Theodore Rex (97 page)

His guests arrived straight from an emotional service at the Russian Orthodox Church in Manhattan. Roosevelt had no way of knowing whether the Slavonic melancholy that Witte discharged like fog over the Volga was endemic, or merely a reaction to the uninspiring send-off from their priest: “May God help you and grant you wisdom. Just now we all feel lost and do not know what to do or what the future will bring.”

Still less could he guess that Witte and Rosen felt “lost,” too, torn diplomatically between personal awareness that Russia was beaten in the war, and Nicholas II’s insistence that she was not.
Their country was in the first throes of a slow revolution that they knew to be unstoppable. At best, the revolution could be postponed if they could negotiate a foreign peace that would enable the Tsar’s ministers to deal undistractedly with the war developing in streets and basements back home. Failure at Portsmouth would mean a contraction of Russia’s borders, even as her social structure rotted. Just afew days ago, Sakhalin Island had been occupied by Japanese forces. That made one of the most explicit of their instructions—not under any circumstances to give up Sakhalin—already redundant, and enhanced their sense of doom.

Paradoxically, the sense persuaded them that they were “one man with one mind, one will and one heart beating for our country.” To save Russia, or at least preserve
their
Russia for another decade or two, they faced a task that transcended even the dictates of the Tsar. Fatalism—and
Baron Rosen’s suspicion that it had been Japan, not Theodore Roosevelt, that had pressed for this conference—made them formidable.

Witte was enormous enough, with his double-jointed, oncoming gait, to convey a sense of careless power. His gaze was not so much to be returned as endured, and he spoke bad French with torrential rapidity. Roosevelt could not help being impressed. They lunched and talked for two and a half hours, the ambassador (a polished and vapid presence) translating. “
We are not conquered,” Witte said, “and can therefore accept no conditions which are not suitable to our position. Consequently, first of all, we shall not agree to pay any indemnity.”

This was not a promising beginning.
However, Witte handed over a letter from Nicholas II that at least allowed for some concessions, such as recognition of modified rights for Japan in Korea, and transfer of the Liaotung Peninsula, providing China agreed. Russia’s “interior condition,” Witte allowed, was serious, but “not such as it is thought to be abroad.” Her plenipotentiaries were willing to negotiate what she had lost so far, in a fair fight, as long as the Japanese did not gamble on more of the same. If they did, “We
shall carry on a defensive war to the last extremity, and we shall see who will hold out the longest.”

Witte watched Roosevelt closely as he responded. He could see that the President, like most Americans, was pro-Japanese, and confident that Baron Komura would prevail at Portsmouth. Yet some doubts gradually began to show—Roosevelt was not a good concealer—along with some embarrassment at having misjudged the validity and force of Russian feelings.

Roosevelt said that he was convinced that peace was in the interest of both belligerents. Therefore, at the last resort, Russia should agree to pay an indemnity. He had personally tried to get Japan to moderate her demands, but the choice appeared to be war or money.

The plenipotentiaries went back to New York even more pessimistic than they had been in the morning. “It was clear that the President has very little hope of a peace treaty,” Witte cabled Count Lamsdorff, “and he therefore expresses the opinion that it is necessary in any case to arrange matters in such a manner that, in the future, when either of the parties wishes it, it will be possible to begin negotiations anew without difficulty.”

THE FUNDAMENTAL EQUIVALENCE
, yet fighting difference, between
Tweedledum and Tweedledee had occurred to Roosevelt in previous apparently irreconcilable disputes. By the time the sun rose over Long Island Sound the next morning, he knew that the powers he was about to bring together were both financially drained and split internally, for all their shows of solidarity, by “war” and “peace” factions. So much for twinship. But, as they would soon discover at Portsmouth, a monstrous crow was bearing down upon them. All the more reason then for him to treat them today with such impartial courtesy as to make them aware that
from next Wednesday on they must resolve their own quarrel.

He sent two identical cruisers to New York to pick up the delegations. Oyster Bay began to tremble with the activity of small craft—cutters, yachts, gigs, wherries, skiffs—jiggling for vantage points around the
Mayflower
, anchored white and aloof about a quarter of a mile offshore. Nearby stood the
Dolphin, Sylph
, and
Galveston
. For connoisseurs of marine display, it was the spectacle of 17 August 1903 re-enacted, but minus the overmastering presence of battleships: a panoply of peace rather than war. The weather was sunny and humid, the bay soon filling with hazy light as the shadow of Cove Neck withdrew and crept up the slope of Sagamore Hill.

Shortly after noon, a concatenation of cannon fire announced the President’s arrival aboard the
Mayflower
. He climbed the gangway in his usual statesman’s frock coat and silk hat, with only a white waistcoat conceding the heat. The deck of the yacht
glittered like a ballroom with bemedaled uniforms
and polished brass fittings.
From then on, the cannon salutes were almost continuous, as first the Japanese and then the Russian plenipotentiaries left their own ships and approached Roosevelt’s via a lane of open water. To general surprise, Witte was bowing and grinning as spectators yelled his name. Precisely as each party came up the side of the
Mayflower
, its flag joined
the Stars and Stripes lolling aloft.

The President did not welcome his guests above, but waited below, flanked by admirals and adjutants, in a paneled salon while protocol officers conducted the formalities on deck.
Since Komura and Takahira had arrived in the United States before Witte and Rosen (and also gotten out to Sagamore Hill sooner), they were escorted down first, trailed by their suite. Roosevelt greeted them, then left them seated in an anteroom as Witte and Rosen descended into the salon.

Inevitably, Assistant Secretary of State Herbert H. Peirce mispronounced some of the Russian names. Roosevelt, smiling and ejaculating his famous “dee-lighted,” at least recognized that of Fedor Fedorovich Martens, a St. Petersburg law professor whose works he knew and praised. After presenting his own aides, he told Witte that he would like to introduce the members of the opposing delegation.

The door to the other salon opened, and fifteen black-coated Japanese filed in. Witte felt the moral pain of an envoy, invested with the dignity of the world’s largest empire, being confronted by his betters in war. An observer was struck by the absolute expressionlessness of the faces on either side. “Baron Komura,” Roosevelt said, “I have the honor to present you to Mr. Witte and Baron Rosen.”

As the President handled the plenipotentiaries, the other delegates shook hands, then retired to opposite sides of the room in awkward silence. Roosevelt alone seemed at ease, talking warmly and incisively, nudging his guests by degrees toward an open door, through which was visible a buffet table and no chairs. Then, briskly, like a Park Avenue hostess, he said, “Mr. Witte, will you come in to lunch with Baron Komura?”

Asia and Russia crossed the threshold together, escorted by the United States.

THE LUNCH
, eaten standing up by everybody except the President and plenipotentiaries, was cold. So was the wine—refreshingly so, on a day so hot. Problems of precedence were negated by the general absence of seats. Those set aside for Roosevelt were grouped so casually in a corner that nobody sitting with him seemed to notice who faced left, and who right. To Komura, he spoke English, and to Witte, his own variety of French, loose in grammar yet fluid and comprehensible.

Other guests conversed less easily. They kept talking, however, until champagne was served (by Chinese waiters substituting for the
Mayflower
’s normal staff of Japanese). The President rose, raised his glass, and said loudly to everybody in the room, “Gentlemen, I propose a toast to which there will be no answer and which I ask you to drink in silence, standing.”

The last stipulation, at least, was bound to be obeyed.

Roosevelt went on, staring hard at Witte. “I drink to the welfare and prosperity of the sovereigns and to the peoples of the two great nations whose representatives have met one another on this ship. It is my most earnest hope and prayer, in the interest not only of these two great powers, but of all civilized mankind, that a just and lasting peace may speedily be concluded between them.”

After the requisite hush and sipping, conversation continued with gradually increasing
bonhomie
. (“How is Madame Takahira?” “I hope the Baroness is well.”) A young reporter from the
Sun
syndicate, to whom Roosevelt had awarded one of the most prized exclusives in journalism, realized that all belligerents were human.

When lunch was over, Roosevelt and his chief guests posed for a formal photograph. Some of the chagrin he had seemed to feel the previous day, for misjudging the Russians, made him place Witte and Rosen on his right. Or was it, more subtly, his intuition that when the dread indemnity question was raised, Witte would be the only negotiator wise enough to give in? Throughout the reception, he had been more amiable to Witte than to Komura.

The latter, dwarfed and sickly looking on the President’s left, remained impassive. But a camera caught an expression of real hurt on Takahira’s face.

AT TWENTY MINUTES
to three, Roosevelt bade farewell to everyone, put his silk hat back on, and left the
Mayflower
, to another twenty-one-gun salute.
His preliminary diplomatic work was done. The Japanese exited next, and were ferried to the
Dolphin
. Their counterparts remained aboard the much larger host ship, which hoisted Russian colors and prepared to sail for Portsmouth. A change in the displacement of the delegations would seem to have occurred. But the much smaller
Dolphin
weighed anchor first, as if determined to establish precedence. The
Mayflower
let her go, then followed at leisure. Witte and his aides reappeared on deck in light summer clothes.