More than thirty years ago, I read Douglas Southall Freeman’s four-volume biography of Lee. Twice. And I enjoyed it both times. I even bought a set that I hope will be in my library until I’m gone. Of course, readers have different expectations of biographers today than they did in the 1920s and ‘30s. (For one thing, unless you’re Robert Caro, you’re not going to sell multi-volume biographies of anybody.) Perhaps Thomas’s Lee is not (as Robert Remini is quoted in a blurb as saying) “a fully rounded mortal,” but Thomas’s Lee is at least more rounded than Freeman’s paragon of Southern virtue. Furthermore, while Thomas’s prose isn’t flashy, it’s generally solid and levelheaded.
Except when it’s not, as when Thomas tries too hard to find scraps of evidence to make Lee seem more fallible. One such attempt even leads Thomas to mindlessly assert a virtual impossibility. He says that “on June 22 Robert Lee wrote to his daughter-in-law, told her of Rooney’s recent exploits, answered questions about his own appearance, and concluded with a request that she ‘Kiss your sweet boy for me….’ Lee had forgotten that his grandson, Charlotte’s ‘sweet boy,’ was dead! Clearly his mind was focused upon other matters.” (231) While there are grandparents who have forgotten that their grandchild is dead, they’re in memory care, not commanding armies. Furthermore, the letter Thomas quotes is a chatty, joking missive to the mother of the supposed deceased, not a sorry-I-can’t-write-now scrap. It’s much easier to imagine one or more misdated or misdelivered letters.
Another problem is that Thomas tends to pontificate about matters that most readers will hold self-evident. For instance, the post-war Lee tells his son that “whenever you find the negro, everything is going down around him.” Thomas feels constrained to add, “The war and the African American troops that had helped defeat him did not seem to change Lee’s hierarchical assumptions about race.” Then when Lee kneels next to Black man in church, Thomas pronounces, “Lee’s actions were far more eloquent than anything he spoke or wrote.” Such sentences make you more appreciative of Freeman’s gauzy romanticism.