On the Trail of a Rough Rider, With Stories Yet to Tell

Edmund Morris does not love Theodore Roosevelt. The award-winning biographer shares this feeling more or less unprovoked.

And yet, there is Morris’ decades-old screenplay (optioned, not produced) “Dude From New York,” chronicling Roosevelt’s hardy ranching days in North Dakota. And “The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt,” his 1979 book that captured both the Pulitzer Prize and American Book Award.

Now there is “Theodore Rex” (Random House), a highly acclaimed, 555-page romp through the kinetic days of the Rough Rider’s imperial presidency. And, promises Morris, in about three years, he’ll deliver a third installment, detailing Roosevelt’s post-presidential adventures and activism.

When the trilogy is completed, Morris, a native of South Africa who immigrated to the U.S. in 1968, will have easily devoted more than a decade researching and writing about Roosevelt--more time than the president actually served in the White House. And without the 14-year hiatus he took to research Ronald Reagan’s authorized biography, a coveted undertaking that produced the controversial “Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan” in 1999, there’s a chance Morris never would have left Roosevelt at all.

“It’s a mysterious attraction,” explained Morris, 61, appearing somewhat weary near the end of his 10-city national book tour last week. “I find him endlessly interesting in the mysterious way all biographers find their subjects interesting.”

But no, insists Morris a second time during an interview in his room at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel, he doesn’t love Roosevelt, though admittedly there is much to love about the man: his willful transformation from sickly child to muscular and fit adult, his unabashed adoration of his children, his passion for conservation and his drive to make the United States a world power.

Throughout the hourlong chat, the courtly Morris spoke with ease about his favorite subject, but always with a deliberateness, making sure to choose the right word. His speech mirrors his writing style, a methodical approach that allows a maximum of only 300 words a day. He has no cell phone and usually pens his drafts in longhand.

Later, after a thoughtful pause, Morris clarifies his regard for Roosevelt, or “TR,” as historians are fond of calling him. (The nickname “Theodore Rex” was coined by Henry James in 1905 for Roosevelt’s imperial manner.) “I do not think I’m in love with him, which is very dangerous for a biographer,” said Morris. “To be in love with your subject is to be protective. But even worse is to be in hate with your subject.”

Another reflective pause. For a biographer, he added, “the best attitude is really one of mild affection.”

Whatever his precise level of attachment, it’s clear that the reading public and the critics are again in love with Morris and “Theodore Rex.” The book immediately appeared on the major bestsellers lists, and reviewers are heaping on the praise. Judgments such as “magnificent” and “literary gem” abound.

Still, a few critics take issue with what they argue is Morris’ superficial treatment of Roosevelt’s administration. Christine Stansell, a Princeton University history professor who reviewed the book for the New Republic, excoriated Morris, who, she wrote, “shows no interest in understanding change in government, in the presidency, in American society, or in the world....’Theodore Rex’ is an impediment to a proper understanding of Roosevelt, because it is indifferent to meanings and infatuated with surfaces. It is entertainment with end notes.”

That slap is nothing compared with the beatings Morris took after the publication of “Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan.” In that book, Morris inserted several fictional characters including one named “Morris” into what was supposed to be nonfiction.

“I knew the controversy was coming, and I delighted in it,” said Morris, displaying a Teflon resistance to the critical caterwauling. “I wouldn’t write the book any differently now.”

The unorthodox literary technique was invoked, explained Morris, to compensate for Reagan’s lackluster personality. In a one-on-one meeting, Reagan was, as Morris put it, “simply boring.”

“But if even two other people came into the room, Reagan had an audience, and he was suddenly fascinating,” added Morris, who was granted unprecedented access to the sitting president. “So I had to deal with the phenomenon of an actor who only lives when he is in performance.” (After 14 years of research and writing, including unprecedented access to the sitting president, Morris admitted to a “mild affection” for Reagan as well.)

Morris’ feeling for Roosevelt seems not to have developed over time as with Reagan, but came instantly. Morris vividly recalled how, as a boy of 10, he gazed at a photo of Roosevelt, who’d spent a year shooting big game in Africa. “I saw the ‘friendly, peering snarl’ of his face,” said Morris, who quickly added he was quoting H.G. Wells. “And I thought, ‘He looks like a grown-up that would be fun to be with.’”

In his latest book, Morris did not feel the need to invent anyone. With TR, fact trumps fiction in suspense and drama, said Morris, who places his subject just behind Abraham Lincoln, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson in the pantheon of great American presidents.

Today, Roosevelt’s background seems astonishing in its vigor, breadth and experience. Roosevelt became a published ornithologist at 18. The Harvard graduate was a respected historian and a New York state assemblyman at 23. A father and widower at 25. A North Dakota ranchman at 26. A candidate for mayor of New York at 27. A Civil Service commissioner of the United States at 30. Police commissioner at 36. Assistant secretary of the Navy at 38. Colonel of the 1st U.S. Volunteer Cavalry at 39. Governor of New York at 40.

And then, after William McKinley was assassinated, Roosevelt, his 42-year-old vice president, became “the youngest man ever called upon to preside over the United States--itself the youngest of world powers,” writes Morris.

Readers may be surprised to learn that when Roosevelt took office a century ago, the national climate of fear and doubt about the invulnerability of its institutions was similar to the climate of today.

In those times, the terrorists were known as anarchists and were responsible for McKinley’s death in 1901, as well as the murder in 1881 of Czar Alexander II of Russia. The goal was to “liberate” the populace by destroying government. The McKinley assassination severely rattled the nation and marked the third murder of an American president in office within a 40-year span.

Roosevelt warned that anarchism threatened the nation’s way of life as much as the Civil War ever did, because anarchists exploited freedoms to attack freedom. “If ever anarchy is triumphant,” Roosevelt once said, “its triumph will last but for one red moment, to be succeeded for ages by the gloomy might of despotism.”

Though Roosevelt did much to steady the nation, Morris celebrates conservation as the president’s greatest achievement. Morris ranks it above even the construction of the Panama Canal, which Roosevelt regarded as his most important legacy.

“The Panama Canal effectively lasted for 100 years [under American control], but conservation is for all time,” said Morris. “He really put the capital ‘C’ into conservation.”

During his seven years in office, Roosevelt created five national parks, 18 national monuments, 51 bird preserves and 150 national forests--a total area equal to that of the Atlantic states from Maine to Virginia combined with West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Vermont. Even more remarkable, said Morris, he accomplished this in a period when political opponents vowed “not one cent for scenery,” when most dictionaries didn’t even offer the modern definition of “conservation” and when logging companies were denuding landscapes without a thought of reforestation.

Another act that Morris makes much of is Roosevelt’s White House dinner in 1901 with Booker T. Washington, a leading black educator and founder of the famous Tuskegee Institute. Before Roosevelt’s invitation, an African American had never dined as a guest of the president in the White House. “It was an intimate gesture to a black man. It was a private dinner,” said Morris. “The move prompted a hurricane of fear and frenzy in the South, which led Roosevelt to be more cautious after that.”

For his day, Roosevelt, who spoke out against an epidemic of Southern lynchings, was enlightened regarding race. But judged by today’s standards, he would certainly be considered a racist. He never invited Washington back to the White House, and he allowed a black Army unit to be railroaded on trumped-up charges of rioting in Brownsville, Texas--stains on his presidency, Morris said.

“If I were in love with Roosevelt, I don’t think I could have written about Brownsville like I did,” maintains Morris, who ranks that incident among the young president’s gravest errors.

Morris offers many more accounts of Roosevelt’s larger-than-life days in office.

Morris’ mastery of his subject and his “mild affection” shine through in energetic detail, whether Morris is writing about Roosevelt the trustbuster or the doting father of six.

In fact, it may even be catching. Morris’ wife, Sylvia Jukes Morris, is also a well-respected biographer. In 1980, she wrote about a Roosevelt: Theodore’s wife, Edith.

As they researched the Roosevelts, the couple, who live in New York and Washington, D.C., frequently crossed paths. But like most married couples, Morris said, they reached a compromise. “I agreed to share anything I found about Edith with her,” he said. “And she agreed to keep everything she found about Theodore to herself.”