Six Crises (73 page)

Looking back on it all, in addition to the observations I have already made, I have reached these general conclusions:

The campaign was too long, from all standpoints—in terms of time spent, miles traveled, and the number of speeches made. In these days of mass communication when huge audiences can be reached by television and radio, the candidates should not have to put themselves through the physical, mental, and emotional wear-and-tear that both Kennedy and I experienced in the last campaign. This would mean that both candidates would have more time for thinking and planning, and spend less time traveling and speaking.

My second conclusion is that a candidate must save himself for the major events—and his staff must never forget this. Wendell Willkie's experience in 1940 is an example in point. He was a magnificent whistle-stopper but, after wowing audiences of thousands during the day, he was hoarse and virtually voiceless by the time he was slated to speak to millions by radio at night. With the advent now of television, adhering to this principle becomes infinitely more important.

My third conclusion is one that I have reached regretfully. I believe that I spent too much time in the last campaign on substance and too little time on appearance: I paid too much attention to what I was going to say and too little to how I would look. Again, what must be recognized is that television has increasingly become the medium through which the great majority of the voters get their news and develop their impressions of the candidates. There are, of course, millions of people who still rely primarily on newspapers and magazines in making up their minds on how they will vote. But the fact remains, one bad camera angle on television can have far more effect on the election outcome than a major mistake in writing a speech which is
then picked up and criticized by columnists and editorial writers. I do not mean to suggest that what a candidate says is not important; in a presidential election, in particular, it should be all-important. What I do mean to say is that where votes are concerned, a paraphrase of what Mr. Khrushchev claims is an “ancient Russian proverb” could not be more controlling: “one TV picture is worth ten thousand words.”

•  •  •

These were some of the thoughts which ran through my mind as I soaked up the warm Caribbean sun. I had never dreamed it would be possible to get enough of this relaxation. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. But after about two weeks of it, I began to get restless. Through the years I had been so busy in Washington, I had thought that it simply wouldn't be possible to get tired of a vacation. Not to see a paper, not to be under attack, not to have to worry about the problems of the world, to be able to play golf, swim, do anything else I wanted—all this, I thought, would be practically the millennium. But much as I enjoyed it at the outset, after a few days the shallow talk, the lack of interest in subjects of importance, grew more and more boring. Perhaps part of the problem was that I was still too tired to relax. I realized it would take me some time to get adjusted to a more leisurely pace than that of the past fourteen years. I could hardly wait to get back to work.

Back in Washington, I began for the first time since the election to appraise my personal financial situation so that I could plan for the future.
¹⁵
After four years in the House, two in the Senate, and eight in the vice presidency, all that Pat and I owned was the equity in our Washington house. We owned no stocks or bonds, and we had just enough cash in the bank to take care of current expenses. My life insurance had been acquired so recently that its cash value was minimal. And as a former Vice President, under the law, I had no allowance for an office staff and no pension—except for the Congressional retirement plan to which I had contributed and for which I would not become eligible until age sixty-two.

We had two girls growing up who would soon need funds for college. My problem, in a nutshell, was an acute one—I had to find a job and start saving some money.

But there was a much brighter side to the picture. Since the election, several very generous offers had reached my office, coming from all parts of the country. Jack Dreyfus, with whom I had developed a warm friendship during the campaign, urged that I come to New York because of the greater opportunities for high income available there, more so than in any other part of the country. Others thought I should become affiliated with a foundation or a university. But I finally decided to return to California and to the practice of law. This was my profession and, while I was tempted by some of the more remunerative offers of executive positions with corporations, I felt I was more qualified in the field in which I had been trained.
¹⁶

As I write these words, just a year after November 8, 1960, I can say that private life has been good to me, materially at least, far beyond anything I had ever expected. My income tax alone this year will be twice as great as my salary as Vice President last year. And Pat and I have often remarked since returning home that we had almost forgotten how superb the California climate can be and how wonderfully varied are the recreational and cultural opportunities in my home state.

Why, then, would anyone risk these advantages of private life and decide to re-enter the political arena?

Because, as President Eisenhower once told me, “an individual who desires to remain in public life must never reject what he senses to be a sincere desire on the part of a majority of the rank and file voters, as well as the officials of his party, for him to lead them in battle.”

And because, once a man has been in public life for any period of time, his interests and ambitions change. Naturally, he wants and needs enough income to take care of his own and his family's needs. But acquiring money and property, as an end in itself, has no appeal for him. It is what he does rather than how much he makes that counts. This does not mean that he is in some way better motivated than others who concentrate on building an estate, or that he is necessarily a more useful citizen. In fact, one of the major reasons for America's phenomenal growth has been that our system, based on economic
incentives, has unleashed and stimulated the creative energies of the most talented group of business and professional executives the world has ever known. But the public man—and I include in this category not only elected officials but also those who work in government and for public institutions at all levels—federal, state, and local—has simply chosen to make his contribution to society in another manner. The nation needs qualified men and women in both categories. It just happened, because my fate sent me to Congress in 1946, that I became primarily a public man and must, therefore, remain in that channel-so long, of course, as the public wants to keep me there!

Whittaker Chambers put the case perceptively in the last letter he was ever to write me, one I received after my return to California at the end of February 1961. He wrote:

It seems possible that we may not meet again—I mean at all. So forgive me if I say here a few things which, otherwise, I should not presume to say.

You have decades ahead of you. Almost from the first day we met (think, it is already 12 years ago) I sensed in you some quality, deep-going, difficult to identify in the world's glib way, but good, and meaningful for you and multitudes of others. I do not believe for a moment that because you have been cruelly checked in the employment of what is best in you, what is most yourself, that that check is final. It cannot be.

On the other hand, speaking in wholly different (and, by contrast, superficial) terms, it seems to me that executive office has passed to the other party for a long time to come. I should find it hard to believe that you have not drawn the same conclusion. If true, that changes your routing and precise destination. It does not change the nature of your journey. You have years in which to serve. Service is your life. You must serve. You must, therefore, have a base from which to serve.

Some tell me that there are reasons why you should not presently run for Governor of California. Others tell me that you would almost certainly carry the State. I simply do not know the facts. But if it is at all feasible, I, for what it is worth, strongly urge you to consider this. There would be a sense and an impression of political come-down? Great character always precludes a sense of come-down, greatly yielding to match the altered circumstances. The public impression will then take care of itself—may, indeed, become an asset. I believe you to be, rather uniquely, a man who can do this.

Chambers' assumptions as to the political prospects of the Republican Party, nationally and in California, are subject to question. But he
showed an acute understanding of why men who have been in public life seldom leave it voluntarily and, more often than not, are drawn irresistibly to return to it.

But probably the greatest magnet of all is that those who have known great crisis—its challenge and tension, its victory and defeat-can never become adjusted to a more leisurely and orderly pace. They have drunk too deeply of the stuff which really makes life exciting and worth living to be satisfied with the froth.

I do not know what the future holds for me. But whatever happens, I shall have no regrets about the past.

When I was talking with President De Gaulle on his visit to the United States in April of 1960, he commented philosophically on the fact that he was one of those rare individuals who see some of their greatest days late in life. He quoted the Greek poet, Sophocles, as having aptly characterized his own situation: “One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day has been.”

For me, the evening of my life has not yet come. But for the boy who, forty years ago, used to He in bed in Yorba Linda, California, and dream of traveling to far-off places when he heard the train whistle in the night, I can say even now that the day has indeed been splendid.

 

TEXT OF ADDRESS OF
THE VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BEFORE
THE ENGLISH-SPEAKING UNION OF THE COMMONWEALTH

November 26, 1958, Guildhall, London, England

In the six years in which I have had the honor of serving as Vice President of the United States, it has been my privilege to visit many countries and to participate in many significant events. I can assure you that no occasion in that period will live more indelibly in my memory than the dedication of the American Chapel at St. Paul's which I attended this morning and the gathering in this historic hall which I am privileged to address this evening.

This meeting of the English-Speaking Union dramatizes the enduring character of the friendship and alliance of our two countries. The activities of this organization have been most vital in cementing our bonds of comradeship.

I consider it a particular privilege to pay tribute to the thoughtful and inspiring leadership of His Royal Highness, Prince Philip, who has spared no sacrifices in this dedicated work. His recent visit to Canada was only one of many activities which indicate his vital interest.

You all may be justly proud, not only of the contribution you have made to better understanding between our two countries, but also the even greater work of building an enduring basis of friendship among all English-speaking peoples.

The dedication at St. Paul's this morning dramatizes the unity you have worked so hard to achieve. It was symbolic of the enduring ties that bind us. It brought to mind the dramatic events of earlier and more trying days—the magnificent leadership and the great sacrifices that made possible our victory in the Second World War.

Our thoughts went back to our great national leaders, Sir Winston Churchill and President Roosevelt, working together in intimate harmony. They will receive the ungrudging tribute of history for their capacity to marshal the forces of democracy.

Our thoughts turned also to our incomparable Generals and Admirals—Eisenhower and Montgomery, Cunningham and King. They were more than brilliant strategists and commanders. Because of their unwavering devotion to the concept that military ingenuity must be combined with recognition of civilian authority, they rank indeed among the great military leaders of all times.

But above all, today, we honored brave men—whose names are legion and whose sacrifices can never adequately be repaid. British and American—farmers and laborers, from cities and countryside, from offices and classrooms—these were the men who made possible our victory in the greatest war in history. Many events of that war will be forgotten as we turn our eyes to other tasks, but their deeds will live forever. They bequeathed to us a spirit, a sentiment, a national memory that will never fail to capture our admiration as we move side by side in the path of friendship and alliance.

As Abraham Lincoln said at Gettysburg, “The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.”