Name-Dropping
From F.D.R. On
By John Kenneth GalbraithHoughton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
Copyright © 1999 John Kenneth Galbraith
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-618-15453-1
Contents
Title Page,
Contents,
Copyright,
Dedication,
On Name-Dropping,
Franklin D. Roosevelt, I,
Franklin D. Roosevelt, II,
Eleanor Roosevelt,
Albert Speer,
Harry Truman — and After,
Too Madly for Adlai,
Photos,
John F. Kennedy,
The Kennedy Circle, Jacqueline Kennedy,
Jawaharlal Nehru,
L.B.J.,
Bowles, Ball, Harriman and the Tyranny of Policy,
Sketches on the Larger Screen,
About the Author,
Connect with HMH,
Footnotes,
CHAPTER 1On Name-Dropping
BOOKS, like those who write them, have an unplanned life of their own. The very act of writing has a controlling role. When I started this book, I intended to describe the political personality — the personal and public traits that, as I saw them, allowed the great leaders of our century to influence or dominate the political scene. There are still elements of this intention in the pages that follow. But it faded as a central purpose.
Instead, as the work proceeded, there was more interest for the author, as I trust there will be for the reader, in how the great political figures appeared to their contemporaries, of whom I was one. What did I recall of personal encounters or public association with Franklin Roosevelt, Eleanor, the Kennedys, Nehru and others? Such recollections took over, but with them came a certain risk.
Reminiscence and anecdote, as they tell of one's meetings with the great or the prominent, are an established form of self-enhancement. They make known that one was there. This is not my purpose; my aim is to inform and perhaps, on occasion, to entertain. The risk, nonetheless, exists that critics who are less than tolerant may suggest that I am indulging in name-dropping. Hence the title of the book and that of this chapter; nothing so disarms a prosecutor as a prior confession of guilt.
Not all that follows concerns the political figures of my time. I frequently digress to write of my own experience and of responsibilities accorded me. This tells something of those of whom I speak. Not exceptionally in writing of this kind, it may well tell more of the author.
Here also is an occasional event or personal encounter of which I have told before. For this I do not apologize. All education and all worthwhile writing is, in some measure, a recapture of the already known.
Much of this book — most, in fact — is centered on now- distant times; an important part dates to the first half of the century that is now drawing to a close. It was with the events of this period and the people that I was involved. I now read of, and from time to time encounter, the influential men and women of the present day. It is for others to tell of them; this I do not, in all cases, regret.
There will be question less as to those who have been selected for recollection and celebration here than as to those omitted or discussed only briefly. The reason is not far to seek; it is whether or not I was there and have something to add. On one or two occasions I met Dwight D. Eisenhower; he was and remains one of the underestimated Presidents of our time. A Republican, he accepted the great social legacy of Franklin D. Roosevelt and the twenty-year New Deal era and made it an integral part of American life. F.D.R. initiated, Truman continued, Eisenhower confirmed. He also left the deathless and death-defying warning as to the military-industrial complex. But when I have said this of Ike, I have very little else to say.
As to another major figure, one exactly of my generation, there is a similar problem. Ronald Reagan and I were fellow founders of Americans for Democratic Action, once and still a dominant liberal voice in the land. Ronnie, as he was known, left us when his screen career diminished and he began giving well-paid lectures on, as it was then denoted, the free enterprise system. His regression, we always said, was not from any commitment to newly acquired belief; it was only for the money. On his later career there was nothing of which I had firsthand knowledge. This, I do slightly regret, for Ronald Reagan was the first wholly uninhibited Keynesian President — eager public spending to provide economic stimulation and employment, all financed by large public borrowing, with the resulting budget deficit. However, there was a dark side, to which Keynes would have reacted adversely: the spending was for extensively unneeded armaments.
With Jimmy Carter, whom I first met in Georgia and saw on later occasions, I had only a distant association. It was his special tragedy that, while Ronald Reagan succeeded with the economic policies his party had so long opposed, Jimmy Carter was taken to defeat by those conservatives had long urged. His highly reputable economists, in pursuit of economic virtue, accepted that a President seeking re-election could survive inflation attacked only by its traditional and painful remedies: high interest rates, economic stagnation, unemployment. It was a triumph of rigorous economic orthodoxy; ignored only was Jimmy Carter's all-but-certain fate.
One of my closest and certainly one of my most admired friends in politics over many years has been George McGovern, presidential candidate in 1972 against Richard Nixon. I had a small role in his selection as a candidate and a not insignificant one in his defeat. At the Democratic Convention that year, as a leader of the Massachusetts delegation, I vetoed his first choice for Vice President, Kevin White, the Mayor of Boston. I did not think I could win state support for his nomination because, among other things, White had endorsed McGovern's opponent in the primary. There would be an unseemly row on the floor. McGovern went on to Tom Eagleton, who, it soon became known, had once had some modest, wholly curable psychiatric problems. Unwisely, George dropped him from the ticket and then was involved in an embarrassing search for a substitute. In consequence, his campaign had a very bad start. He should have ignored my advice. I haven't told here of George McGovern perhaps because, again, I have little to add, perhaps more because I prefer to write about those with whom my association was less disastrous.
Also passed over with McGovern, but for a very different reason, is Richard Nixon. In 1942, in the tense months after Pearl Harbor, he served in the Office of Price Administration as an attorney on rubber-tire rationing, of which I was then in charge. He drafted my letters, but I did not, as I recall, ever meet him. I became fully aware of his existence and character only with his crusade against Communism and Alger Hiss. Later when his enemies' list became known, my name was present, adorned, according to my recollection, with two checkmarks. In one of his taped and reluctantly re-leased conversations in the White House, he dignified me as the leading enemy of good public process in our time. But, to repeat, I never met him, so Richard Nixon is not here.
I once contemplated a chapter in this book on Winston Churchill and Charles de Gaulle. Not in recent times, not perhaps ever, have two politicians accepted greater risks with greater ultimate success. How grim and dim the prospect in 1940; how enormous our debt to their intransigent stand. During my wartime years in Washington, Churchill was especially a presence; one thought of him, more even perhaps than of F.D.R., as the guiding military force of the war. I did meet both Churchill and de Gaulle but only after the war was over and for no deeply operative purpose. To have made anything of these encounters would, indeed, have been name-dropping.
A more serious matter is the very few women — only Eleanor Roosevelt and Jacqueline Kennedy — present in these accounts. That, very simply, is because, for most of the period here covered, women were not visible in the political world. The concern here is with high office; this was the virtually exclusive domain, the preserve, of men. Among presidential wives some did step forward. In her husband's presidency Nancy Reagan was an evident force; with her, not surprisingly, I had no personal acquaintance.
John F. Kennedy, in a conversation of which I have told on other occasions, once raised with me the question of women in politics. He advanced what I thought the deeply retrograde thesis that women were naturally lacking in political talent. He asked me to name some outstandingly successful women politicians. I responded with Eleanor Roosevelt. He agreed and asked for another. I was troubled for the moment and, in some desperation, proposed Elizabeth I. Kennedy laughed scornfully and said, "Now you have only one left, Maggie Smith." Margaret Chase Smith, pioneer woman senator from Maine, was not — here we differed — a favorite of his.
Were Kennedy now alive, he would not be making the point; women are still underrepresented in politics, but the change in the last thirty-five years strongly affirms their political aptitude. Alas, it came too late for this volume. And there is yet to be a woman President.
I turn now to Franklin Roosevelt, the first and in many ways the greatest of those I encountered over a lifetime. And the one, more than incidentally, who accorded me the most responsibility. It was no slight matter to have control over all the prices of all things sold in the United States. And briefly over consumer rationing as well. My role in the Office of Price Administration was my principal association with F.D.R., but I also observed his leadership in the New Deal and, more generally, in the war, and of this I will tell as well.
CHAPTER 2Franklin D. Roosevelt, I
The New Deal
Presidents of the United States were not in my early youth in Canada a large factor in my life. As an elementary school student during World War I, I did hear of Woodrow Wilson, of his non-role and then his role in supporting the Allies and therewith the Canadian troops who were so deeply involved in that ghastly encounter. This, rather often, was a subject of adult conversation. In subsequent years, however, I was only dimly aware of the occupants of the White House. I do recall — it was obviously in November of 1920 — my father picking up the Toronto Globe, the bible of the committed Liberals of Ontario, and observing that a man named Harding had been elected President. It seemed not very important.
By 1932, I was a graduate student at the University of California at Berkeley, and my mood was still one of detachment; in any case, as a Canadian, I could not vote in that year's elections. As I've elsewhere told, my first, if somewhat distant, encounter with a President was with Herbert Hoover and a speech he delivered that autumn from the back of a railway car at an obscure station in Oakland. Unfortunately, it was adjacent to what was then called a Hooverville, this one a dump of large sewer pipe boarded up at the ends to provide exceptionally low-cost housing. The residents, having no other occupation, lined up early for the oration; they cheered loudly when he told them that the Depression was over and that, in principle, they were prosperous again.
One reason for my general lack of interest, as was true for others of my generation, was that, in those days, both of the established parties and their candidates seemed deeply irrelevant. In the dominant belief of my fellow graduate students and some of the California faculty, the problem was not political choice; it was the system. F.D.R., like Hoover, was a hopelessly outdated prospect. Those who understood and accepted the full reality of the time were socialists or, quite frequently, Communists. Caution and a slight uncertainty as to whether, as a recent refugee from farm life in Canada, I would be accepted kept me away from the latter. In a famous expression, Marx had referred to the idiocy of rural life, and that was my history. (I might note that I told of all this years later in a magazine article, and still later I learned from my FBI file that two particularly ardent economics professors, worried that I was about to become the president of the American Economic Association, had brought my questionable past to the urgent attention of J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover was grateful in response but took no action.)
Franklin Roosevelt's victory in the autumn of 1932, like the campaign before it, did not seem politically or socially decisive. It was good to see Herbert Hoover go; it was of no great significance that Roosevelt would take his place. There had been little that foretold the wide-ranging action that was soon to come. Conservatives, then as they would be now, were reassured by F.D.R.'s promise, made in a major and later much-regretted speech in Pittsburgh, to balance the budget. Then, as now, there seemed nothing that would so adequately and conveniently exclude costly and otherwise unwelcome social action.
So when the 1932 election results were known, I had no feeling of excitement and not very much interest. My greatest sense of change came from a young colleague who verged on ecstasy at the thought that alcoholic beverages would soon be legal. No more need to resort to the chemistry lab.
Nor, with more others than the history tells, was I aroused by F.D.R.'s inaugural address. That we had "nothing to fear but fear itself," his best- remembered words, was palpably untrue; there was much, much else to fear. The speech, we thought, only echoed the previous rhetoric from other voices in Washington who had urged that nothing was needed but a restoration of confidence in the economic system.
My attitude, like that of others, changed radically in the ensuing weeks as the Roosevelt program, the New Deal, took shape. Something, indeed, was happening: there was action on a large scale. Over the Christmas holidays of 1933, 1 made an expensive trip to Washington for a firsthand view. I saw much of the city and only a little of the effort, but I returned to California as an accepted expert on F.D.R. and what he planned for the country. Recently hired as a teacher at the University of California at Berkeley, and dispatched to teach undergraduates at Davis (then an extension of the Berkeley campus), I became the local authority on the now-diverse and impressive Roosevelt initiatives. I lectured not only to the deeply indifferent undergraduates but to interested faculty members and the larger community.
My commitment to Roosevelt was further deepened the following summer, when, on my way from Berkeley to Harvard, with the intervening summer months free, I was recruited into the Department of Agriculture.
The USDA was, at the time, a focal point of New Deal thought and action. Assembled there, under Henry Agard Wallace, the Secretary, were all the significant radicals of the age, from Rexford G. Tugwell to Adlai Stevenson and on to Alger Hiss and some avowed Communists. I was still a Canadian, but, as I've also often told, I was not asked as to my citizenship; I had only to affirm that I was a Democrat. My assignment, which came from Tugwell with the sanction of F.D.R., was to consider whether the millions of acres of farm and forest land made tax delinquent by the Depression should be taken into the public domain. Much of northern Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota and extensive areas in the Old South would thus become federal property — enough for several wonderful national parks. The modest recompense involved would be a windfall for the local governments that would thus be relieved of this redundant real estate. Alas, my recommendation that we should so proceed received no serious attention.
I did not meet F.D.R. that summer. He was, nonetheless, the major, indeed the dominant, figure in my life. So he was for all the others I knew. We talked of him all day and every night; there was no other topic of conversation. We were responding to a central part of the Roosevelt political personality, one that still deserves emphasis. He was a man of intelligence and a deep sense of social responsibility, but he was also without a controlling personal ideology, social belief, of his own. That meant that he was available to be persuaded; he was open to any well- stated solution to the great and painful problems of the time. In further consequence, scores, even hundreds, could feel that he was theirs to convince and to provide the needed action. No one ever said, "You can't sell the President on that"; it was possible that you could. And this was not the feeling in Washington and the government alone. It was generally believed that the administration of Franklin D. Roosevelt gave or appeared to give the possibility of hearing and response. There had been nothing quite like it before; there has been nothing like it since. In Washington and out in the country determined citizens felt that they could be a part of history.
For most Americans the Depression was a far more painful experience than the war that followed. World War II brought fear, death and sorrow to a relatively small minority; the Depression, in contrast, brought deprivation and deep insecurity to the many; in fact, to most. Save for those who marched, sailed or flew against the Germans and the Japanese (and by no means all of them), the war was a good time for Americans. Jobs were available, pay was good, the general standard of living was raised. People were dedicated to a high purpose. This was far from true of the grim existence during the accurately designated Great Depression. It focused attention on the dismal economic problem, and here there was no fixed, no decisive, opinion. Roosevelt was, to repeat, free of ideological commitment. This meant that all who were socially motivated could, in imagination, if not in reality, influence the future course of economic policy. This seeming opportunity increased as the months passed, for the President was also known to be deeply bored with economics.
(Continues...)Excerpted from Name-Dropping by John Kenneth Galbraith. Copyright © 1999 John Kenneth Galbraith. Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
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