THE SEVENTH CONVERSATION

We ended up last time talking about the Cuban crisis, and the next event of great interest was the problem with the British over Skybolt. You remember, in December the President went to Bermuda and then afterwards, did Macmillan come back to Florida, I think, for a day?

I don't think so. Once they met at Key West. That was the very beginning.

That was the very beginning.

No, I don't think Macmillan did—

Oh, David Ormsby-Gore came back and Randolph Churchill, but not Macmillan.

Is this the Skybolt time?

Yeah.

That was at Nassau.¹

PRESIDENT KENNEDY AND PRIME MINISTER MACMILLAN IN NASSAU, DECEMBER 1962
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

The—the meeting was at Nassau.

Yeah.

After Nassau, I think David and Randolph came and spent a day, didn't they, at Palm Beach?

That's right. And is that what you want me to tell about?

Yeah.

First, they met in Nassau because Jack told David to tell Macmillan he wouldn't meet in Bermuda again because there was no—in the governor general's house there was no hot water for the bath. [Both laugh] So they met at Nassau. Then I don't think Jack saw Randolph Churchill—not until later. But I remember the next day, sitting out, when Godfrey McHugh came running in with a dispatch that whatever company it is that shot Skybolt and saying, "Look what wonderful news, Mr. President!" And I said—I told you before about him saying, "Goddamn it, Godfrey!" It was just too awful to be true. And then he got on the phone and tracked everyone down and Gilpatric said he didn't know, and McNamara was away. I don't know if you've read Dick Neustadt's thing on Skybolt, have you?

I haven't.

Well, Jack gave me that about Novemb—on November 20 and said, this is the—usually he never brought anything home—and he said, "This is the most fascinating reading," and he said, "Read it." And so I took it to Texas with me. It's been in my briefcase ever since. I've never read it. But anyway, it explains all the little hitches back and forth.

Well, you think the President was deeply concerned?

Oh, he was just crushed because Nassau had gone so beautifully and Macmillan had—Macmillan was really in trouble at home, I guess, and whatever they'd worked out was Polaris—hadn't been quite what he wanted but together they'd both done the best they could to get something that would be all right for them. And I remember David's face. He just looked like he'd been kicked in the stomach, and Jack saying, "Ugh, you know, what are we going to do?" And he felt as if he betrayed the prime minister. So David went in another room, carrying his little red dispatch box, and talked on the phone to Macmillan and they made up what their announcement would be. But they were both just sick about it. I think Jack always felt that contributed so to Macmillan's troubles. And as he said, it's always some third person down the line somewhere whose fault it is. It turns out on that thing, which he just explained to me briefly, it's Thorneycroft, who Jack always did think was stupid, doing some little thing and someone not being there when someone called, I don't know.

Do you remember anything about the President's mood, before he went to Nassau?

Well, not exactly. What would it have been? Well, some anticipation.

Yes, and concern, because it did weaken Macmillan's political position. And I think the actual solution was worked out by the President and Mac Bundy and David on the plane down to Nassau.

And I remember Jack being really mad, either talking to me on the phone from Nassau or telling me before. He hated Diefenbaker, and Diefenbaker had made some snotty condition that he had to come down there and have lunch with him one day, or something. He was mad about that. But, you know, they had a good time, always, he and Macmillan—I mean, sort of it was rather wry laughter. You know, they always managed to have their jokes, even though they were tinged with despair a bit. But that was too bad, that whole thing.

Actually, the problem of the testing of Skybolt, although it was a big thing then, didn't have the effect that everyone feared and—it did for about a week, but I think it was so well handled that it—

Well, maybe here, but it really caused trouble for Macmillan at home, didn't it?

Well, to some degree—for a time. But Labour didn't want Skybolt either, so they weren't in a position to exploit it for themselves.

I see. And then I remember Randolph Churchill, when Jack went to Washington, came over. Well, he was so pro-Jack in all of—that was very nice. I don't think he saw Jack that time. Maybe he did.

Yes, he came to Washington thereafter, and was very proud of the fact that he'd written the one pro-Nassau piece to appear in the British press.

That's right.

The next big thing was de Gaulle's veto of British entrance into the Common Market.² The President was rather fascinated by de Gaulle, wasn't he? As a historical phenomenon?

Well, of course, he was always interested in him, but really it was more Churchill. And I think probably because I read, or said I did, de Gaulle's memoirs and because he used a sentence from one of them when he announced for the presidency—"I've always had a certain image of America"—that's taken from the opening line of de Gaulle's—"I've always had a certain image of France." Just that. But he saw—he used to talk to me about de Gaulle so realistically. You know, that that man was just consumed really with grudges, and he'd explain of how he'd never forgotten the slights of the last world war, or practically, that we didn't come earlier into the first world war. When everybody that he was dealing with then is dead, and everything, and he just—he was nice about it. He never got mad the way he did about the Germans or anything. But he just seemed to have such distaste for someone who was so spiteful. I remember he asked him, in Paris and he was very interested, who he got along with best—Churchill or Roosevelt. And de Gaulle said, "With Churchill I was always in disagreement but we always reached an accord. With Roosevelt I was always in agreement but we never had an accord"—or some lovely little French wordplay—but, you know, so when de Gaulle did that, well, I wouldn't be surprised if Jack almost expected it. And I remember one time later—oh, I was having to answer a letter to Malraux or something—when Malraux came over for the Mona Lisa,³ which was way after that, I think. He came for dinner one night alone, afterwards, and Jack said he purposely wasn't going to talk to him about all this—you know, France and England and everything, the kind of thing that Hervé was always so frantic about. He talked to him only about Red China. Bundy could tell you that conversation. He said, "Why are all of you worrying about this and that and your force de frappe and all?⁴ You know, you should just think of Red China and what's going to happen when they get loose." And Malraux was rather impressed. But—and later on that spring I had to answer a letter—or else it was about coming back from Morocco, when I'd said I wouldn't land in Paris, or something.⁵ I just never wanted to go near the French again. But there was no way to get home without doing it. And Jack said, "No, no, you mustn't be like that. Don't you see you're the one avenue that's open, and they think I'm a so-and-so but they think you're nice because you like France. And you must always leave an avenue open and you mustn't—" Again that thing of conciliation always. You know, he said, "What's the point of you getting mad at them too and writing Malraux an insulting letter?" But he was just so—it was just so un-Christian of de Gaulle, and Jack gave so much and that spiteful man gave so little. And I think he sort of saw that in the long run, de Gaulle would do all of this work for "la Gloire" and everything, and he'd really be remembered as—well, the man who, with Castro and Red China, didn't sign the test ban treaty. Like he used to say about Nehru sometimes, "Isn't it sad? This man did so much for independence and everything, but he stayed around too long and now it's all going, bit by bit, and he's botching up things." And, you know, Nehru's image really did change a lot in his last years because Nehru got to be awfully sanctimonious—I mean, the difference between Hungary and Goa and all of that.⁶ What was the thing Jack had about that? A very good expression. Something about, "It's like the town preacher being caught in the whorehouse." You asked me about him and Nehru the other day—he had that sort of feeling about him. And also, what I forgot to tell you about Nehru—it was so funny, Nehru wanting to come on this very private visit but because there weren't any crowds purposely arranged, out of desperation, the man went to Disneyland, which seemed so unlike Nehru, but there'd be a lot of children who'd yell, "Cha-cha Nehru Zindabad!" I mean, this funny thing of ego. So he thought that that was de Gaulle's horrible failure, and I don't think he did think much of him.

Were there any Frenchmen whom he liked and trusted, particularly?

Only one I know is Segonzac.⁷

Not Hervé.

No, Hervé amu—I mean, Hervé's whole sort of way of life and his desperation about David Gore—I mean, he always tried to be so nice to Hervé and sometimes he'd say, "We should ask him to dinner because he's about to explode again." But no, you know, basically he didn't like the French, and I loathe the French. There's not one French person I can think of except—maybe two very simple people. Maybe Boudin,⁸ who's so un-French. You know, they're really not very nice. They're all for themselves.

How did the President and Malraux—how did that work?

Well, Malraux would talk brilliantly and so would Jack, and Bundy would always be there. So, you know, it was a wonderful exchange, but Malraux sort of off in a marvelous fog or— It was very interesting and they never, you know, really got into policy or all that. Well, he was interested in Malraux, but he saw that de Gaulle treated him like Muggsy O'Leary—not as well.⁹ So, you know, no one—that was the thing—no one spoke for de Gaulle. There was no point giving really Malraux any messages, but—

But he wasn't astonished by de Gaulle then. He rather expected that de Gaulle would have a headstrong—

Well, maybe he was a little astonished in the beginning because he really tried hard and went over backwards. But, well, maybe he was a little astonished, but then he got to see that it was this classic pattern and it just wasn't going to get any better. And he was really irritated, I told you before, at what de Gaulle said after Cuba.¹⁰ And that's another time that I think there was some sincere irritation that that proved we'd never defend Europe. I mean, just a damn troublemaker that man was!

Yet he wanted de Gaulle to come to the United States, and I think de Gaulle had agreed to come in March of this year.¹¹

Yes, or it was going to be January, even, and it was going to be at Hyannis. And Hervé always said, if only they could talk and meet the way Macmillan and Jack met—anywhere, you know, halfway, this and that, but do it a lot. And then this time I think Hervé was right. He said, even if nothing's accomplished. But for de Gaulle—he would want it to be some momentous meeting, and I think that meeting would have had terrific results in a way, or some results, and for finally de Gaulle to agree and all that—

The President had some expectations a meeting with de Gaulle might ease things.

Yes. You know, de Gaulle respected Jack and the whole way his opinion changed of him in Paris. I mean, I don't know what his opinion was, but obviously, everyone thought, "Who is this young President?" And, you know, the way he'd speak to me of him during the endless dinners—we sat next to each—you could just see that he was—or, what he told me about him after his funeral, upstairs.¹² And then what—

What did he say?

THE BURIAL OF PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY
Abbie Rowe, National Park Service/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

Well, I mean, that he just was one of these—you know, so impressive. And then Segonzac sent me a letter which I can show you that Burin des Roziers, who I think is de Gaulle's chief of cabinet,¹³ told Segonzac what de Gaulle really thought of Kennedy and, you know, he thought—I mean, as long as Kennedy was alive, he was the leader of the West. And maybe de Gaulle didn't like it sometimes, but he really looked up to him. And then, apparently—Bobby told me this later—Bohlen¹⁴ or someone—tried to say that Johnson would be all right, he was the one Kennedy had chosen as vice president—you know, reassure him in the first days. And about a month or so later, he said, "Kennedy may have made a mistake," or "You all may have made a mistake about that man." In other words, his opinion of Johnson fell very low. So he wouldn't have dared to—he never would have recognized Red China, I'm sure, if Jack had been alive. There are so many little things like that, because he respected him.

Did the President have any particular—did he ever talk about Europe, in the sense of European unity and unification—Jean Monnet, for example? Did he mention him that much?

Well, he always, in the very beginning, thought of Jean Monnet one of the first for the Medal of Freedom, and you know, so he thought he was a most wonderful man and that all that he worked and believed in, and everything.¹⁵ So I think he did think that was a marvelous idea. But he never—you know, he never really sat and talked to me an hour about European unity, but I know he thought—he was for it, wasn't he?

Yes. I think it was quite characteristic. He was very much for it but he was much less interested than a lot of the people in the State Department about the questions of structure and all this kind of thing. And I think quite rightly so, because he knew if it came, it would come in its own way and you could get obsessed with the sort of tactical questions about it.

Yeah, he never seemed to be pressing it, or anything, but—

I think he saw it as a historic inevitability.

Oh, and then he told me something very interesting. Oh, if he'd only written these things down because I've forgotten them. But what made de Gaulle veto the Common Market and what Macmillan had told him and how Macmillan had been out at Rambouillet about two weeks before.¹⁶

That's right.

And everything seemed to be fine and then there was some little thing here or there, some typically French thing of—like Hervé always being mad when he's not given precedence. Well, something that some country or person did that irritated him and bang-o, he turned around and did the other.

I think he may have have felt—was it possibly this, that—

Oh, well, maybe Nassau made him change it?

Yeah, that he—that—

That Macmillan told him at Nassau about Rambouillet.

Yes, but Macmillan at Rambouillet had not said anything to de Gaulle about the Nassau agreement, and de Gaulle believed—did not understand that the Nassau agreement was drawn up—that the Nassau plan was drawn up on the plane down to Nassau—and supposed that Macmillan had already known about it then, was holding out on him.

I see.

Might that have been it?

That's it. I guess so, yeah.

Because I heard somewhat that sort of thing from the French here—that Macmillan came to Rambouillet and held out on de Gaulle and, therefore, de Gaulle regarded that as a personal betrayal.

And that's why he suddenly did the Common Market, though at Rambouillet it had all looked wonderful. And I think—yeah.

Though, or certainly why he did the Common Market so brutally. I think that, in any case, he might have done it but not in that kind of contemptuous way that he—that he did it. On other European leaders—Fanfani came here a couple of times. In fact, when I saw Fanfani, he reminded me that he first met the President at the Chicago convention in 1956.¹⁷

Well, he liked Fanfani. You know, that was sort of the opening to the left and everything, I suppose—they got on well and—but I mean, he wasn't just, you know, inspired beyond belief by him.

No, no.

I can't think of any other leaders. I wasn't—Tito had a violent temperature when he saw him, so that was difficult.¹⁸

Well, how was the Tito thing?

I wasn't there. And I guess the poor man had a fever of 102 and couldn't eat anything. So it was mostly, you know, polite and all of that, but nothing much. I don't know really much about that.

How did the Indian trip, which you and Lee took, happen to come up?

Well, Nehru brought it up when he was here at dinner, or something. And then Ken Galbraith jumped on the idea. Then it was—it was delayed so many times. I was still so terribly tired after John and I didn't really want to go on that trip. But yet I sort of wanted to go to India. So, once it was delayed, you just weren't up to it, or something was happening—I forget what. Could it have had something to do with Cuba? I don't know. It was put off—anyway, just to show you one thing how sweet Jack was. The schedule came back for two weeks. All over India! My God, it would have killed him, campaigning! And you wrote back and forth, and you tried to change it and he—and Ken would keep saying that the children at Mysore were weaving garlands, and this and that. So finally, we cut it, with a map, to very small—you know, just mostly Rajasthan and around India. And it was—we were in Florida, either Washington's Birthday, or Easter or something, I forget when we went—and Jack got through to Ken Galbraith, and Ken was really protesting on the phone, and he spent the whole last day of his little holiday there, shouting to Ken on a bad connection—you know, saying, "It's too much for her," and, "Ken, I don't care. Everyone complains. It's just what they say in campaigns when you tell them you can't. I'm not going to let her. She's tired." You know, he really fought to have that chopped off. Well, then—so he did that. You know, I guess he—it was wonderful to go to India, and he didn't really care if I went or not, but I guess he thought it would be nice.

JACQUELINE KENNEDY ENCOUNTERS INDIA
John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

MRS. KENNEDY BEING PRESENTED WITH A HORSE BY PRESIDENT AYUB KHAN OF PAKISTAN
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

I think he was very pleased with it and very proud of the success and I think he thought that—well, as you mentioned yourself in connection with France, that quite apart from it's nice for you to get a holiday and get out of Washington, I think he helped—think it helped the country and it helped him in important respects.

You know, it was so funny, the difference between India and Pakistan, because India was really just getting to know Nehru, who did like Lee and I—Lee and me. And never mentioned Pakistan or anything. And then there was Ken Galbraith and B. K. Nehru and Madame Pandit and her sister.¹⁹ It was much more like a family group. The meals were pleasant. And when we got to Pakistan—of course, I basically like the Paks more than the Indians. They're sort of more manly, and Ayub never stopped talking politics or how he hated Nehru or couldn't stand him.²⁰ And I did get a message from the State Department from Ken to make sure that it looked like McConaughy was an old friend of Jack's.²¹ So the first thing I did when McConaughy and Ayub—McConaughy got there the day I did—the day before, as the ambassador. So, I tried to sort of say—set it up that they'd known each other from when and everything. And McConaughy said, "Oh, no"—that's right in front of Ayub—"That's not true at all, Mrs. Kennedy. The first time I ever met the President was two weeks ago when I gave—" And the only time I ever wrote Jack a letter, which I wrote coming down from the Khyber Pass and gave him when I got home, was what a hopeless ambassador McConaughy was for Pakistan, and all the reasons and all the things I thought the ambassador there should be, which was a gentleman, a soldier, and a friend of the President's. And I suggested some other people—Bill Blair and Bill Battle.²² And Jack was so impressed by that letter, he showed it to Dean Rusk, whose big choice McConaughy had been, and said, "This is the kind of letter I should be getting from the inspectors of embassies." I mean, he'd never been for McConaughy, who was a sweet man, but just such a— When we went to Rawalpindi, thatParis Match reporter was yelling, as we got off the plane, "Bonjour, Jacqueline!" And that night McConaughy said to Ayub Khan, "Mr. President, I was so interested to hear all that French at the airport today. I never realized there was so much French influence in Pakistan." Well, Ayub just looked at him and said, "I think if—you will find out that the influence here has been mainly British." But you know—Dean Rusk! Anyway, that was my trip. And our trip was so exhausting that all through Pakistan, Lee and I were having nosebleeds every day and night. So we were really tired when we got home.

Did the President talk much about Africa? The Congo?

Yes. Once he said about Ed Gullion and Bill Attwood—and Bill Attwood had gotten sick there and everything and, you know, you were so sorry for him—he said, "Those are so much more the important places to be now as a diplomat." And he said, "London and Paris and everything don't matter anymore. There's the telephone and, you know, it's really done that way. But," he says, "it's those far-out places in Africa that are, you know, the exciting places for a diplomat to be, and where you can do the most." Well, Ed Gullion, he'd always had a special feeling for, because when he was doing his Indochina speech, which was the year before we were married, because I'd had to type it all up from that summer—I mean, translate all these French books and everything—Ed Gullion was the only person in the State Department who would sort of talk to Jack, and who would really say how awful Indochina was and the way it was going.²³ And I guess he got fired because of that, or—or else he got—no, he got put in some—

He got shifted out of that area and given other things.

Yeah. And put in some pathetic little post. We always used to see him all the time and, well then, I think Jack named him to the Congo, just showed what he thought of him. He really thought he was exceptional.

In 1963, one of the big things on the President's mind was, of course, Vietnam and Diem and Madame Nhu, and all that.²⁴

Yes, well, you know, obviously it was trouble for so long and you didn't ask Jack about it when he came home, and everything. But I know once—I forget how long Lodge was out there before things really got bad. About how many months?

He was out about, I guess, about three months before Diem was thrown out.

Well, I know that he started acting rather strangely, and he said he wouldn't answer their cables and you couldn't get through or—anyway, as if he was kind of taking it into his own hands, or something. And what I can remember is when the coup came, Jack was just sick. I know he'd done something to try and stop—Lodge had started something and they'd stopped. All of this you can learn from other people because a lot of it I learned later. But he'd done something to stop it. But anyway, when Diem was murdered, Jack was—oh, he just had that awful look that he had at the time of the Bay of Pigs. I mean, he was just so—just wounded, and he was shaking his head and it was home in our—you know, in our room at the White House—and he was saying, "Oh!"—you know—"No! Why?" And he said Diem fought Communism for twenty years and everything, and it shouldn't have ended like this. He was just sick about it. Madame Nhu tearing all around, saying things about him—I suppose she was more of an irritant. But once I asked him, "Why are these women like her and Clare Luce, who both obviously are attractive to men, why are they—why do they have this queer thing for power?" She was everything that Jack found unattractive—that I found unattractive in a woman. And he said, "It's strange," he said, "but it's because they resent getting their power through men." And so, they become really—just hating men, whatever you call that. She was rather like Clare Luce. [whispers] I wouldn't be surprised if they were lesbians.

Clare Luce wrote very favorable pieces about you, remember?

Yeah, but Clare Luce had come to lunch with Jack once in the White House when Tish was still there.²⁵ And I remember—oh, she so badly wanted to come to see him as a man would. She wanted to see him in his office, or something. Anyway, a sort of a male lunch was arranged, and Tish told me she was so nervous before, she'd had about three martinis.²⁶ And I was so mad at her that I stood—I managed to be just outside our dining room, standing there, pretending to shuffle through my desk, and I just really cut her dead, so that when Jack introduced us and I just stood with my hands at my side and finally walked over. He said to me later, "You know," he said, "if you're going to cut someone dead, dear"—you know, he was sort of touched at my loyalty because it could only make Mrs. Luce hurt me more,²⁷ but he really wasn't very pleased at my doing that. He said, "Do it naturally, but don't just set it up and lay the trap for them." And apparently, all through that lunch, Mrs. Luce, who I guess was a bit loaded, just went on and lit into him and told him all these things. And finally—he was always, you know, so courteous to women—he said, "Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Luce, but unfortunately you're not in a position to do anything about these things, and I am." And that's how it ended. And the sad thing about that is they'd been friends and she'd been a friend of Mr. Kennedy's and he'd helped her so. You know, the time when Morse and all that, when she didn't go to Brazil?²⁸ Well, both Harry Luce and Mr. Kennedy told her she shouldn't go and Jack called her up especially and said, "You know, now, they're wrong. You know, you'll be much happier there. You need to be doing something." And he said, "All this will blow over and, you know, I really advise you to take it." And, "My father's older and he sees things his way." Well, she didn't take it and I think Jack was completely right. What did she do? Then she went back to Arizona and made little mosaic tables, and got bitterer and bitterer and more and more venomous.²⁹

And swam underwater.

Yeah. And he tried to help her. So for her to turn on him like that—well again, this resentment of men.

And Harry Luce remained friendly.

Yeah, I think. Well, I know Jack saw him a couple of times and, you know, it was all right—I mean, he might blow up at him for certain things, but they would— it never got bitter that way.

How did Luce happen to write the introduction to Why England Slept?

Oh, that was Mr. Kennedy, because Jack had gotten Arthur Krock to do it. And then Mr. Kennedy thought that it might look as if Arthur Krock had written the book or something, because he'd been an old friend of the family—and that it would be better if Henry Luce did it. So it was sort of changed midstream, and that's one thing Arthur Krock never forgave Jack for. I mean, the last time we saw him, he even brought it up.

Oh, really?

Or forgave Mr. Kennedy for it. It was a real slight. And you know, so that's where this queer enmity that Krock had for him, who, after all, he'd known as a young boy and known me and he'd sort of been his mentor—not exactly mentor, but you know, seen him and everything. This sort of bitterness started. And that's when. Mr. Kennedy changing it.

I can remember in the first winter, the dinner at the White House, when the Krocks were there, so there was still a slight relationship then, but then Krock became absolutely hopeless.

You try over and over. You see, he'd been a friend of me growing up, gotten me my job in the Times-Herald, always a friend of my grandfather's—we used to write poems to each other, for both of us. And you try, over and over, to do something about the relationship, and each time you just get slapped in the face with a wet fish, and finally you gave up. He was too bitter, and he couldn't bear to see someone young coming on. And we went out of our way to be nice, and we even went to their house for dinner—as President.³⁰

You did? When was this? In the beginning or—

Yes, sometime that year. I think it was in the spring.

On Vietnam, it was rather interesting that the President should send Cabot Lodge, whom he had defeated in the Senate in 1952 and who ran on the opposite ticket in 1960. Had he and Lodge maintained particular personal relations in this period?

No, the only time I can remember, we asked Lodge to the dinner for Abboud of the Sudan. And Lodge was really nice that evening. I mean, I think Jack had always thought of him as rather arrogant and everything. Well, he seemed so touched to be there and so sort of, well, polite. And I remember Jack walked him to the door. Once he was President, he did these extraordinary sort of thoughtful things, to go out of his way. Lodge was just very nice then, and when we went upstairs I said, you know, he just seemed so nice that evening, and Jack said, "Yeah." I think he probably did it—don't you think?—rather thinking it might be such a brilliant thing to do because Vietnam was rather hopeless anyway—and put a Republican there. I don't know. That's what I read in the papers. I never really asked him why he sent Lodge there.

I'm sure that entered in. I think Rusk suggested it, and I think the President was attracted to it partly for that reason, and partly because Lodge had served as liaison officer with the French army in the Second World War and spoke excellent French.

Oh, that's right.

And partly because he wanted to figure out that we had enough prestige to recapture control of our policies from General Harkins³¹ and the military. I think all those things may have entered in. I think Latin America was something the President cared about a great deal, obviously. And you mentioned earlier about his admiration for Betancourt and for Lleras Camargo. Did he ever—do you remember Frondizi of Argentina?

No. That was a men's lunch.

That was a men's lunch. Um-hmm. The Brazilian trip was always about to take place.

Oh, we always had our bags packed for that trip. And I remember one so interesting thing that he said about Quadros³² when Quadros resigned. He did resign, didn't he?

Yes, he did.

And Jack shook his head. He was rather disgusted and he said, "You don't have the right to do that." One doesn't have the right to do that. "I mean, you don't have to run again, or something, but you don't have the right, once you're in there and the heat gets too strong, to just get out of the kitchen." So I think everyone had thought quite a lot of Quadros before, hadn't they?—and pinned a lot of hopes on him. And Jack was—well, not horrified, because that's—too strong a word—but that just wasn't in his way of doing things. I mean, when he took on something—just the way he was always prepared to lose this election—I don't think he would have, but he would be talking about it—on civil rights. Sometimes when things were bad, and he'd say, "Well, maybe"—but you know it was something that had to be done. You could never really be a great president unless you were prepared to be hated or to lose on something that counted. Again the whole thing of Profiles in Courage. And that's just what Quadros was the opposite of.

Do you remember any particular reaction to Goulart?³³

No, that was—that lunch, again, I was sick. And I think he thought Goulart was sort of a shifty character and—you know, I mean, well, I mean, you know—Goulart was really messing everything up, wasn't he?—in the economy and the Communists. I thought—I think he thought he was a faker and a robber and a—but I don't know what he exactly thought.

Did he have any particular—do you remember anything particular about Peru?

Yes, you know, Prado of Peru had been here on a state visit. He was really rather a comic character. But anyway, when he was overthrown, it reminds me so now of everyone saying that the United States recognized the junta in Brazil too quickly, because we held off recognition or something. We cut—

We suspended relations and stopped aid.

That's right. And later on Pat's—Rosita Prado, who Pat³⁴ went to school with, wrote Jack a letter saying, "You saved my father's life"—because they were going to execute Prado and, I guess, his wife. And because of what we did and everything, they let him get out and get to Paris and all that. But, you know, just making it rough for them for a while there. Finally, it made it better in the long run, instead of just saying, "Hooray, hooray, they've overthrown"—and I guess—no—

No, you're absolutely right.

That's right, no—yeah.

What we did was we suspended and said, we will resume if you agree to do certain things like give parties political freedom, restore freedom of the press, agree to hold elections. They finally agreed to do these things, and then we resumed relations, and it made a great difference.

And in Brazil, the minute the junta took over this time, everyone just had cheers. And that was the most disillusioning thing. Betancourt was here talking to me about it, two months ago. He said all—half of Congress, or Parliament, whatever it is, all the great writers, everyone has their civil liberties taken away from them. And that was one of the most despairing things in Latin America—the difference between Kennedy and Johnson. It affected all the countries. Jack never would have done it that way.

Charlie Bartlett played a role in working out the conditions with the new government in Peru. Do you remember anything about that?

No, I didn't know that.

He helped—I think Charlie and Berckemeyer³⁵ were kind of playing on that. Did the Dominican Republic—was there anything particular there? John Bartlow Martin or Bosch?³⁶ Not much.

Well, he just said how insurmountable Bosch's problems were going to be. You know, he hoped so it would work, and then it didn't.

What was his general feeling about the Foreign Service?

Oh, and the State Department.

The State Department.

Well, it was just despair, and he used to talk all the time. You know, he had such high hopes for Rusk in the beginning, when you read his dossier of what the man was. And he liked him, sort of, personally. I mean, you could never say Dean Rusk is mean, or anything, but he saw him get to sort of be the tool, really, and he saw that that man was so—well, could never dare to make a decision or any—he never would make a decision. And Jack used to come home some nights and say, "Goddamn it, Bundy and I get more done in one day in the White House than they do in six months in the State Department." I remember once they'd—they'd asked for some message to be drafted to Russia, a very unimportant one—something like wishing Khrushchev happy birthday—maybe a little more important—and either six or eleven weeks went by and nothing had come. And then—this is another very late example—when I came back from Morocco, I told him of this brilliant, young, very low man in our embassy there, who'd been attached to the Secret Service, who learned all the Berber languages and everything—had been there two years and he was going to be transferred to the Caribbean or something, and he wanted so to go to that part of the world—Algeria or something. Well, when I told Jack that, he was really mad because he said, "I wrote Rusk a memo about that six months ago, that you shouldn't have this policy of moving everyone every two years. That it's so much better to let them build up some knowledge," or something. And he used to say that sending an order to Rusk at the State Department was "like dropping it in the dead letter box." And the one thing he was thinking of—you asked me once what he was planning to do after the election? It was to get rid of Dean Rusk.³⁷ But yet he so hated to hurt anyone. And I said, "Well, can't he go back to the Rockefeller Foundation?" And he said, "No, no"—so sadly. "You know he's given all that up. He really burned his bridges." And I think he was sort of toying with the idea of putting McNamara in there, but it really wasn't firmed up because I don't know if he thought exactly McNamara would be right for foreign policy. And he didn't want to let Bundy go because he needed Bundy with him. But he wanted someone in there, you know, almost like McNamara or Bobby, who could just flush out all those— And it was so funny, one day three ambassadors came in to say goodbye to him, and he said they all had on striped shirts with the white collar and cuffs—you know, very English, with umbrellas on their arms—and two of them had on what he called slave bracelets. I don't know if he meant identification bracelets or elephant hair.

These are our U.S. ambassadors, about to go overseas.

Yes. And one was going to Africa, and one was going to the Near East—I don't know, Lebanon or Turkey or somewhere. And these sort of precious flits came in his office and he was just so—you know, it was the wrong idea of the kind of people he wanted to be sent out there anyway. He wanted a more rugged America sent. And he called up Rusk the minute the last one had left his office—I guess there weren't three in a day, but say, three over a week—and said, "I want you to send out a memo to everyone in the Foreign Service that not one of them can wear a slave bracelet anymore."³⁸ But, you know, those were the kind of people who took Rusk over in the end. And he cared so about the little—like where was Rusk? He wasn't in on either part of the missile crisis or something terribly important because he'd have to go to a—

Nassau—

Oh, Nassau—

He did not go to Nassau because he had to go to a dinner for the foreign ambassadors—the annual diplomatic dinner for the foreign ambassadors in Washington.

Yeah, well, little things like that, I mean, he turned into—I mean, Jack said one terrific thing about Angie Duke, who he was so proud of in a way, because Angie does have the most beautiful manners in the world and did so much helping all that way. But Angie wanted to get out of being chief of protocol, and Jack was so surprised where Angie wanted to go. It was Tanganyika. And Jack thought he would have wanted—

Denmark.

Yeah, that he was—sort of wanted to be a Bill Blair, going to eternal parties. He was rather disillusioned at Bill Blair for that, by the way. But you know, he said, "I'm not sure Angie's quite up to Tanganyika." But he was very impressed that he wanted to go where life could be rugged, and as I said, "What about Africans?" And another thing about Dean Rusk. You know, Jack was very formal. He never called anyone by their first names until he really knew them well. And Dean Rusk was the one member of his cabinet—probably because he was older and he hadn't known him before—who he called "Mr. Rusk," right up until the last year. And suddenly one day, they broke down and he called him "Dean." But people don't know that he was that. It was part of his English—admiration for things English. He never liked it if anyone called you "Jack," or me "Jackie," or—except in the campaign, when they yell it. But then it's a sign of liking you. And he never would call anyone— He always called my mother and stepfather "Mr. and Mrs. Auchincloss."

Oh, really?

He called my mother "Mummy," because he thought it was such a funny name—as sort of a joke. But he always called my father "Mr. Bouvier."

He never called your mother "Janet"?

Never. And yet, you know, he knew them so well. But he just—he didn't think it was right.

What about some of the other people in the State Department? George Ball?³⁹

Well, I can't exactly remember what, but I can remember he wasn't always entirely pleased with George Ball.

And of course, poor old Chester.

Oh, yeah, Chester. Chester Bowles would give some endless talk in a meeting about we should enslave—take the mud huts out of enslavement and raise the standard of the, blah—you know, go on with these rolling phrases for hours, and then Jack would say, "Yes, Chester, but I'm not asking you that. I'm asking you what we should do about this problem—X-Y-Z." Something rather simple, and Chester would never have an answer. And so he couldn't wait to get him out of there.

Averell he liked.

Yes, Averell he did like. Walt Rostow⁴⁰—it was funny, one night I was at a seminar at the Dillons. Jack was out of town, and making a speech somewhere, and he called me up, and I was called out of the room, and he said, "What's the seminar?" And I said, "It's Walt Rostow, talking about underdeveloped countries." And a lot of people like you, and Bundy, and everyone were there. And he said—so loudly, I had to put my hand over the receiver—"Jesus Christ! You mean all those people are—Walt Rostow's got all those people trapped in there, listening to him?" Because he really thought Walt Rostow went on and on, and was hard to listen to. He said, "I'm glad I'm not at that seminar." But he liked him. He never said anything mean about him. He said Jerome Wiesner always used to peek through his door.⁴¹ He'd come around through Mrs. Lincoln's office and peek—he said it used to drive him crazy. Every time the door would be open, Wiesner's head would peek in and out, and it would finally drive him so crazy he'd say, "All right, come in or else go away," and it was usually something unimportant.

He liked Wiesner, though, I think.

Oh, yes.

On this—when it came to appointing ambassadors, there was always the—the State Department always wanted to appoint a Foreign Service officer, and the White House people always wanted to send some non–Foreign Service officer—someone like Bill Attwood, or someone like that. Did he ever comment on that general problem?

Well, just as I said, that the Foreign Service ambassadors were usually so awful. And, you know, sometimes you obviously had to send one. You couldn't demoralize the State Department so completely. Then he went over there to give a talk to them once and to tell them—and he really prepared that talk. He said, it's so awful in the State Department. They get so demoralized. They get sort of trained not to take a position one way or the other, but by the time they get way up—and he said younger people should get up quicker—they just can't give you any answer but the answer that's no answer—safe on both sides. And so the whole point of the speech that he gave to them was that you must, you know, be prepared to take an answer one way or the other, and you must be prepared to go to Congress, or—I don't know. Just that their training was wrong, and they were brainwashed by the time they got there, and, mostly too effete to do any good, which was sort of the standard the people at the State Department admired. And just to say something rather interesting and unfair about someone who was a friend, which Jack never said to me but I saw this later, this winter when he came to see me—it's Chip Bohlen. He loved Chip Bohlen, and when Chip Bohlen was around. And sometimes I used to tease Chip Bohlen, and say that he was too stuffy or State Department–ish. I used to just see this side in little things. But he was appointed ambassador to Paris just about the time of the missile crisis—

That's right.

And Bobby asked him to stay, and I think Jack asked him, but sort of vaguely, but Chip Bohlen couldn't wait to get on that boat.⁴² And I said to him this winter—he came to see me in this house—something about it or "Why weren't you there?" And Bobby told me the reason he wanted Chip Bohlen to stay so much was that he'd been their Russian adviser for so long and Llewellyn Thompson had just sort of come in and they didn't really know Thompson that well. So here they were, entering this crisis with a new Russian expert. But Bohlen had to take the boat—he wasn't even going to take a plane. And so I said to Bohlen, "Aren't you sad?" or "You missed it," or "Why did you go?" And he said, "Oh, well, I didn't think it was very important. It didn't seem so bad." And then he said, "I thought I could perhaps do more good over there, from that side." Which was so much baloney because he just barely got there. And he said, "Was it really all that serious? It didn't seem that to me." And I thought, "My Lord, the greatest, most awful thing that's happened in your lifetime—and all you can say was that it was not that serious?" And the thing is that even Chip Bohlen was so imbued—who is a brilliant man—by that State Department thinking, that the one thing that mattered to him most—he'd finally been made ambassador to Paris, where, he said, he hoped and assumed he would stay, he told me—this is under Johnson. But once that happened, he didn't care what was happening, he was going to get there. I just think that's sad. Though I love Bohlen, it makes me think so much less of him.

I know. It's very puzzling. I did an oral history thing with him, and he went through all this, and I asked him and got the same unconvincing—and he said, "Well, everything was set up, and if I went to Paris, I could explain what our policy was." And it was not convincing. But then he loved the President and said one marvelous thing about him. He said—I mean, this is on the tape—that he said if—"When the President was killed and Johnson came in, I felt this was the future giving way to the present or the past."

Oh, then another thing that disappointed me about him—he named—he was there at the ceremonies where they named a street after Jack in Paris and he sent me his speech. Well, one line of it was, though there was "a certain sadness about this day," the naming of this street shows that Franco-American relations—is a great step forward for Franco-American relations, or something. Well, I just thought, this day "une certaine tristesse" was the words. I wanted to write him back—but the poor man sent me the speech, so, of course, he was trying to do his best—and say, "Is that all you think of this day? A certain sadness? You sound like Hervé with your Franco-American relations'!" So, Bohlen had so much but he didn't—I don't know, a little extra thing.

He's the best of the Foreign Service officers, but even he has been deformed in some way by that—

And, for instance, if he, who's brilliant, could have been made secretary of state, it wouldn't have done any good because he would protect his own, and that was just what Jack wanted to get out of there—the people who would protect their own.

On the domestic side, economic policy and so on, Walter Heller.⁴³

I don't really know what he thought about what Walter Heller did or everything. He didn't have the same personality as Walter Heller, so whereas Galbraith and everyone you would have home or for dinner, we never saw Walter Heller. I think he thought he leaked a lot of things—didn't he?

Yeah, I think he did.

Or that he was talking to the press, or something. I mean, I never heard him say anything against Walter Heller. I always thought Walter Heller was sort of a—well, a jerk when you meet him. I never could believe he was such a brilliant economist.

He did a good job, I think—

But—

And has been very unhappy—since.

So, I never heard him—but I mean, we didn't—Jack and I didn't really talk economics, so—I guess he thought he was fine.

On the Supreme Court, the President—

Oh, he loved Douglas Dillon.

Yeah.

But—and he thought a lot of Dave Bell.

Yes, he relied heavily on—did he?—on Dave Bell. When Kermit Gordon became director of the budget, did—was there any particular reaction?⁴⁴

Well, that's because he wanted what? Dave Bell—

Dave went over to AID.

AID, yeah.

Yeah, but Gordon didn't—

I don't know anything about that. Wasn't he sad that Dave Bell had to leave being director of the budget? Yeah, he was really sad about that.

He felt Dave was the only man who could straighten out the AID situation.⁴⁵ You remember Fowler Hamilton⁴⁶ had—

Oh, that's right. And he was very sad, the way it came out about Fowler Hamilton. I can't remember exactly but it looked as if he—oh, no, no. Labouisse.⁴⁷

Labouisse.

Labouisse. It looked as if he'd been fired for incompetency or something, and he—Jack so badly wanted to have it come that he was being promoted by being ambassador to Greece. However, that story came out, he was sorry for Labouisse—he was sad. It shows a certain charity again.

The President made two appointments to the Supreme Court, you remember. Byron White⁴⁸ and Arthur Goldberg. Did he talk much about the Court or about—

Well, I remember he was really happy that he'd have two appointments to make and I think he thought both his appointments were good.

Yes.

And I know that Justice Frankfurter, he knew wanted him to appoint whoever it was—Paul someone?

Paul Freund.⁴⁹

Yeah. And he knew of that wish. He was—he went to call on Frankfurter a couple of times and again once—brought him to his office. But he wanted to put Goldberg in there.

He used to be—he and Bill Douglas used to be—at least, Bill Douglas—was a great friend of Mr. Kennedy.⁵⁰

Of his father's, and then really of Bobby's. They were always going off all through Russia and everything together. We never really saw Bill Douglas much, but I think he liked him.

He wasn't around the White House much.

No, never.

Never.

But none of those people were. Arthur Goldberg used to be around our house in Georgetown a lot for the time of the labor bill, but that was always for breakfast. And Arthur Goldberg—I said to Jack once—some dinner where I sat next to him—"He is the biggest egomaniac of any man I've ever seen in my life." And it's true. I've never seen a man who never stops talking about himself.

Yeah, he does it with sort of an innocent, joyous way, but it is hard.

Well, I find that horrifying. I'm not sure Jack didn't make a mistake putting him on the Supreme Court because that just seems to make people think they're more and more special.

And as they're out of the newspapers, they feel they have to make up for that by talking more about—

And the decision that I thought this winter—you know, that was made after Jack's death, this case where it's all right to print anything, even libel, about someone in the press. It's a little more complicated than that, but you remember.

The New York Times case.

Yes. But that seemed such an awful thing to do—and Goldberg was the one who held out and said that it could even be malicious and completely untrue. And I thought, that's right after that ad of the day in Dallas, of the picture of Jack—"Wanted for Treason." And there you, his appointee, go and say that everything, even this, is all right? But it's because the Supreme Court is so isolated. They're never affected by newspapers, anything. So Arthur Goldberg's head's going to be even more swelled in a few more years. So, I guess, Jack always said he was the most brilliant labor lawyer that ever was.

What about the President and the press—apart from Charlie Bartlett and Ben Bradlee, who were—

I suppose so many of our friends before the White House were in the press. I mean, there's Rowlie Evans, Hugh Sidey—Bill Lawrence he played golf with.⁵¹ You know, he basically liked them. I always thought in Washington, politics and the press—you're both sort of involved in doing something. So many of his friends were there. Bill Kent in Florida would be around, sometimes. He liked the kind of badinage and everything you could have with them. Much more than his colleagues in Congress, though we had some there. And then—people always used to say that he was so thin-skinned by the press, but that really wasn't true. And it was so funny, because one night Ben Bradlee was taunting him—or, no, he was saying to Ben Bradlee something that was written was untrue. And Ben Bradlee came one night for dinner in an absolute rage because some tiny little Republican newsletter that his John Birch mother-in-law subscribed to had had a paragraph written by—not Tony Lewis but Tony someone who wrote for Nixon—

Ralph de Toledano.⁵²

Ralph de Toledano had written something bad about Ben Bradlee. You would have thought it had been over the front page of the New York Times. Just one or two sentences, and Ben was in a rage. And Jack just sort of lean—I mean he didn't really rub it in, he just leaned back and looked amused and said, "Well, see how you fellows feel when something unfair is written." I guess the one thing he admitted was a mistake was canceling the Herald Tribune.⁵³ He was a little bit more that way in the beginning, but at the end he'd never mention unfavorable things, or if I'd say, "Oh, I think so-and-so is so awful"—when I'd come home to him and he'd say, "Don't think about it. Don't read those things." You know, he just accepted it as part of the—you know, when there was something good, I mean, he wouldn't mention it. I'd say, "Wasn't it wonderful what"—I don't know—"someone said today?" If I could find it.

What about the great statesmen of the press, like Lippmann and Scotty and all the rest of them—and Joe Alsop?

Well, Joe was his friend. And, I think, Lippmann and Reston—Reston was awfully sanctimonious and sort of—so they were never close. I mean, I'm sure Jack saw them in his office and things. And, of course, they had this kind of jealousy or resentment of Jack because for the first time there was a president who probably was brighter than they were, who was younger, who was—Lippmann had two things against Jack, partly his father and partly being Catholic, strangely enough. And you hear this in conversations with other people but he could never sort of purge from this—

Yeah. And I think Lippmann's wife was an ex-Catholic. She was brought up and went to a convent and broke with it and I think that had some—

Well, I remember when—

Though, remember in 1960 that Lippmann wrote marvelous columns.

Yeah. I can't really remember what they wrote and what they didn't, sometimes. But—I mean, he wouldn't sort of be a sycophant to them. I mean, he wouldn't suck around. In the press, he really saw the people who—he liked. Someone funny like Bill Lawrence, just—you know.

But you don't feel that he was unduly sensitive—

Unh-unh [meaning no].

—to the press. One thing a lot of people have written about the administration is that no administration was more interested in its own image, to use that odious word, and so on.⁵⁴

Well, that to me, it's like reading about someone—you know, it's so untrue. And then they'd all talk about the public relations setup that we had going before the—during—before the campaign, and the this and the that, and our image. Which I'd never thought of as image. And there was never anyone in public relations, except—Charlie Bartlett always used to say, "You're doing too many articles." But he used to say to Charlie, "You know, I have so many—much against me. The only one—and in a certain position that mightn't be the best way to get what I'm aiming for—the nomination. But this way, it is. You know, to just get more and more known and bombard them." So many public relations things were that when they asked for interviews, and he would do them. But he never had anyone advising him and he never thought about our image. In fact, our image—when you think of something so incredible about me, I was always a liability to him until we got to the White House. And he never asked me to change or said anything about it. Everyone thought I was a snob from Newport, who had bouffant hair and had French clothes and hated politics. And then because I was off and having these babies, I wasn't able to campaign, you know, and be around with him as much as I could have. And he'd get so upset for me when something like that came out. And sometimes I'd say, "Oh, Jack, I wish—you know, I'm sorry for you that I'm just such a dud." And, he knew it wasn't true and he didn't want me to change, I mean, he knew I loved him and I did everything I could, and when I did campaign with him, I did it very hard and I spoke French all through Massachusetts to counteract Henry Cabot Lodge—until people came up and used to be surprised that I could speak English! He was, you know, proud. So, he never asked me—there I was the worst liability and there were Lee—Princess Radziwill and everything. And—and I was so happy, I remember thinking, once you got in the White House—it's really true of any president's wife. Everything that was bad is suddenly new, and so it's interesting. So whereas, then that you have decent French food is a plus instead of a minus—that you don't like, stay in a kitchen all day making Irish stew. And when I did the tour of the White House, he was so proud of that. He used to show that and ask people about it. And then I did the guidebook over everybody's objections. They all said in the West Wing that it would be awful to have money change hands in the White House.⁵⁵ But then he was proud of me, and I was so happy that at last I'd been able to be something that he could be proud of. But, I mean, that shows you he wasn't thinking of his image or he would have made me get a little frizzy permanent and be like Pat Nixon. You know, "Pat and Dick," and he never—he never would hold hands in public or put his arm around me, or—because that was naturally just distasteful to him, as I think it is for any married— So he didn't do anything for his image. And he used to tell me—sometimes he'd tell me I should wear hats instead of sc[arves]⁵⁶—oh, and all these letters about my skirts too short. And I said, "But they're not too short," and he said, "Oh, I guess you're right." But, you know, he never said, "Lengthen them" or—

PRESIDENT AND MRS. KENNEDY GREETING GUESTS AT A WHITE HOUSE RECEPTION ON LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY, 1963
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

THE PRESIDENT, VICE PRESIDENT, AND FIRST LADY WELCOME MERCURY ASTRONAUT GORDON COOPER TO THE WHITE HOUSE, 1963
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

He never tried to ask you to do—not to stop behaving—stop being yourself for any political or public relations purpose?

JFK PRESIDES OVER A PRIVATE WHITE HOUSE DINNER, FEBRUARY 9, 1962
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

PRESIDENT KENNEDY AND MRS. KENNEDY SPEAK TO ISAAC STERN AT A DINNER IN HONOR OF ANDRé MALRAUX, 1962
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

No. And I think he liked that I was—I mean, he knew I was being myself and that I did like to stay in the background. I think he appreciated that in a wife. And he married me, really, for the things I was, but then when they didn't work out politically, he was never going to ask me to change, which I just think was so nice about him. Because he wouldn't be fake in any way, and he wouldn't be fake about his children and he wouldn't kiss babies, and so all that was really written by people who just didn't understand him. The one thing he was, which people can't understand and which was—where I felt so sorry for poor Nixon, who had such a disadvantage—Jack was the most unself-conscious person I've ever seen. He just naturally could be attractive in a crowd or a room. He was unself-conscious about walking around with a towel on. If it fell off or something, you know, he'd put it on again, but— So many people are worried or nervous in public, or public appearances. Nixon was and, you know, he would sweat and everything. So the people who weren't sort of sure of themselves, or had that wonderful ease of Jack, were in a way jealous and you know, attributed all these funny things to him, which weren't true. He was just always so natural.

PRESIDENT KENNEDY SPEAKS WITH PEARL BUCK AND JACQUELINE WITH ROBERT FROST AT A DINNER HONORING NOBEL LAUREATES, 1962
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

How did he feel about the White House staff?

Who do you mean by that?

Well, the—we're talking about the public thing. Pierre, and—

I think he—you know, loved them all. I used to get so mad at Pierre because he did have a certain hamming-up thing that really didn't help protect my children much. I mean, he'd give a long interview about some drunken rabbit.⁵⁷ And I'd blow up at Pierre, but then I'd say to Jack, there's the nicest thing about Pierre. You can really say the most terrible things to him, which I did sometimes, and he never bore a grudge. It would be over, like that. So Jack was grateful to Pierre for that. And when I look at it now, without Jack, you see that his White House staff is the most extraordinary collection of people, who are so different—who now, a lot of them, dislike each other. I mean, maybe they did then, but you never knew it then. But I mean, there were the Irish Mafia. There was Pierre. There was Mrs. Lincoln, who was jealous of anyone who came near Jack. There were the professors—you know, there was you, there was Bundy, Ralph Dungan, Mike Feldman.⁵⁸ And all adoring Jack and knowing—and then, there was me and our private life and friends. All kept together because they knew he thought highly of each of them, and that their contribution was to their utmost. And he loved all of them, and they all loved him. And Jack held together this motley band, who now—from some of them, at least from the Irish—are just so bitter about everyone else in there.⁵⁹ But you never saw that.

I thought it was the most exceptionally harmonious experience. And you know, everyone warned me, before joining it, that there would be feuds and knives out, and so on. I had no—I just thought it was the best possible experience of dealing with—of the people around the President because of the way he, you know, managed everybody.

Yeah. And I often thought it was—well, not exactly, but you know, you hear it said that mother love is infinite and it isn't that you can love two children—and then, if you have nine, that means you love them just that much less. Well, there weren't really any jealousies or favorites. No one ever thought Jack had a favorite—

That's right.

—unless it was Dave Powers, who was a favorite for what everyone hoped he would have a favorite for—someone to relax him, you know. But he didn't have any favorites. And so that way, they could all work together. There was no intrigue of "who's in" and "who's out." And as Kenny said—he didn't put Kenny in the position of being the only man you could get to see the President through. They could also sneak around through Mrs. Lincoln's door, or Tish would manage to—you know, there were so many ways.

Yeah.

Well, he was so accessible, and yet he got so much more done—than now. He was accessible, but when he worked he really worked. He didn't, you know, break things up.

When would the President see the children?

He'd see the children—I didn't tell you all our day once, did I? Of how in the morning George Thomas would rap on our bedroom door about quarter of eight, and he would go into his room, and the children would come in. And they'd either turn on the television, going absolutely full blast, and he'd have his breakfast, sitting in a chair, on a tray, doing all his—reading the morning papers, going through all his briefing books or, you know, those sheets of typewritten—his agenda for the day.

He'd do that before he got dressed?

Yeah. He'd—yes, he'd sort of have—

A dressing gown on or something.

No, he'd take a bath first and they'd come in while he had a bath. I told you all of John's toys were by the side of his tub. And then he'd sort of have breakfast in his shirt and underpants. And on the television—gosh, sometimes it was loud because I'd often come in because it—sometimes I'd like to just, sort of, stay in bed until about nine. But I'd come in there and sit with him, sometimes. But there'd be cartoons, and there was this awful exercise man, Jack La—

LaLanne, yes.

So Jack would lower—and there'd be Jack LaLanne, and he'd be telling Caroline and John to do what they were doing, so they'd be lying on the floor. Sometimes he'd touch his toes with John a bit. But he'd have them tumbling around. He loved those children tumbling around him in this sort of—sensual is the only way I can think of it. And then he'd always come out in the garden during their recess in the morning and clap his hands, and all the little things from school would come running.⁶⁰ The teachers—he used to call out his two favorites, Caroline and Mary Warner. And then the teacher said it wasn't fair for him to give them candy. She told Caroline she could only get candy if there would be some for the entire class. So Mrs. Lincoln had an entire box of Barracini candy that—but he'd go out or, if I was around there with John, he'd call us in and a little bit in his office, and then he'd send them out and then John would play on Mrs. Lincoln's typewriter. Then they'd come over in the evening, just as he was finishing up for the day, and just play around his office. One of the last days I remember—well, you know, there's that wonderful picture of them all talking about Berlin and Jack—which was an awful, sort of a crisis—and John tumbling out from under his desk. But, oh, and then one of the last days, Charlie the dog came in and bit John on the nose, and Bundy had to get Dr. Burkley.⁶¹ You know the children were never bratty but he liked to have them underfoot, and then he'd take them swimming and—or else, if it didn't work out quite that way when he'd come upstairs before dinner, no matter who we had for dinner, they'd come in. You know, they'd have their time with him in their pajamas. He really would play with them first, even if it was a state dinner. He'd always say—or even when it was a state lunch or just a man's lunch. Usually, he'd have me in the room and he'd say, "Go get the children!" And, of course, they'd always be in their naps in their underwear or something, and I'd have to bring them out in their underwear because he'd never give you warning before. But he just loved to have them around. And then he'd—he really taught Caroline to swim. He made her dive off the high diving board. He made her swim the length of the pool in Florida, the last Christmas she was there. Well, she got a quarter of the way and did the rest under water. He was saying, "Come on, you can make it!" You know, he did so much with them. And he told her all these stories. He'd make up "The White Shark and the Black Shark," and "Bobo the Lobo," and "Maybelle"—some little girl who hid in the woods. And then one day, he was desperate and I said, "What?" He said, "Gosh, you've got to get me some books, or something. I'm running out of children's stories." He said, "I just told Caroline how she and I shot down three Jap fighter planes." But—

THE WHITE HOUSE SCHOOL
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

JOHN AND CAROLINE VISIT THEIR FATHER AT WORK
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

Were there any books that he liked reading or the children demanded that he read?

No, he didn't read—he didn't like to read books to them much. He'd rather tell them stories. But he'd make up these fantastic ones. Sort of that they were just riveted by. Oh, and then he'd have ponies for Caroline—White Star and Black Star. Caroline said to me, "Daddy would always let me choose which pony I wanted to ride and which pony my friend would ride." And then he would make some race and he would always let Caroline win the race. And then he had a—oh, Miss Shaw was in a lot of them, rather ludicrously—and Mrs. Throttlebottom was in the race. And how Caroline went hunting—the Orange County hounds and then White Star and Black Star—she went in the Grand National and beat every—you know, little things that had to do with their world, where they did absolutely extraordinarily. John got his PT boat and shot a Jap destroyer, or something like that. But, he never got impatient. They'd come in his bed, you know.

What—when you went to Hyannis Port or Newport or Palm Beach, where he'd have more time with the children. Of course, he couldn't lift them or play with them himself, could he, with the back?

THE FIRST FAMILY, HYANNIS PORT, 1963
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

He'd get on the floor, then he could really roll around with them. And he used to—he could lift Caroline up and—at least, a little—he used to throw her around an awful lot before we got to the White House.⁶² But, well, they'd be in our room in the morning, and then he'd swim with them for about an hour, and then he always wanted them to come out on the boat with us. A lot of times, you know, they really were quite young. They'd get awfully cranky if they missed their nap. But he always wanted them to come, so you'd put them to bed inside for half an hour or something, and maybe they would get whiny, but he always wanted them there. Or, at Camp David and things, you'd sort of sit out and have supper with them or you'd run on the lawn, and everything.

What place relaxed him most, do you think, of the various places you went?

It was really the boat that relaxed him the most. Before he was President, it was to go out on his father's boat, the Marlin—and then the Honey Fitz. And the reason for that was, there was no telephone. He was awful about the phone. It could—never—ring but he wouldn't answer it. You know, calls would come, or else he'd be getting ten people on the phone. So, there, I mean, rain or shine—I can remember him taking Adlai Stevenson out on the Honey Fitz one day in late October in Newport—hurricane season. I got two polo coats for Adlai and a pith helmet of my stepfather's. And Jack was sitting in the back in a black sweater, the hair—the wind blowing his hair, blissfully happy with fish chowder. And I was inside, with two blankets on, and drinking hot soup. That's how cold it was. He just thought everyone would love that boat because that was his away from care. It was for him what getting out on a horse was for me—in the air, no phone. I'm not that mad for riding horses or hunting. But the release from tension in the air. He loved the sun and the water and no phone. And you know, friends there—you always had friends there that—he never used the boat for working—but whoever you want to relax with.

THE HONEY FITZ
Cecil Stoughton, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

PRESIDENT AND MRS. KENNEDY SAIL WITH HER MOTHER AND STEPFATHER OFF NEWPORT, 1962
Robert Knudsen, White House/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

THE PRESIDENT AND CAROLINE ON THE HONEY FITZ
Bob Sandberg, Look magazine/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston

What did he think of all these skits about himself, like The First Family, and so on? Did he ever listen to them?

I think he listened. I'm not sure he listened to all of that record.⁶³ I listened to one side, and then I threw it away because I didn't want my children to see it. And I guess, he sort of took it. You know, I thought it was so unfair that he didn't—I guess he just accepted it. I mean, he obviously didn't like it, but I was the one who got much more worked up about those things. I thought it was so mean. I didn't care if they made fun of me or anything, but when they made fun of little children— And the first year he was President, I went to the Women's Press Club dinner. He had a fever that night, and so Lyndon took me. It's a tradition for the President and his wife to go—and a woman named Bonnie Angelo came out on a tricycle as Caroline and sang some awful song.⁶⁴ And the next year, I wouldn't go and that Bonnie Angelo was president. Pierre really got upset by that. And I said, "I'm not going to go, and you can either tell them why, Pierre—for what they did last year—or you can make up any excuse you think is best." And then I explained that to Jack. I just felt so strongly about those children. It was hard enough protecting them in the Kennedy family, where some of the cousins, especially, Eunice's children, are—were so conscious of the position, and would always wear Kennedy buttons and would play that record, "My Daddy Is President, What Does Your Daddy Do?,"⁶⁵ or The First Family. And I hid all those things from my children and always taught them that the White House was sort of temporary. I'm so glad I did, for the way it ended. But that it was while Daddy was President, and presidents had lived in it before. I'd tell them when Franklin Roosevelt would come to dinner—and Mrs. Longworth or President Truman. I'd tell them little stories about other presidents, and then there would be a president after Daddy, and then we would be living in Hyannis. And, you know, so they never got to think that all this was going to be forever in this power, which the others were awful about. So I'd get upset about those skits, but he didn't like to see me get upset. But, I guess, he knew it was part of being President. And because it was such a different and young family, there was so much more to make skits about with us, which he said, sort of wryly, to me once.

Did the President often talk much about the things he would like to do? You mentioned a new secretary of state.

I know he was going to get rid of J. Edgar Hoover, the minute—and he always said that those were the two things he did first—you know, Hoover and Allen Dulles, which I guess he had to do at the time. He couldn't have not.

Did he have any—ever talk about who—what he would do with the FBI?

No, he didn't say who he'd make, and then Bobby was going to leave the Justice Department. I think he might have made Nick Katzenbach⁶⁶ the head, I'm not sure. And, well, I know there was going to be a domestic peace corps, but I guess that was sort of started, wasn't it? And I know he was going to do this poverty thing.⁶⁷ And I know he really cared about—Kentucky was the place he spoke to me about and we were going to go to Kentucky sometime, and I mean I know it was mentioned.⁶⁸

Yeah, Appalachia.

That's it, Appalachia. And he was going to Russia.

Yes. That's—I wanted to ask you about that.

Sometime in the second term we were going to go to Russia and that would have just been so incredible. And we were going to go to the Far East. I guess, I always thought he was going to go in December, but then as he wasn't talking about it, I guess, with Indonesia and everything, it was sort of—

Yeah, but I think it was—I think he was planning to go in April—in the spring, to the Far East.

And it would have been so incredible for him to go to Japan, when you think Eisenhower couldn't go there,⁶⁹ and the crowds and everything you would have gotten. If all this had to happen, I just wish he could have seen some more good things come in, that he worked so hard for. The tax bill, the civil rights bill, the economy up so high. You know, think of all those businessmen who still say awful things about him, and suddenly the gold flow is absolutely stopped, the gross national product has never been so high. To go to Japan and to go to Russia. If he could have just seen all those and—and won. If he could have just won, and he was so praying it would be Goldwater that he'd have to run against. He used to say, "Let Barry alone. He's doing just fine." You know if he could have just seen some of the good things.

He would have liked to run against Goldwater.⁷⁰ Did he think Goldwater was going to get it, or was that—

Oh, it was just too much to hope for. I mean, it was just too good to be true. I don't think he did. In the beginning, quite a while ago, he thought Romney would, and he was nervous about Romney because he said he'd be sort of hard.⁷¹ But then I think later on, he didn't think Romney would so much. I don't know who he thought would.

Did he ever talk about Rockefeller?

Yeah. He said Rockefeller, in a way, was sort of a coward, because he should have done what Jack did and run in those primaries.⁷² But either he was—had cold feet or was nervous about not going into New Hampshire and all that. And he said if he had, he would have been president.

Yeah. Oh, the President did feel that if Rockefeller had gotten the nomination in 1960, he would have been elected. I think that's right.

And he said, you know, he just didn't have the—I don't know whether it was gumption or judgment or just timid soul, or something. And of course, now the poor man's doing it all with completely the wrong sense of timing. And, I don't think he thought very much of Rockefeller, but he didn't really say anything mean against him. He didn't like Nixon and he really thought he was dangerous. You know, and that he was a little bit—

I thought he was sick.

Sick, yeah.⁷³

Scranton?

Well, I don't remember talking with him about Scranton.⁷⁴ You know, he was sort of coming up, and I suppose he thought he might have had it. But I never can remember talking to him—

Did he look forward to the '64 campaign?

Oh, yes. And I looked forward to it so much. It was one you could do together. Campaigning's so different when you're President. It wouldn't be those awful things of plodding through Wisconsin, forcing somebody to shake hands with you. I mean, he really looked forward to it, and then to winning and then to just sort of solidifying. You know, he really did so much. There wasn't that much more to do, except it would have jelled. And it would have been relations with other countries. I mean, it would have been Latin America and with Russia and de Gaulle never would have recognized Red China, and all of that—if he'd stayed alive.

Did he ever talk with regard to the Russian trip about anything particularly he wanted to see or do?

Just that there would be the most fantastic crowds.

Did he—was it just Moscow or would it—

I think it was just a Russian trip. You know, he never really went into it. And, oh, what did he say? When things got nicer about Khrushchev, you know, after the détente⁷⁵ and everything, he always used to say—well, remember what he said after Vienna, that he really is a gangster, and so everybody mustn't get deluded. But if you deal with him out of firmness—it's different. But he never wanted people to think that now Khrushchev is the sweet, benign, undangerous person.

Did he ever talk about his letters, his correspondence with Khrushchev?⁷⁶

Well, just that there was one. But he never told me what. I didn't ask him what was in them. If I'd asked, I could have seen them, because every time I'd ask about something like that he'd say, "Get Bundy to show you." Bundy did, and for a couple of months there, Bundy was sending me all the intelligence—top briefings and everything. And then finally, I got so bored—no, not bored, discouraged—reading them. I said, "Please, never send me another." And when I'd read those things which Jack had to flip through every day, I didn't see how he could be so cheerful at night, or have a drink or go out on the Honey Fitz. He'd just read twenty pages of problems. And then I thought, "Well, I'd better not read them anymore, because I can just read the good things and be in a good mood for him." And I remember we gave a little dinner—farewell, for Ros Gilpatric, and Mrs. Gilpatric was saying to Jack all through it—it was the TFX time—"I say to Ros when he comes home every night, How can they say those things about you? Aren't they all awful?'"⁷⁷ And he said to her, "My God, you don't say that to your husband when he comes home at night, do you? That's not what you should do. Find one good thing they say, say, Isn't that great?' or bring up something else that will make him happy." And so, that's how I sensed what he wanted me to be, and that's really when I stopped reading all those briefings and things, because I didn't want to have to worry about anything. I wanted to, sort of, take your cue from him and—

One of the greatest gifts was his capacity to switch from one thing to another and not be nagged at by problems, to put them aside knowing that he can't do anything more at that moment about them and not let them worry him.

And that's—did I ever tell you about him making me move my desk?

No.

Well, I used to have my desk in the West Sitting Hall, where we always sat, and it would be piled high—and especially when Tish was always sending in those damn folders. Just when you'd be sitting happily with Jack, some other messenger would come running in, I think—and he said, "Move your desk out." I knew I did tell you this.

You told this. Yes.

Down to the Treaty Room. Well, and I couldn't get problems off. But he could always go to sleep, too, which I thought was so important. He didn't have this in—you know, he could just turn it off. And I always thought one thing, and I think it's true of Lyndon Johnson, and I think it might have been true of Adlai Stevenson. That these things get on you and on you and there's indecision or something—and you can't sleep. You really become—I always thought any president would become an insomniac. But Jack had this built-in thing that Ted Reardon⁷⁸ told me about before—like soldiers in a foxhole. When it was time to go to sleep, he just could. And that was one of his greatest—it was fortunate he had that. That's about all.

[John enters the room and plays with tape recorder]

THE PRESIDENT AND FIRST LADY, WASHINGTON, D.C., MAY 3, 1961
Stanley Tretick/BettmannCORBIS/John F. Kennedy Library and Museum, Boston