tour somewhere in the West, had said something like, “President Eisenhower might have apologized to Khrushchev,”I was shocked. The news report was fairly garbled and I remember praying that I had not heard it correctly. This was the kind of unhappy phrase that could plague a candidate right down to the wire. Later, when the clarification came through, I felt that whereas Kennedy had offered an explanation, it did not constitute a justification, and I dreaded the repetitions of that phrase that I was bound to hear through the autumn months.
Even more damaging, I felt, was the French newspaperman’s report of his interview with Adlai Stevenson. I recall reading a very brief news story about this on an inside page in the Philadephia
Inquirer
, and I stopped cold when I saw it, for if what the Frenchman reported had truly been said by Stevenson, it did indeed constitute giving aid and comfort to the enemy on the eve of an important international convention. Specifically, it undercut our nation’s bargaining position. I refused to believe that Stevenson had made the remarks attributed to him, but I knew that the fat was in the fire. For the next several days I looked in vain for any follow-up on the story and felt considerable relief when it appeared to have been overlooked. But in politics I am a great believer in Murphy’s Law, “If something bad can happen, it will.” And before long the Republicans caught up with the damaging article and interrogated the French reporter, who defended the accuracy of the interview as printed; thus they had a vibrant fresh charge that Stevenson was soft on communism. At the time I felt reasonably sure that Mr. Stevenson did not say the things he was quoted as saying, but I also felt certain that he had further disqualified himself as the Democratic candidate. Republicanorators would hound him to his political grave, chanting those words from Paris and conjuring up visions and images that would be as deadly as they were unfair.
Casting up the harm done both sides, Paris and Tokyo versus “the apology” and the French “interview,” I felt that in superficial damage the four events were just about a stand-off. But when one considered the fundamental nature of the wounds, one found that half the Democratic losses involved only Stevenson, who was not going to be the candidate anyway, while the wound that Kennedy had suffered involved only vague words which could later be explained away. But the damage that the Republicans had suffered was visual. Most of the American electorate had seen on television the appalling events in Paris and the wild-eyed snake-dancers in Tokyo, and these wounds were not peripheral; they struck at the vital posture of the party. On the whole, I faced the nominating conventions with equanimity.
But on May 23 my complacency received a sharp shock. That evening I spoke in New York on the same program with Governor Nelson Rockefeller at a meeting to honor Shigeru Yoshida, the former prime minister of Japan, and it fell to me to speak first. I made a few undistinguished remarks and was followed immediately by the governor, who went out of his way seven times to comment on the brilliance and aptness of what I had said. I thought: “This man’s really running for the Presidency. He doesn’t know where I stand and he wants to be as congenial as possible.” As he spoke, I smiled wanly back at him and fought down the sick feeling that had taken control of my stomach.I thought: “I was absolutely right in Guatemala. This man’s going to get the Republican nomination and he’s going to win. Look at that audience!”
As Governor Rockefeller spoke, the large crowd poured out its adulation. When he ended, people surged about the table crying, “We want you for President.” I followed him as he moved through the crowd and saw how hundreds of strangers rushed up merely to touch him and to cry, “You’re our man, Rocky.” There was something terribly electric in
Even more damaging, I felt, was the French newspaperman’s report of his interview with Adlai Stevenson. I recall reading a very brief news story about this on an inside page in the Philadephia
Inquirer
, and I stopped cold when I saw it, for if what the Frenchman reported had truly been said by Stevenson, it did indeed constitute giving aid and comfort to the enemy on the eve of an important international convention. Specifically, it undercut our nation’s bargaining position. I refused to believe that Stevenson had made the remarks attributed to him, but I knew that the fat was in the fire. For the next several days I looked in vain for any follow-up on the story and felt considerable relief when it appeared to have been overlooked. But in politics I am a great believer in Murphy’s Law, “If something bad can happen, it will.” And before long the Republicans caught up with the damaging article and interrogated the French reporter, who defended the accuracy of the interview as printed; thus they had a vibrant fresh charge that Stevenson was soft on communism. At the time I felt reasonably sure that Mr. Stevenson did not say the things he was quoted as saying, but I also felt certain that he had further disqualified himself as the Democratic candidate. Republicanorators would hound him to his political grave, chanting those words from Paris and conjuring up visions and images that would be as deadly as they were unfair.
Casting up the harm done both sides, Paris and Tokyo versus “the apology” and the French “interview,” I felt that in superficial damage the four events were just about a stand-off. But when one considered the fundamental nature of the wounds, one found that half the Democratic losses involved only Stevenson, who was not going to be the candidate anyway, while the wound that Kennedy had suffered involved only vague words which could later be explained away. But the damage that the Republicans had suffered was visual. Most of the American electorate had seen on television the appalling events in Paris and the wild-eyed snake-dancers in Tokyo, and these wounds were not peripheral; they struck at the vital posture of the party. On the whole, I faced the nominating conventions with equanimity.
But on May 23 my complacency received a sharp shock. That evening I spoke in New York on the same program with Governor Nelson Rockefeller at a meeting to honor Shigeru Yoshida, the former prime minister of Japan, and it fell to me to speak first. I made a few undistinguished remarks and was followed immediately by the governor, who went out of his way seven times to comment on the brilliance and aptness of what I had said. I thought: “This man’s really running for the Presidency. He doesn’t know where I stand and he wants to be as congenial as possible.” As he spoke, I smiled wanly back at him and fought down the sick feeling that had taken control of my stomach.I thought: “I was absolutely right in Guatemala. This man’s going to get the Republican nomination and he’s going to win. Look at that audience!”
As Governor Rockefeller spoke, the large crowd poured out its adulation. When he ended, people surged about the table crying, “We want you for President.” I followed him as he moved through the crowd and saw how hundreds of strangers rushed up merely to touch him and to cry, “You’re our man, Rocky.” There was something terribly electric in
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