Kennedy wouldn’t put up with complaining or overt displays of jealousy, so his inner circle had to present a facade of collegial bonhomie: “all the eggheads . . . in one basket,” as Harold Macmillan put it. Merriman Smith, the AP’s White House correspondent, once noted that Schlesinger walked slowly and tilted forward, while Bundy moved fast and leaned back: “When Bundy passed Schlesinger they formed in profile a perfect X.” Sorensen and his deputy, Myer Feldman, even traded memos in rhymed couplets.
Below the surface, rivalries were inevitable. Ken Galbraith griped about the lack of “political buccaneers like Ickes,” and Ambassador to Britain David Bruce pronounced Under Secretary of State Chester Bowles “an incompetent long-winded bore.” Several months into the administration, veteran political adviser James Rowe told Teddy White that the White House staff “should be spanked” for its “loose talk about policy and colleagues.” The intellectuals, he noted, were “giddy with power.” Sorensen would later acknowledge that among the “aggressive individualists” surrounding Kennedy, there were “scornful references to political and intellectual backgrounds.”
With his vague role and White House office in the equivalent of Siberia, Arthur Schlesinger encountered the most trouble fitting in. He had the “soft jackets and easy shoes” look of the intellectual, accented by a domed forehead and a pouty expression that seemed to suggest arrogance. “You have to understand that Arthur was over in the East Wing drinking tea with Jackie,” said one White House aide. Jackie actually spent little time with her staff in the East Wing. But she did periodically enlist Schlesinger’s help, and he was happy to oblige—which eventually gave him an enviable status.
Still, in February, Schlesinger told Galbraith that he was “unhappy and uncertain” in his job. “Arthur was always worried about his position,” said Ben Bradlee. An assignment from Kennedy to study Latin America gave Schlesinger a new purpose, and he began to enjoy operating behind the scenes in an unrestrained fashion that kept him close to the power center. “There were frustrating moments,” he said. “But I had great flexibility.”
In the early evening, Schlesinger would make his way through the corridors and colonnades to the Oval Office to join other aides eager for the chance to have unstructured moments with Kennedy. It was Kennedy’s favorite time, when he would sit with his two feet on the desk—what Mac Bundy called “bivouacking in his chair”—laid back and expansive, reflecting on the day’s events with “that wonderfully spare, precise, coherent talk that was natural to him,” recalled Walt Rostow. With Schlesinger present—and for that matter Sorensen and Rostow—Kennedy was consciously speaking for history. “They were meditations,” said Schlesinger. “Jack Kennedy was a very impersonal man, objective and analytical, reviewing his own performance as if he were talking about someone else. He had a high degree of self knowledge, more than most people in politics.”
On election day, November 8, 1960, Jack Kennedy watches the returns with (from left) William Walton, Pierre Salinger, Ethel Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, Angie Novello (RFK’s secretary), and campaign aide William Haddad.
“Oh, Bunny, you’re President now.”
On November 9, Jackie takes a solitary walk on the beach at Hyannis Port while the Kennedy clan prepares for a victory photograph.
“She breathes all the political gases that flow around us, but she never seems to inhale them.”
The Kennedy family gathers with the President-elect. Standing, from left: Ethel Kennedy, Stephen Smith, Jean Kennedy Smith, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Pat Kennedy Lawford, Joan Kennedy, and Peter Lawford. Seated, from left: Eunice Kennedy Shriver, Rose Kennedy, Joseph P. Kennedy, Jacqueline Kennedy, Edward M. Kennedy, and Sargent Shriver.
“All made out of the same clay—hair and teeth and tongues from the same reserves.”
Joe and Rose Kennedy on inauguration day, January 20, 1961.
“We don’t want any losers around here. In this family we want winners.”
Newspaper columnist Charley Bartlett and his wife, Martha, at the inaugural. They had introduced Jack and Jackie at a dinner party a decade earlier.
“Nothing mattered to me more than to have Jack Kennedy succeed as president. It did compromise my role as a journalist.”
Jack and Jackie Kennedy moments after he was sworn in as President.
“I could scarcely embrace him in front of all those people, so I remember I just put my hand on his cheek and said, Jack, you were so wonderful!’ And he was smiling in the most touching and most vulnerable way.”
The Kennedy entourage at an inaugural ball. Front row from left: Joe and Rose Kennedy, Jack and Jackie Kennedy, Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson. Second row, center: Teddy and Joan Kennedy.
“I just crumpled. All my strength was finally gone, so I went home and Jack went on with the others.”
Preeminent Washington columnist Joseph Alsop, a close friend of both Jack’s and Jackie’s, hosted the new President in his Georgetown home after the official inaugural festivities ended.
“[Joe] picked the Kennedys as his property, and in a sense they were. They came to dinner when asked. They did things which Joe was striving for.”
Eunice Shriver (seated) and her husband, Sarge (standing), at an event in the White House East Room.
“Eunice and Jack were goddamn near duplicates in damn near every way, particularly in politics.”
JFK with Stephen Smith in the Oval Office.
“He rowed to his objective on silent oars.”
Bobby and Teddy Kennedy huddling with the President.
“Bobby knew instantly what Jack wanted. They talked every day as pilot and co-pilot in the same tank, rumbling through the country’s problems.”
Bill Walton hangs a painting of the frigate Constitution in the Oval Office as Jack Kennedy offers guidance.
“He was at once the most indiscreet and most discreet man alive. . . . He knew with whom to be indiscreet and whom to trust. He had a lot of secrets about everyone.”
Lem Billings in the White House, where he kept his belongings in one of the guest bedrooms.
“He was like a stable pony, relaxing, undemanding, peppy, and very vibrant.”
Chuck Spalding was a friend of Jack’s for more than two decades.
“Chuck got White House fever. He saw Jack leading a glamorous life and wanted to emulate it. Chuck loved the glitz and was burned by it.”
Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr., Jack’s friend despite the antipathy between their fathers, helped JFK win the crucial West Virginia primary.
“He really had a sense of humor, he left himself wide open to be laughed at, and he was a very naughty boy.”
Red Fay (left) and Jim Reed, friends of JFK’s from his PT boat days.
“Jack had so many people, maybe he looked to Jim for normalcy.”
JFK conferring with “alter ego” Ted Sorensen, his closest White House aide.
“I could predict Jack Kennedy’s thinking on most issues, and without his speaking of his emotions, I could read them.”
Jack Kennedy checking the morning’s headlines in the office of Evelyn Lincoln, his faithful—and ever vigilant—secretary.
“Kennedy takes printer’s ink for breakfast.”
Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr., Kennedy’s “court philosopher,” troubleshooter, and resident historian.
“It will be better for us if [Arthur]’s in the White House, seeing what goes on, instead of reading about us in the New York Times and Time magazine up in his office in the Widener Library at Harvard.”
John Kenneth Galbraith, the Harvard economist who served as Kennedy’s ambassador to India.
“Along with people who like to hear themselves talk, there are unquestionably some who are even more inordinately attracted by their own composition. I may well be entitled to a gold star membership in both groups.”
Robert McNamara, Kennedy’s “Whiz Kid” secretary of defense, left the presidency of Ford Motor Company after only thirty-four days to join the new administra
tion.
“The things that most men have to turn to books and reports for, Bob is carrying around right in his head.”
National Security Adviser McGeorge Bundy (right) talking to FBI director J. Edgar Hoover.
“[Bundy] doesn’t fold or get rattled when they’re sniping at him.”
Secretary of the Treasury Douglas Dillon was the most partisan of the Republicans Kennedy chose for his cabinet.
“We both had rather rapid minds.”
Lyndon Johnson relinquished his powerful post as Senate majority leader to serve as JFK’s Vice President.
“Johnson remained a proud and imperious man of towering energies and passions. Self-effacement was for him the most unnatural of roles.”
Onetime presidential contender Adlai E. Stevenson agreed to be JFK’s ambassador to the United Nations despite his belief that it was a second-rate job.
“Stevenson became sort of prissy and overzealous with Kennedy.”
Dave Powers, Kennedy’s longtime factotum, greeted visitors in the West Lobby of the White House.
“Someone witty, light hearted; but faithful, loyal, and with sense enough to keep his mouth closed under all circumstances.”
Larry O’Brien, a veteran of three Kennedy campaigns, worked as JFK’s special assistant for congressional relations.
“O’Brien was the President’s logical surrogate, spreading his ready affability across Capitol Hill.”
Kenny O’Donnell, Kennedy’s appointments secretary, was intensely loyal to Jack, but even closer to Bobby Kennedy, his football teammate at Harvard.
“[Kennedy] wanted an observer in the room who would follow the various arguments more or less objectively, without becoming involved or committed to any point of view.”
Jackie chose fellow Farmington and Vassar alumna Tish Baldrige to be White House social secretary.
“I’ve learned lesson number one. Keep the mouth SHUT at all times.”
Jackie selected European aristocrat Oleg Cassini as her official couturier—a first in White House history.
“I’m sure I can continue to dress the way I like—simple and young clothes as long as they are covered up for the occasion.”
Pamela Turnure, Jackie’s twenty-three-year-old press secretary, had been linked romantically to JFK while working as a receptionist in his Senate office.
“I am so glad you are doing it . . . for the very reason that you haven’t had previous press experience—but you have sense and good taste.”
Bunny Mellon advised Jackie on interiors and gardens, and redesigned both the Rose Garden and the East Garden at the White House.
“She lived in her own realm of beauty and perfection.”
Jackie relied on Jayne Wrightsman’s connections and knowledge of fine French furniture in her restoration of the White House.
“It was a cultural friendship.”
NINE
While the family’s second-floor quarters were being renovated, Jack stayed in the Lincoln Bedroom, and Jackie set up her headquarters in the Queen’s Bedroom across the hall—a “dark and dreary” chamber she described as “the approximate size of a field in which we would turn Man O’War out to pasture.” On the day after the inauguration, Kennedy brought Harry Truman upstairs for a visit after a courtesy call in the Oval Office. The two men found Jackie resting, “propped up in the enormous canopied bed, warmed by a pretty bed jacket, her hair covered with a frivolous little cap.” An embarrassed Truman blurted out that when his mother stayed in that room, “the big bed scared her.”
After the exertions of the inaugural events, “I couldn’t get out of bed for about two weeks,” Jackie recalled. She often made such remarks for dramatic effect. In fact, Jackie left her room frequently. Wearing a casual white shirt, jodhpurs, and low riding boots, she propped herself on a large desk to greet the entire White House staff. She took walks around the sixteen acres of grounds, poked through storerooms, removed “horrors” from the state floor, met with designers and consultants, and entertained friends. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead,” she said with a “conspiratorial twinkle” to J. B. West, the Executive Mansion’s household manager, known as the “chief usher.” “I want to make this into a grand house!”
With the children away until early February, Jackie was able to focus entirely on designing her new role. The previous August, when she had been despondent over “the conflict between what is properly private and the common demand to make every thing public,” Joe Alsop had written her a long letter of advice, offering the example of Helen Taft as a first lady who had found “the most stylish and most effective solution. . . . She did everything that could be useful and that involved no fakery or real loss of dignity. . . . As a result, she was a far greater political asset than any politician’s wife I have known who was not a major active politician in her own right” like “Cousin Eleanor.”
Jackie thanked him for his “very perceptive” counsel. “There is one more thing you have taught me,” she wrote, “to respect power. . . . If things turn out right—I will welcome it—and use it for the things I care about.” Despite her youth and what Arthur Schlesinger called her “veil of lovely inconsequence,” Jackie was fully capable of acting on her words. “Her social graces,” noted Schlesinger, “masked tremendous awareness, an all-seeing eye, ruthless judgment, and a steely purpose.”
Nor was that determination anything new. Two years earlier, the tough-minded liberal columnist Doris Fleeson had expressed pity to Democratic activist Katie Louchheim that Jackie had been “caught in this maw of ambition, pushed into this role of wife to a ruthless man, this inexperienced girl brought up without preparation for the fate awaiting her, rich, shielded, so unarmed.” But Louchheim understood that Fleeson had been fooled by the “disarming” manner of a “young thing,” and that Jackie was “fully aware” of her “protective air of innocence” and knew “precisely what [she was] into and how to handle it besides.” An early feminist, published poet, and “57-year-old grandmother,” as described by the New York Times, Louchheim was a savvy interpreter of the Washington scene. She had been educated at Choate’s sister school, Rosemary Hall, spoke several foreign languages, and was married to a wealthy investment counselor. While not an intimate of the Kennedys, she counted many of their courtiers among her friends and kept a colorful journal of her observations.
Jackie was rigorously selective in her White House activities. “I was tired & I wanted to see my children,” she confided to Bill Walton, “so I just told Tish—who nearly died from the shock—that I would NEVER go out—lunches, teas, degrees, speeches etc. For two months there was a flap. Now it is a precedent established.” She had been advised that there were “ninety-nine things that I had to do as First Lady,” and she later proudly boasted to her friend Nancy Tuckerman that she had not “done one of them.”
What sounded like stubborn negativism actually allowed her to expand the First Lady’s role beyond its traditional boundaries. She was fundamentally a conventional wife who knew, as she told Nellie Connally after JFK’s death, “where a woman’s place is—secondary to the man.” Jackie said to Hugh Sidey that she felt “compassion for women who could not find enough in their husbands to stimulate them and interest them so that they themselves had to seek power and dominance.”
Yet she was advanced in her tastes and attitudes. Since her girlhood she had been intellectually confident and mature beyond her years, conspicuous for her “great presence and control.” At age sixteen, when Yusha Auchincloss, her eighteen-year-old stepbrother, told her she seemed conceited, she replied, “I really don’t think I am better than other people, Yush—It just must be something I do that I don’t know about.” After spending her junior year in Paris, she had refused to return to Vassar, which she disliked, wishing she had gone to Radcliffe instead. She opted to finish her degree in the urban and coeducational environment at George Washington University because “I did not want to live like a little girl again.”
“Jackie had a c
ertain quality of mystery about her,” said Oleg Cassini, “an aura she succeeded in maintaining. People did not usually know what she was thinking or what she was doing behind the scenes—and she wanted to keep it that way.” As early as age fifteen she believed, as she advised Yusha Auchincloss, that once “you know everything” about a woman, “all your interest in her is gone.” Jackie liked nostalgic clothes, she wrote in one of her Vogue essays, because they “make you feel quite secretly mysterious.” Cassini saw her as “sphinxlike”—no accident, since the mythical figure was a crucial part of her identity.
Jackie’s favorite statue depicts Madame de Pompadour as a sphinx—an image she arranged to have reproduced on a trompe l’oeil wardrobe in her White House bedroom painted with the beloved symbols of her life. “A sphinx is rather what I feel like when I go out with you,” Jackie once told Adlai Stevenson following a week in which the UN ambassador squired her around New York. As Richard Avedon observed after photographing her for Harper’s Bazaar, “She has a great deal in common with top movie stars. She knows when to hold herself back while everyone else you know gives too much of themselves at one time.”
Grace and Power Page 13
