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“It Is Natural That Men Should Value the Original Documents”
Washington, D.C., February 1941
Earlier that year, Librarian of Congress Archibald MacLeish, who had not slept well for nearly eighteen months, sifted through voluminous reports from his key staff members. The reports, which detailed the library’s most precious collections, were the source of his insomnia.
Two years earlier he’d resigned his position at a Boston law firm to write poetry full-time, basking in the boldness of his decision and contemplating the full potential of his art. President Roosevelt had changed all that when he had convinced MacLeish to take on his current position.
Now, sitting alone in his office, MacLeish felt the crushing weight of a burden he had not asked for, but for which he would assume full responsibility.
The past six months had been almost surreal at the normally staid Library of Congress. The repeated and devastating Nazi bombings of London and its institutions during the blitz this past fall, including the bombing of Buckingham Palace and Downing Street in September 1940, and the German attacks on libraries and museums taking place throughout Europe, had raised alarms in Washington. It shocked MacLeish to read newspaper accounts describing the forced retreat of King George and Queen Elizabeth to an underground shelter as London rocked “in an inferno of exploding bombs and fierce anti-aircraft fire.”
During that period, he’d experienced deep distress about the destructive power of incendiary bombs on his library’s priceless collections. He also worried each day about the potential damage to irreplaceable documents—from water, humidity, mold, vermin, accidents, and incompetence—if he were forced to relocate them for safekeeping. The original Declaration of Independence was already in fragile condition; would removing it from the Library of Congress expose it to further deterioration?
The United States had not entered this war, and there was fierce resistance across the country to do so. Still, to MacLeish’s way of thinking, the possibility of Axis bombing attacks or sabotage on Washington, and the potential destruction of the nation’s most important records, no longer seemed as remote as it had one year earlier.
There were sober lessons to be learned from overseas.
* * *
IN 1938, A FULL year before Hitler’s invasion of Poland, the British Museum had selected a disused mine in a remote corner of the United Kingdom to store its treasures, as well as valuables from other institutions, including the National Gallery and the Victoria and Albert Museum. Manuscripts, books, historic records, and perishable relics of Britain’s past were collected in this underground repository. Shelves were hollowed out of solid rock, and steel racks were constructed for manuscript boxes and other containers. Atmospheric conditions—heat, air-conditioning, humidity—were so well controlled by a self-sufficient system that ordinary folding cardboard boxes sufficed to hold England’s documents.
Still, it wasn’t enough. In more than a dozen cases, British libraries that hadn’t been prioritized had been hit by German incendiary bombs designed to set buildings ablaze with their intense heat rather than their explosive power; the white-hot flames they created were devastating to paper documents and books. Just two months ago, on Christmas Eve in 1940, the extensive library of the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society, England’s oldest scientific society, had been destroyed by enemy attack. The collections of several eminent scientists were lost forever, including those of renowned meteorologist John Dalton. Three months earlier, an incendiary bomb fell on the east wing of the British Museum, damaging the King’s Library Gallery and destroying many of the books collected by King George III. Some 1,500 rare volumes were severely damaged. Before war’s end, England alone would see more than 1 million volumes destroyed in bombed-out libraries.
Other European countries took precautions, too. In the spring of 1939, intense saber-rattling from Germany convinced France to transfer many records of the French Foreign Office from Paris to a safer location. Thousands of masterpieces were moved from the Louvre to the French countryside, including Leonardo da Vinci’s priceless Mona Lisa, swathed in layers of waterproof paper. In Budapest, areas within the Hungarian National Archives building were set aside for the preservation of valuable medieval documents and were protected by sandbags banked in the passages and against the windows. Yet even with these precautions, once fighting broke out, thousands of documents were lost or destroyed across Europe.
Fearful of war reaching North America’s shores, MacLeish and others began questioning the best course of action to protect their collections. Harry McBride, administrator of the National Gallery of Art, wrote to librarians and museum executives urging that “common plans for protection” be undertaken by the National Archives, the National Museum, the Library of Congress, his own institution, and other federal repositories. He suggested that a “large subterranean shelter” be constructed, “to which the most precious part of the collections, at least, of these institutions might be conveyed in case of danger.”
David C. Mearns, superintendent of the Library of Congress reading room, agreed that it would be “highly desirable” to have an underground bomb shelter but pointed out the time and expense of building something new. “Would it not be judicious for the Library to consider readapting (structurally) some of its present subterranean spaces for the purpose of safe-guarding its own rarities?” Mearns noted that currently the library’s underground spaces would not be structurally strong enough to withstand direct bombing.
MacLeish had commissioned a report in November 1940 on the practicalities of the Library of Congress following the British relocation model. In reply, Lawrence Martin, the chief of the Division of Maps, addressed the possibility of storing documents in caves, mines, and the mile-long Southern Railway tunnel that began beneath Union Station, traversed under First Street right in front of the Library of Congress, and emerged at New Jersey Avenue between D and E streets SE.
Martin dismissed the possibility of using caves, since they were “generally damp, frequently wet, and often dripping.” He had gone so far as to visit potential caves in New York, Wisconsin, and even central Mexico and found none suitable for storage. In addition, he pointed out that caves often have multiple entrances, “and we never dare say we know all the ways to get in from the back.” Mines would be better than caves, but also presented problems with dampness, dust, rodents, insects, and access. Martin suggested that finding and modifying a natural habitat might be both financially and politically palatable. “On the side of a Kentucky gorge, for example, we could build a bomb-proof chamber,” he wrote to MacLeish. To hide it from view, from the ground or the air, workers could “reinforce its concrete roof with much dirt, camouflage its new side, its ends, and its top, and have a safe place” to store documents. Such an arrangement had an added benefit: it “would not open us up to the possible ridicule that might arise over placing books in caves.”
While mines and gorges were possibilities, there were two superior alternatives, Martin suggested. One was the Southern Railway tunnel, which could provide temporary shelter for the treasures of the Library of Congress and the National Archives. “They could be housed in water-proofed box cars,” Martin wrote. “All passenger trains could be routed around the city on the freight line.”
In his opinion, however, the safest and best location for the Library of Congress’s most precious artifacts and documents was an impenetrable fortress far from Washington, D.C.
* * *
IN DECEMBER 1940, AFTER reading Martin’s report, MacLeish spun into action.
He directed the chiefs of major Library of Congress divisions to prepare, “at the very earliest possible moment,” detailed lists of documents and materials “which would be utterly irreplaceable” if they were destroyed, along with an estimate of how many cubic feet would be required to house them if the United States entered the war. They should select material “on the basis of irreplaceability and uniqueness” and give primary attention to those considered “most important for the history of democracy.” They should divide the records into six groupings based on their intrinsic historical value, with the first including the Declaration of Independence, the United States Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, Lincoln’s second inaugural, and the papers of Washington, Madison, Hamilton, and other founders.
“The fate of great libraries abroad, several of which have been completely and others partially destroyed in air raids, emphasize the importance of careful planning to meet any contingency which might arise,” MacLeish stressed to his staff.
As he read those assessments now, MacLeish reflected on the breathtaking aggregate collection under his purview and for which he was responsible. In addition to the nation’s preeminent founding documents, the Library of Congress also possessed a priceless Gutenberg Bible, and one of the original copies of the Magna Carta, the thirteenth-century document that first established the principal that kings must rule according to law and not mere monarchical mandate, and that citizens were guaranteed certain rights, including a fair trial.
In addition, the library held thousands of other critical documents: from the Division of Maps, there was Pierre Charles L’Enfant’s original hand-drawn plan for the layout of Washington, D.C., complete with fading editorial annotations from Thomas Jefferson; from Rare Books, a richly illustrated 1340 edition of the Latin Bible, printed on vellum; and of course, from the Manuscript Division, a treasure trove of American history. Among these were the Journals of the Continental Congress from 1774 to 1776; George Washington’s diaries, including the entries recording the British surrender at Yorktown; the works Dolley Madison had rescued from destruction when the British burned Washington in 1814, documents she later labored to publish—James Madison’s Notes on Debates (two volumes) and Records and Essential Papers (two booklike boxes and one large portfolio volume) of the Constitutional Convention of 1787; and Abraham Lincoln’s papers.
The Library of Congress also held Samuel Morse’s first-ever telegraphic message from 1844—“What Hath God Wrought?”—that marked history’s transformation in communications. And from the Mary Todd Lincoln collection was the April 29, 1865, letter of condolence from Queen Victoria after learning of the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln. Victoria, still grieving and “utterly broken-hearted” following the death four years earlier of her beloved husband, Prince Albert, told Lincoln’s widow that she could not “remain silent when so terrible a calamity has fallen upon you & your country.”
And on it went as MacLeish studied the reports filtering in from all sections: there were the original books donated by Thomas Jefferson to create the Library of Congress, original Stradivarius violins, aviation pioneer Octave Chanute’s correspondence with Wilbur Wright, Mary Todd Lincoln’s pearls, and thousands of other irreplaceable items.
MacLeish’s staff had heeded his directive to be as thorough as possible.
While MacLeish had initially focused on Library of Congress records, President Roosevelt asked him to survey other agencies as well. He had heard back from several: the United States Patent Office, the Smithsonian Institution, the National Gallery of Art, and others, seeking more than 600,000 cubic feet of storage space for their documents and artifacts. Roosevelt then asked his National Resources Planning Board to assemble a Committee on Conservation of Cultural Resources to study the problem in a coordinated way. One day MacLeish would serve as a key member of the CCCR, which was made up of representatives of museums, archives, and historic sites, but for now he focused on the Library of Congress collection alone.
In early 1941, Archibald MacLeish was not sure the Library of Congress documents would ever have to be relocated for safekeeping, but he actually hoped they would. He believed America’s entry into the war was the only way to halt rampaging totalitarianism in Europe.
* * *
WHILE FERVENT ISOLATIONISM WAS the majority feeling across the country in the late 1930s and into 1940, MacLeish had earned the scorn of his liberal friends and fellow intellectuals by vigorously advocating for U.S. military intervention against the scourge of fascism in Europe.
The country’s indelible memory of the ghastly Great War a quarter century earlier, combined with the recent rawness of its decade-long Depression fatigue, had created in Americans an aversion to any cause beyond their own borders. Insularity became the nation’s balm. Although Hitler’s vow to conquer Europe had materialized with brutal swiftness, the overwhelming sentiment in the United States was to reinvigorate an ailing nation before getting involved elsewhere.
Even now, in the wake of Hitler’s brutal invasions of Poland and the Low Countries, his shockingly swift conquest of France, and his relentless bombardment of England, there were protests coast to coast from political opponents and wary citizens alike over President Roosevelt’s proposed Lend-Lease bill to supply the British with supplies and weapons in exchange for later payment. The House had numbered the bill HR 1776 to appeal to the nation’s patriotism, but angry mothers across the country, sensing that it was only the first step in an interventionist strategy, rallied holding signs that said, KILL BILL 1776, NOT OUR SONS. Roosevelt expended enormous political capital on the lend-lease bill, which ultimately passed in March 1941, but even the president’s staunchest supporters in Congress warned that they would venture no closer to the interventionist line. The United States was simply not interested in becoming involved in Europe’s affairs.
MacLeish, in a series of speeches and columns, had tried to convince people that the European cause was also the American cause, especially after the fall of France in June 1940. Before the Battle of France, “we had thought ourselves spectators of a war in Europe,” he told a crowd during a speech at Faneuil Hall in Boston in November 1940. “After it, we knew the war was not in Europe but nearer—in the darker and more vulnerable countries of men’s hearts.” He told the crowd: “Democracy in action is a cause for which the stones themselves will fight.”
Time and again, in speeches and letters, MacLeish invoked the spirit of American liberty as envisioned by the founders, a spirit that required sacrifice and resoluteness to ensure the country’s enduring success and ongoing freedom. No American could look at the dire situation in Europe, MacLeish said, “without asking himself with a new intensity, a new determination to be answered, how our own democracy can be preserved.” MacLeish also began speaking and writing on the role of librarians in the face of the fascist threat. Describing the librarian’s profession in 1940, he wrote: “In such a time as ours, when wars are made against the spirit and its works, the keeping of these records is itself a kind of warfare. The keepers, whether they so wish or not, cannot be neutral.”
If armed conflict against Hitler meant war would come to the nation’s shores—to Washington—MacLeish would be ready to do his part, just as so many Americans had done before him. With each day that passed, with each new assault of Nazi bombs on London, MacLeish thought it likely that he would find himself tasked with protecting America’s critical documents, perhaps on a grander scale than his forebears could imagine.
* * *
ARCHIBALD MACLEISH RESPECTED, AND in many ways, loved the documents that fell under his stewardship. He knew their history, he knew of the risks taken and the bravery demonstrated by the men and women who had created and safeguarded them, and he knew the revered place they held in the hearts and spirits of Americans.
He had expressed his first public insights about the importance of cherished American documents when the Library of Congress took custody of the British Magna Carta during a moving ceremony on November 28, 1939, fewer than three months after Germany had invaded Poland to begin World War II. The so-called Lincoln Cathedral copy, from 1215, had been on display at the New York World’s Fair, and, with war under way in Europe, the British ambassador had asked the United States to hold onto the document for safekeeping.
A thrill had jolted MacLeish when he had taken custody of the Magna Carta, when he held its worn parchment and contemplated its centuries-old text. There was no mistaking the power and the gravitas of the original manuscript. “It is natural that men should value the original documents which guarantee their rights,” he said to mark the day. “The great constitutions and charters are not mere records of something already accomplished. They are themselves its accomplishment.”
MacLeish immediately displayed the Magna Carta opposite the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. He believed firmly that Thomas Jefferson, essentially the founder of the Library of Congress and the “true author of the noblest of our charters,” would have relished the ironic placement of “the Great Charter of the English across the gallery from the two great charters of American Freedom.” To Jefferson, the colocation of the British and American documents would have seemed “just and fitting—an affirmation of the faith in which this nation was conceived.” As MacLeish watched the public attendees gather around the Magna Carta, a document that most scholars believed formed the philosophical underpinnings for Western democracy, he realized that a day like this made him grateful he had agreed to become the Librarian of Congress.
He needed the reminder: in recent months the good days had been rare. Librarians across the country had howled in protest when President Roosevelt nominated him, claiming correctly that MacLeish was not a “professional librarian” and, perhaps not so correctly, that his lack of certification would lead to his abject failure. The fact that he “knows books, loves books, and makes books,” as one of his supporters pointed out, did little to temper the criticism. The president of the American Library Association huffed to the press that, using those standards, naming MacLeish as Librarian of Congress was about the same as “appointing a man Secretary of Agriculture because he likes cut flowers on his dinner table.”
In addition, many of MacLeish’s fellow intellectual progressives and literati had accused him of joining the Roosevelt administration as a propagandist to support aggression overseas.
Such protests were ironic considering that MacLeish had wanted no part of the job at first.
* * *
MOST PEOPLE DID NOT turn down the president of the United States even once, but MacLeish had twice said no to Franklin Roosevelt before succumbing to the chief executive’s well-known powers of flattery and persuasion.
For his part, Roosevelt was searching for a replacement for seventy-eight-year-old Herbert Putnam, who had told the president a year earlier that he intended to retire. Putnam had been Librarian of Congress since 1899 and the president was looking for a more capable, vigorous, and politically aligned leader for the post. Putnam still ran the library as though it were 1899; he refused to delegate and demanded a say in virtually all decisions, a style that proved totally impractical thanks to the growth of the Library of Congress during his four-decade tenure and the diversity of its collections and its responsibilities. In that period, the library had grown from approximately 1 million volumes to just over 6 million and had acquired from the State Department the papers of the founding fathers. It had also acquired thousands of foreign volumes, pamphlets, and papers—from Russia, China, and Japan—as well as additional ancient collections. In addition, Putnam himself had established the Library of Congress classification system for books (still in existence today), an interlibrary loan system, and deeper relationships with other libraries across the country. The complexity of the current Library of Congress demanded a leader with vision, someone who could view the big picture and not become embroiled in arcane details.
Moreover, President Roosevelt believed such a leader could best handle the new administrative and political demands that could be placed on the library, from diplomats and military strategists alike, if war broke out in Europe; when he was considering Putnam’s replacement in the spring of 1939, the situation across the Atlantic was perilous.
“He is not a professional librarian nor is he a special student of incunabula or ancient manuscripts,” Roosevelt acknowledged. “Nevertheless, he has lots of qualifications that said specialists have not.” FDR had read MacLeish’s columns and articles supporting many aspects of the New Deal, and his overall grasp of FDR’s programs and policies solidified his visionary credentials in the president’s eyes. More pertinent to the times, MacLeish was an outspoken and vehement critic of the rising fascist tide in Germany.
Felix Frankfurter, recently appointed as associate justice to the Supreme Court, knew MacLeish from past professional associations. Frankfurter heartily endorsed MacLeish, pointing out that he had vision, imagination, and energy. He would bring a touch of modernity to the library, since he was also acquainted with the new media of radio and motion pictures. He had a diverse background—a leader at law school, an able lawyer, a onetime editor (of Fortune magazine), a poet—that would serve the Library of Congress well. “He would bring to the Librarianship intellectual distinction, cultural recognition the world over, a persuasive personality, and a delicacy of touch in dealing with others,” Frankfurter told the president. Moreover, he would bring “creative energy in making the Library of Congress the great center of the cultural resources of the Nation in the technological setting of our time.”
Frankfurter’s endorsement confirmed Roosevelt’s assessment and he made his initial overture to MacLeish over lunch on May 23, 1939. Honored by the offer, MacLeish nonetheless had no intention of taking the job. He initially feared that the demands of the office would leave him little or no time to write his own poetry. In his letter declining the position, he told FDR that he had wrestled mightily with the decision and “for four days … nothing else has been in my mind, waking or sleeping.”
The fact was, the job frightened him, he told Roosevelt, because it was “pretty much a permanent job. A man would hardly be much good at it for three or four years and it would be unfair of him to leave until he had passed his apprenticeship and served for many years thereafter.” Where did that leave MacLeish? “I should therefore feel, in taking [the job], that I have given up my own work pretty much for the rest of my life.”
Roosevelt persisted—he relished the thrill of the chase—and invited MacLeish to a second lunch. He ultimately wore down MacLeish’s resistance and finally convinced MacLeish to change his mind by focusing on the “great importance” of the work at the library: not only would the institution serve the nation if war broke out in Europe; it could also be a great and influential institution for the United States at large. FDR suggested the Library of Congress could sponsor bookmobiles to traverse large swaths of the illiterate South, and stressed the essential democracy of a national library, a place where any American could go to read a book or conduct research regardless of his or her financial wherewithal or social status. In later years, MacLeish would say, “Mr. Roosevelt decided that I wanted to be Librarian of Congress.” Indeed, FDR’s power of persuasion, along with assurances from several of MacLeish’s friends that he could find the time for his own writing projects, convinced the poet to accept the position. With Roosevelt’s unequivocal support, the Senate overwhelmingly confirmed MacLeish’s nomination, and in October 1939, the new librarian of Congress began work.
MacLeish felt that the role of all libraries, including the Library of Congress, was to educate Americans on the benefits of liberty and the evils of tyranny. The preservation of the United States depended on it, and “time is running out,” he said in late October 1939, “not like the sand in a glass, but like the blood in an opened artery. There is still time left to us. But we can foresee and foresee clearly the moment when there will be none.”
Even that early, MacLeish sent a note to the White House to ask whether President Roosevelt should be informed of the need for “the preparation of a safe depository for the most valuable books of the Library of Congress on the remotest chance that such a depository may be necessary. The question keeps me awake nights,” he told the president, “and I hope you will forgive me for passing a bit of my insomnia on to you.”
* * *
IN THE WINTER OF 1941, Lawrence Martin’s recommendation—that the documents be housed in a fortress far from Washington—both intrigued MacLeish and added to his current insomnia. MacLeish thought Martin’s suggestion was shrewd, though the repository was not large enough to hold the thousands of critical documents in the Library of Congress. Only an exclusive selection of the nation’s records should be transported to the near-impenetrable location—the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Gettysburg Address among them.
These were the documents whose creation founded—and ultimately preserved—the American nation. These were the documents that Americans had risked everything for, had fought and died for, and which had spawned and today formed the underpinnings of a great constitutional republic. These documents embodied the freedoms MacLeish and most Americans held dear, freedoms that had been threatened in the past, and in 1941, were in danger once again.
As others before him, MacLeish was ready to act to safeguard them and the liberties they represented.
Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Puleo
