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A Garden Party of a Bookby John Kenneth Galbraith
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The storied Commencement-afternoon garden party given by Professor and Mrs. John Kenneth Galbraith is a treasured event for many attendees, who rubberneck to see who else of significance is present. Now, in his ninety-first year, the Warburg professor of economics emeritus has given us his twenty-first book, Name-Dropping, From F.D.R. On (Houghton Mi±in, $26), an omnium-gatherum of recollections of some of the prominent people he has known--a garden party of a book. Herewith, some selections:
ELEANOR ROOSEVELT REMEMBERS BERNARD BARUCH
"Oh, Bernie. What a man! By 1945, he and my husband had broken off their relationship. He was, as ever, using the White House for personal advertisement, and that had finally created a rift. But it didn't matter to Bernie. When he heard of the President's death, he came right over to Warm Springs. He was with us there. He came with us on the train to Washington. He was with us for the state funeral. He came on the train with us to Hyde Park. He was there at the family funeral. And there were several times, Ken, when I thought he was going to get into the coffin with Franklin." This was Eleanor Roosevelt: the whiplash tongue.
ADLAI STEVENSON'S SWEET SCRIBE
I wrote the speeches on economics and agriculture and, as an added assignment, those taking an adverse view of Richard Nixon as the sitting Vice President and the vice-presidential candidate. The latter I did in response to Stevenson's truly heart-warming request...: "Ken, I want you to write the speeches against Nixon. You have no tendency to be fair."
J.F.K. AND PLAIN TALK
Kennedy's preference for plain talk did not spare his friends. Before I left for New Delhi, in April 1961, we had a farewell breakfast at the White House. That morning the New York Times had a piece on the new Ambassador to India; Kennedy asked how I liked it. It had been generally favorable, and I said it was all right, but I didn't see why they had to call me arrogant.
"I don't know why not," said Kennedy. "Everyone else does."
ROBERT KENNEDY AND DISSENT
In the presidencies of Ronald Reagan, George Bush and, as this is written, of Bill Clinton, the Washington press, radio and television corps has been nourished by a constant flow of information on the wars within the presidential staff....There was all but none of this during the Kennedy years; at most, and rarely, there was a word on differences in personal view. What is now commonplace would then have been thought exceptional, unpleasant and overtly disloyal.
Much of this peace and tranquillity can be attributed to Robert Kennedy. He made it painfully clear that public criticism or dissent from established presidential policy was not permitted; it was beyond the pale. And his discipline extended well outside the immediate circle. In the aftermath of the Bay of Pigs debacle, Chester Bowles, then Under Secretary of State and a critic of that visibly insane enterprise, was warned to silence, his coat lapels tightly held by Robert Kennedy. Others got the message and, as did Schlesinger and I, made no public mention of their opposition.
DAVID POWERS, KENNEDY'S OVAL-OFFICE GATEKEEPER
A greatly underestimated figure, he combined rich intelligence with an unfailing sense of humor. Alive in my memory is...the day, years after the President's death, when the Kennedy Library was opened on Columbia Point in seaside Boston. It was an occasion of nostalgia and grace. A soft wind blew in from the ocean; President Carter was there, as also Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, the Kennedy family and a large assemblage from the Boston political establishment. The speeches were short, engaging, affectionate. I walked away afterward with Dave Powers and made a routine comment on what a good day it had been. Back came his reply: "Ken, never in the history of Massachusetts Democracy have so many gathered so happily with so few under indictment."
TEDDY KENNEDY'S FIRST CAMPAIGN
Edward Kennedy's age and youthful inexperience were, at the beginning, sadly negative circumstances. But not always. Arising early one morning in his first campaign to shake hands with the workers arriving at a Massachusetts factory, he was greeted by a man of mature years who came rolling down the line.
He said, "Teddy, m'boy, I hear you've never done a day's work in your life."
It was the candidate's most vulnerable point; he braced himself to make a reply, but the old man didn't wait for it: "Let me tell you somethin', lad. You haven't missed a thing."
DICKINSON MEETS NEHRU
My wife and I had as our guest Angie Dickinson, the film actress and a longtime friend. She was then at the summit of her career, combining beauty, intelligence, political interest and general charm. As did all visitors to India, many of whom I had to restrain, she wished to see Nehru. One afternoon I sent him a note, saying I knew him to be busy but could he spare a moment for a lovely Hollywood star who would like to meet him? Within an hour I had word back saying that in great emergencies he could always make time. Could I bring my guest over at once? I found Angie, took her to the Prime Minister's residence, and they talked for nearly two hours. I remember especially one question from Nehru. "Miss Dickinson, when you are making a film, you spend some months studying and then creating the character you are playing. Doesn't that have some permanent effect on your own personality?"
To Nehru's delight, Angie replied, "I certainly hope not, Mr. Prime Minister. In my last four films I've been a woman of deep ill-repute."
L.B.J.'S GIFT FOR METAPHOR
A particularly memorable example of this gift for metaphor came on a summer day in the mid-sixties, when we had already split over Vietnam. A call came to our place in Vermont. "Everyone around here is worn out," Johnson said. "I have a couple of speeches pressing me. Let's forget these foreign problems; come down and give me a hand." I agreed....One speech was unimportant, a protocol exercise for some diplomatic occasion. The other was to be a major statement on economic and social policy....
By late in the afternoon, I was finished. Johnson came into the outer office, put his foot on a chair, looked at and set aside the unimportant speech and settled down to the major address. He nodded and smiled; to my pleasure, it was clear that he liked it. When he was through, he said, "Ken, you've saved my life. It's exactly what I want to say. I'm not going to change a word." This is the mark of a secure person. Most would say, "It's pretty good; I'll only make a few revisions."
Johnson's face then saddened. "It's good, but nobody else will think so. Did it ever occur to you, Ken, that making a speech on ee-conomics is a lot like pissin' down your leg? It seems hot to you, but it never does to anyone else."
Never since have I given a speech on economics without having that metaphor in mind.