Illegal Tender: Gold, Greed, and the Mystery of the Lost 1933 Double Eagle

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I: LIFE AND DEATH

CHAPTER 1

The Artist, the President, and the S.O.A.B.

CHAPTER 2

Swift and Staccato Action: The Great Depression

CHAPTER 3

Gold Rush in Reverse

CHAPTER 4

Just a Factory: Making Money

CHAPTER 5

The Great Melt and the Great Escape

PART II: ON THE LAM

CHAPTER 6

A Double Eagle Flies to Cairo

CHAPTER 7

A Routine Inquiry

CHAPTER 8

Assistance, Resistance, and Stalemate

CHAPTER 9

The Crooked Cashier

CHAPTER 10

Working the List

CHAPTER 11

Wondering about Woodin

CHAPTER 12

The Red-Headed Philadelphia Sucker and the Deacon

CHAPTER 13

Grounds for Recovery

CHAPTER 14

A Clumsy Liar

CHAPTER 15

Seizures, Suits, and Surrender

CHAPTER 16

A Modern Day Aladdin’s Cave: The Coin Escapes Again

PART III: LEGITIMACY

CHAPTER 17

A Double Eagle Reappears

CHAPTER 18

The Homecoming Deal

CHAPTER 19

Put ’Em Up

CHAPTER 20

In Rem

CHAPTER 21

Auction and Absolute Anonymity

EPILOGUE

The 1933 Yeti

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ABBREVIATIONS

NOTES

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INDEX

For Susan with love

The 1933 double eagle. One of 445,500. The $7,590,020 coin.

The most valuable coin in the world, and one of the most valuable American works of art ever sold at auction. (Courtesy of Sotheby’s Inc. ©2003)

Prologue

Wednesday, March 22, 1944. 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

DR. F. LELAND HOWARD HAD BEEN STUMPED; now he was unhappy.

A narrow-eyed career bureaucrat with a reputation for playing it strictly by the book, Howard was Assistant Director of the United States Bureau of the Mint. The gray early-spring day was warming with the threat of rain as Howard sat in his spartan office on the second floor of the Treasury Building across the street from the White House. He carefully read a long memo from the Philadelphia Mint. In it was the answer to a question he had posed four days earlier, and it was not the answer he wanted.

On that Saturday, Howard had been at work, filling in, according to government protocol, for Nellie Tayloe Ross, the director, who was away. The standard work week was still five and a half or six days. As Acting Director, the most senior Mint employee present, he was checking into a seemingly minor inquiry from a New York journalist, who had asked how many twenty-dollar gold pieces, made in 1933, had been issued. The writer was curious, because an example was appearing at auction in the coming week. The description in the catalogue stated that only eight or ten existed. Could the Mint help verify the accuracy of this claim?

Similar requests for information were received from time to time, and for the most part they were easily answered by consulting the Mint’s Annual Report. Checking the 1933 report, Howard learned that almost half a million twenty-dollar gold pieces had been struck. But in 1933, the same year—and month—that the coins had first been made, the government had begun the recall of privately owned gold—primarily coins and gold-backed currency. That historic event muddied the waters seriously.

Unsure of the answer, Howard had dictated a telegram to the superintendent of the United States Mint at Philadelphia: Does your record show that double eagles minted in 1933 were ever paid out. Your institution only one to manufacture double eagles 1933. Reported sale of same in New York scheduled for next week. Please get information by Tuesday if possible.

The first response had come by telephone directly to Mrs. Ross on Tuesday evening, followed up the next day by the extremely detailed memo Howard was now reading. The answer was unequivocal. According to the Mint’s own records, no 1933 twenty-dollar gold pieces—double eagles—had ever been released to the public. If there was one in New York offered for sale, it was either a fake or it belonged to the United States Government.

Either way, it was a case for the United States Secret Service.

Thursday, February 8, 1996. Park Avenue, New York City.

A soaring forty-two-story, Art Deco palace on Park Avenue, the Waldorf-Astoria is renowned for having hosted kings, presidents, movie stars, men of wealth, and men of passion. If the Waldorf-Astoria was good enough for heads of state, it was good enough for the United States Secret Service. A suite on the twenty-second floor was wired and ready for a sting, which had been set up by a retired truck driver turned small-time coin dealer—Confidential Informant 324-15.

The informant had called in the Feds for not entirely altruistic reasons. He was planning to bank some reward money at the very least. CI 324-15 had baited the trap by offering one and a half million dollars to his mark, Jay Parrino, an American coin dealer, for a twenty-dollar gold piece, a 1933 double eagle—an elusive, mythic treasure that was illegal to own and so coveted all the more. Parrino himself didn’t own the coin but was acting as middleman. The owner of the coin was an English coin dealer, Stephen Fenton. Fenton came with the golden object of the sting in his pocket accompanied by his cousin. It was not yet 9 A.M., clear and not too cold for February.

Everyone involved was anxious, some more than others. The suite was wired, and a tape recorder was running in the room next door.

At first just the three coin dealers and an innocent were assembled in the suite: the informant who had set up the sting; his mark, Jay Parrino, who had negotiated the deal; the owner of the coin, Stephen Fenton; and Fenton’s bystander cousin. They were joined minutes later by two undercover United States Secret Service agents. One posed as a coin expert, the other as the informant’s millionaire client—the buyer.

The scene was not quite high drama. It was awkward and poorly paced. The informant was verbose, asking leading questions and occasionally answering them himself. Parrino was agreeable, at first offering nothing but succinct replies. Soon, led on, he opened up with nervous bursts of telling information. Fenton exercising English reserve, was polite and said little—but what he said betrayed him too. The undercover men said next to nothing. Within minutes, the deal was agreed.

The next thing Jay Parrino and Stephen Fenton knew, they had been arrested and were making sworn statements to the authorities. It was barely noon.

Just over an ounce in weight and just under an inch and a half in diameter, this double eagle had been made a lifetime ago, sixty-three years before—legally. But the United States Government contended that it was stolen property—stolen from the United States itself—and it had laid claim. It was not the first 1933 double eagle the government had seized. Nor, if another ever surfaced, would it be the last.

Tuesday, July 30, 2002.

Sotheby’s, 1334 York Avenue, New York City.

The art auction season had been over for a month. The two behemoths, Sotheby’s and Christie’s, were still staggering from accusations of collusion, which had cost them a combined half-billion dollars in legal settlements and the purity of their brand names. 2002 had been a tough year.

The mid-afternoon sun was fierce, the air sultry and close. A few stray green-gray clouds failed to organize themselves into a thunderstorm to relieve the city of a week-long heat wave. Sotheby’s headquarters, a ten-story cracker box of steel covered in a planned misalignment of glass panels, stood largely empty except for the lobby and seventh floor, where a cumulus of the curious was assembling for the unprecedented exhibition and auction of a single coin—the 1933 double eagle, the coin seized from Stephen Fenton by the Secret Service. It had been decreed by the government the only legal one of its kind, an amazing rarity, a relic of the nation’s past glories, challenges, and victories. Now the sole legitimate survivor of the near half-million that had been struck, it could at long last be displayed and admired in the light of day, without fear of confiscation by the long arm of the Secret Service. Government agents now acted as guardians, not predators.

The visitors were for the most part new to Sotheby’s. They had made the pilgrimage for one reason only—to see history made. A growing host of reporters armed with stenopads, tape recorders, and video cameras diligently patrolled and interviewed the same few people.

Within the massing crowd was a handful of real bidders. Only twelve had registered and been approved by Sotheby’s. Each, for his own reasons, hoped to come away with the glittering prize. Each was alone with his thoughts, calculating his odds. Some would bid from the sale-room floor. Others would relay their bids by telephone, either from a private box at Sotheby’s or from the comfort of their home or office. Some had presale jitters, others were cool professionals, others still had never bid at auction before and were about to dive in at the deep end of the pool, willing—hoping—to spend millions of dollars.

The object of their desire was neatly settled within a recess made from a series of movable blue walls surmounted by two nineteenth-century American flags at either end. A single freestanding display case with sliding doors and double locks, flanked by nattily uniformed, well-armed officers of the United States Mint Police, was drenched in the luminosity of carefully aimed spotlights. Within the vitrine, perched on a carefully styled cascade of black velvet, was an oblong piece of plastic that encased a disk of gold—shimmering, glowing, waiting.

♦  ♦  ♦

The 1933 double eagle is the most highly coveted, famous—or infamous—coin in the world. Likened to the Mona Lisa and the Holy Grail, beautiful and unattainable, it has been on the United States Secret Service’s Most Wanted list for sixty years. Although it was legally made, it shouldn’t exist. Its very survival is due to an unlikely convergence of luck, timing, and greed.

In 1933, in the most mournful days of the Depression, twenty dollars could support a married couple living in expensive New York City for a week or employ a farmhand lucky enough to find work for a month. Nearly half a million 1933 double eagles had come ringing off the presses at almost exactly the moment that President Franklin Roosevelt, in an effort to lift a crippled economy back to its feet, banned private ownership of gold. Millions upon millions of gold coins that had been circulating for decades were recalled.

Four years later, according to the records of the United States Government, all the 1933 double eagles were consigned to the fires of the Mint’s crucibles and rendered into faceless gold bars destined for storage in the newly sanctified repository of Fort Knox. None was ever released to the public, according to these documents. But, as if by magic, within days of their supposed destruction, a few examples escaped and found their way into the hands of wealthy collectors. But how? From whom? In spite of common talk about the coins’ existence in the coin world, the government was none the wiser until fully seven years later.

And so began an odyssey, a crime story, a tale of political will and international intrigue, which weaves through nearly three-quarters of a century of America’s history. At times the coins have touched upon great events as well as small.

The auction that was held on that sweltering New York evening before a boisterous crowd of well over five hundred was just one chapter, and the most public, of an extraordinary saga that has been veiled in secrecy, mystery, and misunderstanding. Few who have dallied with this forbidden coin have come away richer for the experience. But rumors persist of other sister coins, cloistered in shadowy collections, and they testify that a mortal once bedazzled by its immutable rays finds it hard to turn away—whatever the consequences.

For the same enigmatic reasons that men have sought the coin, legally and illegally, for three quarters of a century I was compelled to devote more than two years of my life to investigating, unraveling, and narrating the epic of this golden disk’s astonishing and, at times, unlikely tale of survival against the odds. Only one person can legally own the 1933 double eagle, but its story belongs to us all.

Forbidden, it lures, captures with its history, and captivates with its beauty. Its creation was the union of a visionary’s dream with a dying artist’s last supernova brilliance.

It is in 1904, just after Christmas, that the story begins.

President Theodore Roosevelt c. 1903, two years before he sprung his pet baby—the redesign of U.S. coinage—on Augustus Saint-Gaudens. (Franklin Delano Roosevelt Presidential Library)

CHAPTER 1

The Artist, the President, and the S.O.A.B.

I THINK OUR COINAGE IS artistically of atrocious hideousness, President Theodore Roosevelt thundered with his usual gale-force candor in a short personal note to Secretary of the Treasury Leslie Mortier Shaw, on December 27, 1904. Would it be possible, without asking permission of Congress, to employ a man like Saint-Gaudens to give us a coinage that would have some beauty?

Although federally issued paper money had circulated side by side with coins since the Civil War, in the early twentieth century Americans still placed greater faith in coins. The metal in these homely disks, whether gold, silver, or copper, held a quantifiable store of value; the value of paper money was representative at best and to many people largely illusory. Gold and silver coinage was used by governments for international transactions and to settle debts. Coins were the face of nations, and the president had hatched a revolutionary idea.

Apparently Roosevelt had not yet shared his grand vision with the artist he wanted to create it. That could wait a couple of weeks until mid-January, when Washington would be the scene of the annual dinner of the American Institute of Architects. A greater, more glittering roster of guests could not be imagined. Augustus Saint-Gaudens was one of those who would be honored, and on the next night he would be at the White House for supper. There would be plenty of time for the president to birth what he called his pet baby. And although TR didn’t expect any resistance, nevertheless he wanted to find out from Shaw what the law would allow.

Wednesday, January 11, 1905. Washington, D.C.

The American Institute of Architects had provided a sumptuous meal: oysters (Cape May salts), clear green turtle soup, terrapin, Smithfield ham, red head duck, salad, and desserts washed down by Veuve Clicquot 1898 and Pommard 1889. The Dining Hall at the Arlington Hotel had been festooned with green swags, and the vast, horseshoe-shaped high table that encompassed an additional seventeen tables seated a white-tie-and-tailed constellation of artistic genius, financial wealth, and political power. The only ladies in the room were the president’s wife and her party, who sat apart in a box near the entrance.

J. Pierpont Morgan (with his rubicund nose) was seated next to the artist John LaFarge; illustrator Charles Dana Gibson was two seats removed from author Henry James; and Augustus Saint-Gaudens was seated next to John Hay, the secretary of state. The three partners in McKim, Mead and White, architects who almost single-handed had shaped the look of the Gilded Age, were seated at the same table as Frank Millet, Secretary of the American Academy in Rome and one of Roosevelt’s closest artistic advisors. At table after table, in seat after seat, the great and the talented sat next to the greater or the wealthier. Cigar and cigarette smoke mingled as the candlelight and electric light danced across a sea of crystal, silver, and porcelain.

In the late hours of the feast, the speeches by the president and Saint-Gaudens received the greatest applause. The artist’s was the shortest, the president’s the most important. He pledged the power of his office to ensure that the capital should be enlarged, extended and made beautiful in an orderly and systematic manner to counteract the erratic pattern of development that had begun to blight the city.

Even though the president didn’t mention it in his speech, he intended that the architectural grandeur of Washington, D.C., would be visibly emblematic of the nation—and impress all who visited. So, too, as TR envisioned it, the majestic artistry of a new coinage as designed by Augustus Saint-Gaudens would reflect the wealth, maturity, and sophistication of a nation and its people.

♦  ♦  ♦

Augustus Saint-Gaudens on the pergola of the Little Studio, Aspet, New Hampshire, August, 1906, one month after he agreed to redesign America’s gold coins and one year before his death. (Dartmouth College Library)

Saint-Gaudens—Gus to his friends, and the Saint to his small army of studio assistants in Cornish, New Hampshire—was the ideal choice to design a new, elegant coinage for the United States.

The fifty-seven-year-old sculptor was at the height of his fame, renowned internationally as the creator of masterpieces: the heroic, thoughtful Lincoln in Lincoln Park, Chicago, the steely-gazed, wind-blown Farragut in Madison Square Park, New York, and the brooding, haunting Adams Monument in the Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington, D.C. In New York City, across from the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue, his spectacular gilt equestrian group of General William Tecumseh Sherman being led by Victory was already being compared with awed reverence to Donatello’s Gattamelata and Verrocchio’s Colleoni. With small, quick, gray eyes set under a heavy brow and with a sharp, curling beard, which he frequently thrust out to accent derision, the Saint was accepted as America’s greatest sculptor. He was besieged with honors and turned down far more commissions than he accepted.

In 1905, Augustus Saint-Gaudens was also a man living under the shadow of death. Five years earlier, while working in Paris, the always overworked . . . but never really ill sculptor, recounted to his assistant, sculptor James Earle Fraser (who in 1913 would design the buffalo nickel), that he had been told by doctors that he was in a serious condition and had to return home immediately for an operation.

According to his assistants, Saint-Gaudens’ mood never seemed neutral. Now, however, although he had never previously thought about dying, he became obsessed by thoughts of his mortality. Sleep eluded him, and he sank helplessly into a miasma of depression. Eventually, he told Fraser, he had dashed out of [the studio] resolved to end things by jumping into the Seine.

Intent on suicide, the artist had run desperately through the streets of Paris, conscious of seeing only one thing: high on every building was the word Death. But when he reached the bridge he had an epiphany. Maybe it was the light on the river. Or the Louvre which had never looked so splendid. Saint-Gaudens there resolved to live: Everything about me was unbelievably beautiful. The load of desperation dropped and I was happy. I heard myself whistling.

Gus returned to America, where doctors at Massachusetts General Hospital operated on him. He was told the surgery had been successful, but his wife, Augusta, was told privately that he was suffering from cancer of the rectum and that another operation would probably be needed in five years. She never let on to Gus how sick he was, as she knew his fragile temperament all too well.

♦  ♦  ♦

The day after the A.I.A. dinner, Gus was tired. The banquet hadn’t ended until 1:30 A.M., at which time he, Henry James, John LaFarge, and his valet had all piled into a cab built for two and rattled home to bed in Henry Adams’s house at 1603 H Street. It had been only a week since he had been in Boston where, during a blizzard, he had undergone more decidedly unpleasant medical attention. Pain came and went as he had submitted to regular X-ray therapy, but he was stoic and now claimed that he was feeling better than ever.

His calendar was busy that wintry day: lunch with Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, a meeting with Secretary of War Taft, and a diplomatic reception at the White House followed by supper at 10:30 P.M. with the president, the first lady, and a good portion of both the official Cabinet and unofficial kitchen cabinet.

There were twelve small tables at supper, each seating only six. Saint-Gaudens was at the first table with the president. Next to it, at table four, was Secretary of the Treasury Leslie Shaw. And next to it, at table twelve, was Oscar Straus, a close friend and adviser of Roosevelt, and a favorite of TR’s youngest son, Quentin, with whom he shared a fondness for ancient Greek coins.

Sometime during supper, Teddy, over chicken sandwiches and champagne, excitedly unveiled his scheme: a sweeping plan to have Gus create new designs for the images borne on all nine denominations of United States coins then produced, from the lowly copper cent to the lofty twenty-dollar gold piece—the double eagle. He also inveigled Saint-Gaudens to design an Inaugural Medal commemorating his coming second term in office. Because his first term had begun with the shattering assassination of McKinley, there had been no inaugural celebrations.

Gus was hesitant. To conceive designs for an entirely new coinage—from inspiration to pencil and plaster sketches to sculpting large plaster models that would be mechanically reduced to the size of the coin itself—would be a long, arduous task. Knowing the Mint and how it worked, he feared the project would be fraught with bureaucratic obstruction. He had the utmost contempt for the Mint’s chief engraver, Charles Barber, as both an artist and a man. They had crossed swords more than a dozen years earlier.

Barber, the son and grandson of coin engravers, had risen to his post as chief engraver at the Mint after his father, William, his predecessor, had taken chill at the seashore in 1879 and died. A proficient engraver but an artist of faint talent, Barber made designs that were derivative and trite. Charles Barber—with a long, drooping white mustache, angry eyes under thin brows, and a hostile mouth—was pedantic and thin-skinned.

In 1889, Saint-Gaudens had enjoyed virtually universal critical acclaim for his design of a medal to commemorate the centennial of George Washington’s inauguration. For it, Gus had borrowed unashamedly from the works of the fifteenth-century Italian medalist Pisanello. The reviewers noted how sharply the medal contrasted with the banal character of United States coinage and hoped that Saint-Gaudens’ mastery of the medium would open the eyes of legislators and have a positive influence on the future look of American coins.

It did. In 1891, Saint-Gaudens, along with nine other distinguished American artists, was invited by the government to submit designs for a new coinage. But, typically, the Mint had imposed conditions, insufficient time to prepare the entries, no assurance of competent judges, and meager compensation. It was little wonder that all ten refused to participate. The Treasury Department then asked that Saint-Gaudens, who had begun his professional career as a cameo carver, together with Charles Barber and a Boston gem engraver called Henry Mitchell, sit on a panel to judge an open competition for designs for a new coinage. This interaction dissolved in acrimony. Barber claimed that only a Mint engraver was capable of preparing coin designs, while Gus told the Mint director that there were only four artists in the world competent to do such designing, three were in France, and he was the fourth. The committee did agree that none of the three hundred suggestions submitted was an improvement on the existing coinage. Exasperated, the director of the Mint, Edward Leech, handed the job to Barber, and the tradition of banality continued.

Shortly thereafter—and solely to keep it out of Barber’s clutches—Saint-Gaudens agreed to design the World’s Columbian Exposition Presentation Medal in 1892. But controversy erupted over Saint-Gaudens’ use of a nude figure on the reverse, and the bilious Barber was entrusted with its redesign, yielding another dreary, lackluster effort. This time Augustus Saint-Gaudens aired his disdain in public and refused to deal with the Mint again. Battling for his life was easier—and more rewarding—than dealing with Charles Barber.

But his president was asking him. Roosevelt, ever emphatic and positive, was determined that his idea would be born. Roosevelt was like a great bell, ringing out each morning some new call to duty or devotion, with such an appeal and such a command as none could disregard, recalled Elihu Root, the former secretary of state. As Saint-Gaudens reported to his brother Louis two days later from the Players Club in New York City, Barber is a S.O.A.B. but I had a talk with the President who ordered Secretary Shaw in my presence to cut Barber’s head off if he didn’t do our bidding.

During their lively discussion the president’s son, Archibald, recalled—and Saint-Gaudens’ assistant Henry Hering confirmed—that Mr. Straus, Mr. St. Gaudens and father sat down and designed a coin. Mr. St. Gaudens designed it and the other two did a devil of a lot of talking.

Despite the sculptor’s ambivalence, Teddy wrote to Secretary Shaw five days later and asked him how soon it would be before Saint-Gaudens could be employed for at least one set of coins. And, he strenuously reiterated, the artist was to be given an absolutely free hand . . . I do not wish there to be the slightest interference with Saint-Gaudens in connection with the coinage from the artistic side.

TR himself wrote to Saint-Gaudens the next day, informing him that currently only the cent and the gold coins—two-and-a-half-, five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar pieces—could be legally redesigned (coin designs had to be employed for at least twenty-five years before they could be changed). The president asked, What would be the expense? Gus, still unsure that he wanted to accept the commission, gently sidestepped the issue, replying instead that time was of the essence for producing the Inaugural Medal—March 4 was Inauguration Day—and that he, personally, could not do it. Instead he suggested sculptor Adolph Weinman (who later designed the Mercury dime and Walking Liberty half-dollar), who would execute it under Saint-Gaudens’ guidance and to his design. In the matter of the coinage I will write you tomorrow or the day after. . . .

Saint-Gaudens continued to consider the commission in his own way. As with all his projects, he began with a psychological and emotional rather than visual conception. The complete idea came only with effort on effort, perspective on perspective, growth on growth.

In April at Aspet, his house in Cornish, New Hampshire, Saint-Gaudens sat thumbing through his copy of Coins of the Ancients and its seventy plates of images, searching for inspiration. His pain continued to come and go, but much of it he attributed to sciatica. Months later, in July, when the Inaugural Medal was at last completed, he finally came to grips with the concept of redesigning America’s coins for President Roosevelt and accepted the commission to design a new cent and all four of the gold denominations—from the quarter eagle to the double eagle.

♦  ♦  ♦

Until the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill in California in 1848, the ten-dollar gold piece was the nation’s largest gold coin. The standard-bearer since 1795, the eagle was the unit of gold from which the other standard gold denominations derived their names: hence, a half eagle was worth five dollars and a quarter eagle, two and a half dollars. After the discovery of the vast California gold fields, the Mint recognized that a larger denomination would be required to meet the growing economic needs of the country. In 1849, Congress provided for a denomination of twenty dollars, called the double eagle. Designed by James Longacre, a former copperplate engraver, it first appeared in March, 1850. His new coin was adorned with a stern neoclassical head of Liberty wearing a jeweled coronet on one side, while on the other side a heraldic eagle with out-spread wings had a shield emblazoned on its chest. The design, with minor modifications, graced all of the more than hundred million examples struck from 1850 through 1907.

One of Augustus Saint-Gaudens’ preliminary sketch ideas for Liberty on the obverse of the double eagle, c. 1906. (Dartmouth College Library)

On July 10, 1905, Saint-Gaudens, who regularly charged up to $50,000 for his work, informed TR and the director of the Mint that he would state $5000 . . . as my price for making the designs for both sides of the gold pieces and the penny. In fixing this amount I name a sum considerably below what I receive for work of like character. He assumed that the same design may be adopted for both gold and copper coinage. If the Mint did not have the funds, Saint-Gaudens offered to charge less. He was committed. In doing so, he made a gift to the president and a greater gift to his nation. Perhaps too he acknowledged his own mortality.

Now Gus would sketch and compose in his head. His health was precarious. On some days he required doses of morphine to quell the pain. Still, he could conceptualize. I make seventeen statues [for] every statue I do, he told his assistant James Earle Fraser and developed calluses on the brain from all his mental reconfiguring.

In November, a bursting, cheerful TR asked Saint-Gaudens how the design was getting along. He also had a modest suggestion to make for all the new coins. Inspired by having seen some robustly modeled gold coins of Alexander the Great—probably gold staters, with a helmeted head of Athena on one side and a winged figure of Nike on the other—he wrote, Would it not be well to have our coins in high relief?

The artist, reduced by his infirmities to only a few hours a day for work, was enthusiastic about Roosevelt’s radical idea but pragmatic. As it turned out, he was prescient, as well. Gus cautioned the president that the authorities on modern monetary requirements would I fear ‘throw fits,’ but nevertheless suggested that it was worth the president making an inquiry. TR, Saint-Gaudens reasoned, would not receive the antagonistic reply from the Mint that he was certain would be directed at him had he the gall to ask the same question.

Saint-Gaudens—ironically, a master of low relief—explained to Roosevelt that while he had not yet started on modeling the new designs, he was coming to terms with their composition. His inspiration came in part from antiquity, especially the coins of ancient Greece, but more so from his own body of work, either because of its innate Hellenistic qualities or because his health was so ravaged that he was simply too tired to create completely anew.

The image of the eagle that he wanted for the reverse of the twenty-dollar piece would resemble that which he had designed for the president’s Inaugural Medal. It would be a proud standing bird, whose Greek antecedents were from the fourth century B.C. and the coinage of the Ptolemies of Egypt. For the figure of Liberty on the obverse, he liberally borrowed from both his own Sherman Monument and the Louvre’s Winged Victory of Samothrace, which had so greatly inspired him. He wanted to express Liberty not as a staid, unforgiving goddess but as "a living thing and typical of progress."

Roosevelt concurred and assured Saint-Gaudens that he had summoned all the Mint people with the intent to persuade [them] that coins of the Grecian type but with raised rims will meet the commercial needs of the day. The president, more a human dynamo than a realist, nevertheless proposed first testing the practicality of the higher relief. How would it do to have a design struck off in tentative fashion—that is to have a model made?

1906 arrived. Augustus Saint-Gaudens was increasing his use of morphine to control his pain. The scant time he was able to create was precious, and although he was eager and anxious to get on with the coinage, he asked Treasury Secretary Shaw for guidance, explaining that he would try to create a trial between the extreme high relief of the Greek coins and the very low relief of the modern ones. But he stressed that it would be best to know if there [were] not some inflexible modern requirements that necessitate extreme flatness. Gus even suggested that trials in high relief would be a waste of time if this were the case.

Roosevelt, to whom Gus had sent a copy of this January 2 letter, met with Shaw, listened, and then cheerfully chose to ignore the Mint’s advice. The president wrote to assuage Saint-Gaudens’ concerns. He had told the treasury secretary that the project was his pet baby, and Secretary Shaw may have thought him a crack-brained lunatic but did not say so to his face. Instead Shaw had told the president that even if they were good for nothing more than storage in the vaults, he had no objection to having those coins as artistic as anything the Greeks could desire. Roosevelt informed Saint-Gaudens that despite the Mint’s protestations, we will try it anyway. One could hear the president chuckle happily as he dictated the final line of his letter to Saint-Gaudens: I think it will seriously increase the mortality among the employees of the mint at seeing such a desecration, but they will perish in a good cause!

Saint-Gaudens heartily agreed that the country would be well served by increasing mortality at the Mint. But feared gloomily that one gentleman may have nervous prostration, but killed no. He has been in that institution since the foundation of the Government and will be found standing in its ruins. Gus knew his implacable nemesis, Charles Barber, all too well.

Hard at work, Gus made lightning-quick plaster sketches and had his chief assistant, Henry Hering, begin to make finished models. To help him ensure accuracy, Saint-Gaudens wrote to Adolph Weinman and asked to borrow his Indian headdress, his photographs of eagles, and models of birds’ wings, as well.

The secretary of the treasury responded to Saint-Gaudens’ concerns about the practicality of high relief on January 16, meticulously outlining the practical roadblocks to working in high relief and counseling against it. But both he and Gus realized that the president had already decided the issue, and high relief it would be. Shaw invited the sculptor to the Mint to examine the manufacturing process, before proceeding with his design, but Gus was too frail to accept.

In the early spring of 1906 Saint-Gaudens had a severe relapse and more surgery. Weakened and gaunt, he continued as best he could to work on the coin designs. Henry Hering became his hands, and Gus watched over him as his models took shape. Saint-Gaudens was remarkably comfortable using other artists to execute his ideas and reveled in the process. The sculptors with whom he worked in this fashion also benefited from the experience; Saint-Gaudens’ sharp observations and benevolent criticism inspired them, and they strove to exceed the master’s expectations. So skilled was Gus in his guidance that Frances Grimes, one of his assistants, recalled, There was no one who had worked for him but knew he had merely been a tool in Saint-Gaudens’ hand, often unconscious of what he was being used to accomplish.

Although Saint-Gaudens was striving to emulate the lush relief of ancient Greek coinage, he was a sculptor, not an engraver, and a child of the industrial revolution. The physical processes now involved in creating a coin would have been alien to the engravers of millennia past and would have seemed absurdly complex. In ancient Greece, the artists cut their designs, actual size—and in reverse—directly into the hard metal face of a die.

Henry Hering modeled large plaster reliefs from eleven to fourteen inches in diameter. These had to be reduced to the small size of the coin, for which an extraordinary machine, called the Janvier lathe, was employed. A bewildering forest of wheels, metal arms, belts, and pulleys set into a steel frame, over the course of twenty-four hours it cuts a reduced image (for the double eagle, a little over an inch and a quarter in diameter) in relief into a piece of softened steel, which stamps out the final die that strikes the actual images onto the coins. When TR’s pet project began, the United States Mint did not have one of these contraptions, and so the first plasters had to be sent to Paris for reduction. By the end of 1906, however, the Mint had finally acquired the state-of-the-art lathe, but Barber had yet to master its use (and more of his acrid oaths were recorded). The Janvier is still used today by the United States Mint.

In May, Saint-Gaudens lay at Aspet and wrote to John LaFarge that he was nailed here with pain. The ailing Gus sent Hering into the lion’s den in Philadelphia, Barber’s Mint, where he was treated with cool politeness and utter disdain. Roosevelt, with growing anticipation, was eager to see something and politely kept the heat on Saint-Gaudens. But the project stumbled on in gasps and gallops.

Barber’s stream of invective continued, insisting that the kind of relief that Gus and Teddy wanted was just not practicable, even as an experiment. Roosevelt, infuriated by the little man, angrily wrote to the secretary of the treasury, I direct that Mr. Barber has the dies made as Mr. Saint-Gaudens, with my authority, presents them.

This sent the resentful Barber into a fury, and he went out of his way to be obstreperous and malicious, for which he seems to have had a natural inclination. His turf had been invaded. For the first time in history an artist of fame and talent had been commissioned to design American coins. As chief engraver of the United States Mint, that prerogative had been his by more than a century’s precedent. In addition to obstructing the progress of the president’s project, the choleric Barber even designed his own double eagle, which was simply ignored.

Hering’s models for the double eagle were ready to be sent to the Mint on December 8, 1906. The president saw them twelve days later and was rapturous. TR instructed the director of the Mint that these dies are to be reproduced just as quickly as possible and just as they are. He told Saint-Gaudens that I suppose I shall be impeached for it in Congress; but I shall regard it as a very cheap payment!

Barber continued to carp and delay, but on February 15, 1907, the director of the Mint received the first four impressions in gold of the experimental double eagle. He promptly forwarded them to Saint-Gaudens, who returned them a month later, along with two additional strikes in lead.

The coin Saint-Gaudens held in his once powerful fingers was brilliantly realized. After a year and a half, the original concept had succeeded in emulating the classical tradition. The height of its relief was tremendous, far exceeding any coins then in circulation. It had taken up to nine crushing blows of some 150 tons each to bring up the detail. It was a monumental coin, belying its small metallic canvas.

On one side, Liberty, her hair whipping in the wind, seemed to burst beyond the confines of the circular tableau. The heavy folds of her gown billowed as her left foot took the last step to the top of a mountain. Her right hand held her torch aloft to light the way, while her left hand carried the olive branch of peace. In a valley below, the Capitol of the United States could just be seen, and from behind, the rays of the sun symbolized enlightenment. For the reverse, Saint-Gaudens had ultimately adapted an eagle in flight, not one from the glories of Greece, as he had planned initially, but from humble American coins, the pennies of 1857 and 1858. But he made this eagle graceful