THE PRESIDENCY: The Thirty-Second

“Hello, Mrs. Higgins. Are your children voting today?”

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, his face relaxed in the easy grin that he had flashed at millions of his countrymen from the back platform of his campaigning trains, was easing himself down the steps of the old Hyde Park town hall. He had just voted for himself for 32nd President of the U. S. With him was a cortege of newspapermen, his wife and his son Elliott. Mrs. Higgins is a neighbor of the Squire of Krum Elbow. Everyone laughed at his question which was thoroughly facetious. Mrs. Higgins’ sons are 9 and 7. “I lost five pounds in the campaign and I’m proud of my figure. Look here. There’s nothing extra in there,” he had said to the clerk in the town hall while waiting for four other voters to pull the levers on the machine before he did. “You must have been sitting up pretty late [to hear his speeches] while I was in California. The time is so much different there.”

A motorcade stood waiting. At the swift pace which he always prefers, the Governor of New York and next President of the country was swept down the Hudson to Manhattan. On the way he stopped for luck at a firehouse—he had done that in 1928, to telephone his daughter, while being elected Governor. Then the motorcade rushed on, special reason for its speed being that Gus Generich, one of the bodyguards, had to get in town to vote. Meantime throughout the length & breadth of the land, some 40,000,000 citizens were proceeding in quiet, orderly fashion to cast their ballots in the memorable Depression election of 1932. That most of them were marking “Roosevelt” instead of “Hoover” the former had at no time any doubt, but it is not likely that he or his most sanguine supporter had any idea of the completeness with which the country was swinging. Headquarters at the Biltmore that night were more businesslike than might have been expected. The outer rooms were festive to the point of turbulence, but Franklin Delano Roosevelt, sitting at a long table in an inner room, was not available to all comers. He received Al Smith. Jack Dempsey got in for a moment. Bernard Mannes Baruch (in silk topper), curly-headed “Sonny” Whitney (who had not won his race for Congress but was supposedly in line for a sub-Cabinet job), Boss McCooey of Brooklyn, President Sam Levy of the Borough of Manhattan—all such, of course, had access. But through all their cordialities and rejoicing, Franklin Roosevelt continued to concentrate on the returns, the living figures of the votes of the people for him—him—to be President. A double row of girls lined the long table in front of him, their pencils flashing over sheets of paper which they passed up for him to scan. He wore a dark blue suit and blue tie. His Phi Beta Kappa key gleamed on his gold watch-chain. John W. Davis was admitted. “Frank, it’s wonderful!” said the man who got nowhere eight years ago. Al Smith, the man who got nowhere four years ago, said: “I am delighted!”

A London newspaper telephoned, asking an interview. “Wait until we hear from the West,” said Candidate Roosevelt, though he already had New York, which every one knew was the prime indication of the final result. Later he did talk to London, where Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald was disobeying doctor’s orders by sitting up late to hear the returns. To London, President-elect Roosevelt said: “It was a very fine victory. I am very tired but very well—and not very excited.” To the headquarters staff he said: “There are two people in the United States more than any one else (sic) who are responsible for the great victory. One is my old friend and associate Colonel Louis McHenry Howe and the other is that great American, Jim Farley.” President Hoover’s message, dispatched from Palo Alto at 9:17 p. m. Pacific time, said: “I congratulate you on the opportunity that has come to you to be of service to the country and I wish for you a most successful administration. In the common purpose of all of us I shall dedicate myself to every possible helpful effort.”

In Washington, William Moran, Chief of the U. S. Secret Service, ordered two of his best men to proceed at once to New York and take up their duty of guarding the person of the 32nd President. Returning from the Biltmore to his town house at No. 49 E. 65th St., Franklin Delano Roosevelt ate some ham & eggs and went to bed. “I have work to do on the State Budget,” was his parting word to the ever-present Press. “That will keep me busy for the next few days. I’m not President yet.” The election of this Roosevelt made a third “pair” of Presidents—the two Adamses, who were father & son; the two Harrisons who were grandfather and grandson; and the two fifth-cousin Roosevelts. Not since Mary Washington saw her son George elected had a U. S. mother had the supreme pleasure of seeing her boy become head of the nation. Mrs. Sarah Delano Roosevelt, 78, said: “You know, Franklin is only 50. He looks older tonight, but that is because he’s tired. I never thought particularly about my son being President, but if he’s going to be President, I hope he’ll be a good one.” Eleanor Roosevelt Roosevelt, his wife, said: “You’re always pleased to have any one you’re very devoted to have what he wants. It is an extremely serious thing to undertake, you know. . . . It is not something you just laugh off and say you’re pleased about.”