitution, fingered him
as “an ideal candidate” for president.27
Maintaining an ambiguous stance on Prohibition and the other cultural controversies of the decade, Roosevelt had taken positions on economic issues with wide appeal throughout the party. To this, he added a magnetic personality and an appearance of physical vigor that belied his difficulty walking. He may have begun to accept that, whatever his hopes, he had come about as far as possible in his long fight to reverse his paralysis.
He realized that 1928 was not the year to make a bid for the White House. The esteemed Hoover, as the Republican candidate, would be riding a wave of booming prosperity. On the Democratic side, McAdoo declined another candidacy, guaranteeing an easy nomination for Smith. The Democrats convened in Houston that June, two weeks after the Republicans had named Hoover. There was no hundred-ballot brawl this time; otherwise much seemed a repeat of 1924. As then, Roosevelt came to the convention as Smith’s floor leader and made the nominating speech. He used his own skills to maximum effect to promote himself as well as Smith.
He knew that at least sixty radio stations from coast to coast would carry the proceedings. He estimated, probably conservatively, that 15 million listeners would hear his voice. He shrewdly understood that his task was to persuade beyond the convention hall and that shouted convention oratory was not the best way to communicate with ordinary people sitting in their living rooms. He told Walter Lippmann several weeks later, “I tried the definite experiment this year of writing and delivering my speech wholly for the benefit of the radio audience and press rather than for any forensic effect it might have on the delegates and audience in the convention hall.”28
This time, Elliott, a strong, handsome young man three months short of his eighteenth birthday, assisted his father to the podium. Roosevelt’s left hand grasped his son’s right arm. His right hand held a cane. His progress was measured and deliberate but more confident than at Madison Square Garden four years earlier. As in 1924, a large, spontaneous cheer followed him to the microphones. Much of it was in anticipation of the speech for Smith, but a fair amount was a tribute to him. Grasping the podium with his left hand, he waved to the crowd with his right.
Delivered to a receptive audience, the address struck a nice balance between the old-fashioned and the modern, tossing in enough partisan shots to satisfy the crowd while emphasizing Smith’s greatness of character and maintaining something that approached a conversational tone for the radio listeners. It ended, as all nominating speeches must, with the candidate’s name: “Victory is his habit—the happy warrior, Alfred E. Smith!” The inevitable noisy demonstration ensued, followed the next day by Smith’s equally inevitable nomination.
The speech had played well and demonstrated an appeal that went beyond conventional partisanship. The New York Times said that Roosevelt had “proceeded like a gentleman speaking to gentlemen” and declared, “It is seldom that a political speech attains this kind of eloquence.” Will Durant, in the New York World, called Roosevelt “beyond comparison the finest man that has appeared at either convention.” Colonel Robert McCormick, one of Roosevelt’s Groton schoolmates and publisher of the solidly Republican Chicago Tribune, delivered what was for him the ultimate tribute, calling him “the only Republican in the Democratic party.”29
The Tribune, of course, was guilty of wishful thinking, but the general reaction to the second “happy warrior” speech and to Roosevelt’s entire presence demonstrated broad hunger for a type of leadership that neither Smith nor Hoover could provide. For seven years, Franklin Delano Roosevelt had been the lost prince of the Democratic Party. He would soon begin to claim his due.
Chapter 10
Chief Executive
Power in Albany, 1929–1932
Given little real responsibility in Al Smith’s 1928 presidential campaign, Franklin Roosevelt went to Warm Springs in mid-September. Beneath his surface loyalty and enthusiasm, he was privately dismayed. Downplaying his progressivism, Smith had named as chair of the Democratic National Committee John J. Raskob, a wealthy director of General Motors, a Catholic, and a vocal critic of Prohibition. In so doing, Smith had sacrificed a progressive identity with some national appeal and emphasized a cultural one that would harm him outside metropolitan America. For all his genuine merits, the New York governor was an urban provincial unable to connect with the American heartland and little interested in the farm distress at the heart of 1920s progressivism. Conversely, the Republicans claimed credit for the nation’s widespread prosperity. Their candidate, Herbert Hoover, was among the most esteemed public leaders in the country.1
Smith wanted Roosevelt to run for governor of New York, but FDR was loath to swim into a Republican riptide. Moreover, he was fervently devoted to developing the Warm Springs polio treatment center and perhaps believed that his legs could improve with intensive treatment there. On October 1, the eve of the state Democratic convention, Smith and Raskob got him on the telephone and met every objection he raised. Raskob agreed to underwrite the fledgling Georgia Warm Springs Foundation. Smith assured Roosevelt that the esteemed Herbert Lehman would serve as lieutenant governor and handle as much of the work of the governor’s office as Roosevelt cared to delegate. Roosevelt, after talking with Lehman, never quite agreed to accept the nomination but left himself wide open for a draft.2
Twenty-four hours later, he was the Democratic candidate for governor of New York.
One can surmise the calculations that ran through his head. He had been dodging nominations since 1922; the Democratic Party would not come after him forever. An alternative candidate might win and block his own advancement. If he refused and a substitute lost, he would take the blame. If he lost, he would likely have campaigned well, appear a casualty of the Hoover undertow, and be able to claim another shot in 1930. A win in either 1928 or 1930 would put him in a prime position for a Democratic presidential nomination.
Roosevelt, with his nearly two decades of political experience, national reputation, and deep reservoir of goodwill, was in fact the best nominee the Democrats could have chosen. Much of the initial Republican commentary complimented his character and argued against him only on the basis of fragile health. The New York Herald-Tribune asked, “Who can defend the risking of another’s health and whole future career in the cause of one’s own vanity and ambition?” Such comments reduced the campaign to a fitness contest and handed Roosevelt an opportunity that he exploited to his advantage by campaigning nonstop, giving a major speech each evening except Sunday, along with numerous small talks, and making several hand-shaking stops each day.3
The itinerary was not easy. Getting out of an automobile was awkward. He had to swing his legs out and lock his braces before he could be pulled to his feet. His driver or another companion had to provide a strong right arm with which he steadied himself, then, cane in his right hand, he moved painstakingly forward. From time to time, the lack of an elevator required that he be carried up stairs—once even up a fire escape and through an open window. He took it all with aplomb. News reports, following the era’s standards of good taste, rarely mentioned his infirmity. His endurance vindicated Al Smith’s remark that “a Governor does not have to be an acrobat.”4
Roosevelt established the major themes of his campaign in his acceptance speech and hammered away at them day after day: a general commitment to good government and social change, a special interest in public development and control of hydroelectric power, reform in the administration of civil and criminal justice, attention to the problems of New York farmers, and reorganization of county and local governments for greater economy and efficiency. On an issue that in general divided Democrats from Republicans, Prohibition, he tried to stay as vague as possible but felt obliged to support Smith’s veto of a state enforcement bill, asserting that having been established by constitutional amendment, Prohibition was a federal responsibility. By Election Day, he had clearly run a good race, but few disinterested observers saw him as a distinct fr
ont-runner. The Republican candidate, state attorney general Albert Ottinger, was a respected public servant and the favorite in the eyes of many political oddsmakers.5
As the returns came in that evening, it became obvious early on that Smith, although the beneficiary of a huge margin in New York City, was polling well behind Hoover in the state and most of the country. He would concede defeat at midnight. Roosevelt, on the other hand, had a city margin only slightly smaller than Smith’s and was stronger in rural precincts. As the night wore on, about 1,000 upstate voting districts seemed to be holding back their returns. Roosevelt personally called several county sheriffs. One of his managers, Democratic Bronx boss Edward J. Flynn, publicly declared that the very next day he would lead a delegation of “a hundred lawyers ready to resist or prevent any fraud which might be attempted.” Whether prompted by the statement or not, the missing precincts began to disgorge their tallies. Shortly before dawn, the late edition of the New York Times declared Roosevelt the victor.6
The final returns gave him the election by a margin of 25,564, less than 1 percent of all votes cast. A hairsbreadth victory, it was nonetheless impressive. Roosevelt led the Democratic ticket, running only about 32,000 votes behind Smith in New York City while leading him by 73,000 upstate. Nationally, Smith, drawing on the near-tribal loyalty of recent immigrant groups, carried the nation’s ten largest cities for the Democrats but lost badly among the rural and small-town voters. Disappointed and bitter, he announced his retirement from politics. His urban breakthrough had been impressive, but as a practical matter, the Democratic Party needed a leader who could appeal to both constituencies. It now had an indication that his name might be Franklin D. Roosevelt.7
Man of Destiny: FDR and the Making of the American Century Page 17