The following article, which appeared in the Rotarian in April of 1934, offers a fascinating and insightful look at Rotary politics as they were practiced in the first 30 years of Rotary. Russell F. Greiner, who was President of Rotary International in 1913-1914, tells how he operated, and how sometimes, things didn’t always go as planned. As we all know, there are no politics in Rotary today. However, there were, back in the early days.

There is a reference to Ernie Skeel. Skeel was one of the three founders of Seattle #4. This article is part of a series that ran in the Rotarian in the mid 1930s, and was called a Past President's Page. Those submitting Past President's Pages included Paul Harris, Glenn Mead, Russell Greiner,  Frank Mulholland, Allen Albert and Arch Klumph.

Doug Rudman

Confessions of a Rotary Politician

Russell F. Greiner

President, Rotary International 1913-1914

ECHOES–one day last week the clamor of battles of long ago echoed across my desk in the form of a letter from an old Rotary friend.

“What has happened to politics in Rotary?" he wanted to know. "And what has happened to you, Russ? We hear of duties and services, deeds, accomplishments, agendas and conspectus, plenary sessions and enactments; but where is the old time wire pulling? Where is the skillful manipulation; the pointings with alarm and visionings with pride; the penny-dreadful personalities that used to lead up to the final knock-downs and drag-outs at the annual elections?

“For a time, Russ, I used to go to conventions serenely certain that I would see you in action. But, apparently, you have faded out and are now just a stodgy businessman talking platitudes about ethics world fellowship—." The letter is signed "Sam."

Ho-hum. What a frank relationship is friendship. And it so happens that this letter was from one of the cleverest politicians Rotary ever developed—the only man who was ever elected a director without being at the convention.

Let me say this to my old friend, "Sam, old quidnunc, you should know that you are talking like the elderly persons who say the winters are warmer than they used to be. Some winters are warm and others are cold, in Rotary and elsewhere.

“You and I are partners in crime in opposing the ancient hokum of 'let the office seek the man.' We know the office never seeks the man unless a lot of people get together to elect him; and, after all, that is all there is to politics. Let's be honest about it. Yes, Sam, we are both growing old but who is ever too old for a good back-stage fight at a Rotary convention? We may yet see more hard winters."

In the meantime, I am taking advantage of the excuse to turn loose a few of the echoes from the explosions behind the stage of conventions—a very few and, because of lack of space, much too briefly. In twenty-three years in Rotary, I have missed only four conventions and have actively participated in thirteen contested campaigns—enough intrigue to fill a thick book.

Let’s start with my vivid impressions of that Buffalo convention of 1913, the year I was elected President. The delegates crowded into a hall at East Aurora, guests of Elbert Hubbard, gazing at the picturesque figure of a man speaking from the raised platform. In the full glory of stage lighting effects and background stood Elbert Hubbard. With the light glistening on his great mane of hair, he looked like a bronze statue. And from his lips came the name of "Russ" Greiner.

No, it was no surprise to me. I knew my friends, who were also friends of Hubbard's, had arranged to have him eulogize me. But I didn't realize a man who had never seen me could speak with such eloquence of my virtues. Yes, it was effective and it was politics.

My friends left nothing to chance. Lest the delegates forget my name, they had me paged day and night in every hotel housing delegates. No man was ever entirely out of earshot of the bellboys' fog-horn voices, "Paging Mr. Greiner."

And then the climax. The news of the convention that year was the British delegation, the first to attend an International Rotary convention. Outstanding among the British was that dominating personality, Charley Dewey, president of a London Insurance Company. We called him "Admiral" Dewey. Who should rise in the convention to nominate me but Dewey. He was greeted with cheers before he said a word. And then he launched out on a marvelous speech. Naturally, we had cultivated his friendship from the first day we arrived in Buffalo.

SAN FRANCISCO–1915. I mention that convention because it was there I learned two things. The first was the fact that the old political saying about letting the office seek the man can be used to good political purpose. And the other was the danger of impromptu speeches. 

We arrived in San Francisco all on fire to put over our candidate, Arch Klumph, of Cleveland. We had traded favors and made friends for Klumph for weeks preceding the convention. But the minute I walked into his hotel room, I realized the jig was up. The boys on the other side had convinced him it wasn't ethical to seek the office and he refused to run. It took us a year to revise his code of ethics.

Ernest Skeel, of Seattle, an outstanding man who had written Rotary's platform of principles, finally permitted us to enter his name. At a great banquet in the Palace Hotel with two thousand people at the tables, Skeel's name was nominated in a speech that was a classic.

Then up came Skeel, looking around modestly and prepared to speak extemporaneously. With his modesty, he gave out the impression he was refusing the nomination and we had to withdraw his name. We went through with Allen Albert, who was elected.

WE were always learning something new. The Salt Lake City convention in 1919 was full of dynamite, although most of the delegates went serenely to the vote thinking Bert Adams, of Atlanta, had been uncontested from the start.

We learned better the day of the opening session, when the best place on the program was given to John Dyer, of Indiana, an impressive looking fellow with a flow of oratory His address was a hit and as we left the session, we found at every door men passing out printed copies of Dyer's speech. He was a formidable candidate. There was a hurried conference with Dyer's backers. "You can't win," we told them. "Take the vice-presidency."

And they did accept the vice presidency without ever knowing how scared we were. In that case, I didn't consider bluffing dishonest.

That was the fore-runner of the great fight at Atlantic City in 1920, the year our candidate, Frank Harris, was ill in bed at his hotel. Harris was from Illinois, an eminently qualified man who had been offered a cabinet position by President Theodore Roosevelt. Because of his illness, I advised him to withdraw.

The incident is one of the regrets of my life. Frank refused to withdraw. Until he died a few months later, he thought I had "double-crossed" him. Many times I have left conventions with my friends denouncing me, but in other cases they have lived to understand the situation.

For several years before the Los Angeles convention in 1922, the Kansas City club had been grooming my old friend, Ray Havens. We had seen him elected sergeant-at-arms and vice president, by men whose support would elect him president.

In the Union Station at Kansas City that year, we met a special train of delegates on their way to the convention. Our wide-open grins were all set for their cheers; but, we were met by grim silence.

"We can't promise our support now," said a friend and a leader from the south. "See us in Los Angeles."

It was a problem of sitting tight. We knew they were in with us too deep to crawl out, and at the end they gave their vote to Ray.

I well remember that convention for its proof that you can never count a vote until it's voted. A close friend of mine said we were certain of the vote of the whole British delegation. "Just forget them, Russ," he said. "It's in the bag."

But the Britishers found a countryman in Coppock, of lowa. Naturally, as long as they were not actually pledged to us, the British vote went to Coppock.

FOR plain nerve-wrecking elections, I nominate the Chicago convention of 1930. It started gloriously with our candidate, Almon E. Roth, of Palo Alto, Calif., a strong favorite. Highly educated, young, good-looking, and popular, he was born to be a candidate. But just as we had things under way in Chicago, he was called home due to an accident to his son.

There we were, chasing through Chicago hotels in search of delegates while our candidate was two thousand miles away, and no certainty that he would return in time for the vote. It was enough to give a politician nervous indigestion.

And then came that wonderful telegram, "On my way back to Chicago,” signed "Al." In the largest ballot ever cast at a Rotary convention, 3335, Roth was an easy victor.

And so it has gone from year to year, with plenty of trouble and plenty of gratifications. I am happy in the thought that I have never been on a loser. If I have come out of my experiences with a maxim, it is this, "No man ever went anywhere in Rotary politics unless he was honest, both with his own crowd and his opponents." Whenever I have been against a man he has known it from the start.