Wilson's "Infirmity"

Far more fashionable nowadays than discovering blots on the scutcheons of heroes is the psychologist practice of explaining, with cool "scientific" detachment, how heroic eccentricities and even genius were conditioned by the physiology of the case.

Currently published is a book called The Psychology of Happiness by Professor Walter B. Pitkin of Columbia University.* Therein it is stated that Woodrow Wilson had, from childhood, "a constitutional infirmity which he struggled to hide and did hide with such cunning the world never suspected it." This was "the first--and perhaps most poisonous--virus of his unhappiness."

Says Author Pitkin: "I cannot disclose it here simply because of the circumstances under which it was confidentially disclosed to me.

"Enough to say that it was of a sort that caused a slight but almost continuous discomfort and at times a serious nervous upset, from childhood to the day of his death. It prevented the little boy from playing football, baseball, and all other strenuous games. And it probably was a factor in causing his terrible headaches, his still more terrible temper, his ghastly dyspepsia, and his nightmares."

When these statements appeared in the press, newsgatherers at once sought to question Cary Travers Grayson M. D., the naval physician whom Woodrow Wilson raised to a Rear-Admiral's rank and kept beside him at the White House. But Dr. Grayson was inaccessible in Europe. From the late President's daughters--Miss Margaret Wilson, Mrs. Francis Bowes Sayre, Mrs. William Gibbs McAdoo--came no statements. The President's widow was inaccessible in the Orient.

Anticipating some sort of protest, Professor Pitkin explained through the press that he had not meant to suggest that the alleged Wilson infirmities were "shameful" or "monstrous." "Thousands of people cheerfully exhibit and endure far worse ills of the flesh. . . . He might have avoided most of the myriad condemnations simply by being honest and admitting physical frailties. But this would have interfered with his restless aspirations. Voters would never elect sick men as governors and presidents.

"I regard it as the duty of Wilson's friends to tell all they can by way of clearing the man's reputation as a human being. (As a statesman he needs no defense.) His mistreatment of old friends was pathological. And those few friends of his who survive him, serve him ill in still trying to hide the entire physical history of the man. To be sure, he so wished it. But, as I said, he was his own worst foe."

While the curious were still wondering precisely what the alleged "infirmity" might have been--perhaps the prostate trouble long accepted as fact by newsmen who knew Wilson--an answer to Professor Pitkin at length did appear. It came from a man who knew Woodrow Wilson with undoubted intimacy--Joseph Patrick Tumulty, for 13 years his private secretary, confidant, biographer. Choking with indignation, Mr. Tumulty assailed the anonymity of Professor Pitkin's informant: "If this be a privilege reserved to psychologists or psychoanalysts, as Professor Pitkin is supposed to be, as well as a teacher in a school of journalism, then the privilege has long ago been usurped by the ghouls who invaded the tombs of the historic ancient dead, as Professor Pitkin now invades that noble sarcophagus in the National Cathedral in the Capital of the Nation.

"The public acts and motives of the illustrious dead properly belong to posterity. . . . I herewith present my testimony in disproof of the charge of Professor Pitkin's anonymous informant and of the Professor's pseudo-psychological deductions.

"Virtually, none of the conditions which Professor Pitkin deduces to be manifestations of Mr. Wilson's imaginary 'infirmities' were existent. For instance: He never had 'terrible headaches.'. . . I never knew him to suffer from 'ghastly dyspepsia' or any other kind. I have known him to be bored when reading stuff like Professor Pitkin's. . . . What heartburns he suffered were for humanity and because of the attempts to thwart his ideal of world peace. . . . It is true that he had bad eyesight, but he could still envisage the horrors of war, the sufferings of humanity and the way to free the world of them.

"Woodrow Wilson did not quarrel with every friend he had, as the Professor alleges. He quarrelled with no man. He differed at times with others but he was too big to quarrel. . . .

"He did not 'lose his friends.' He has more friends and fewer enemies throughout the world today than he ever had, and they will multiply with the generations.

"Nor did the loss of friends 'work his ruin.' When and where was he ruined, as the Professor declares? Has Geneva fallen? . . ."

*Simon & Schuster, $3.