Yours Ever (18 page)

To a surprising degree Nixon was, in the parlance of the time he dominated, in touch with his feelings. But the form he gave them was crucial: a memorandum, usually dictated into a machine and then typed up by someone else, offered the illusion that all this was strictly business, not the personal indulgence an ordinary letter might represent, and which “RN” would feel obligated to dismiss as unseemly. Urging Kissinger to speed up construction of the Pan American Highway, Nixon writes, on March 8, 1971: “We will transfer funds from other projects to this one and get this done so that this will be one part of the Nixon legacy (and a very vital project where the country is involved) which we will get accomplished while we are here.” No attempt is made to subordinate the embarrassing truth; what’s in parentheses is what’s parenthetical.

Early in the first term, when constituent mail comes stamped
(6¢)
with the smiling face of FDR, Nixon displays a lot of interest in the niceties of his presidential operation, requesting first-name salutations on thank-you notes, offering suggestions for redecoration. He declares himself uncomfortable with always being served first by the White House waiters, and sends usher Rex Scouten revised rules to cover a variety of situations: “If it is a mixed dinner, with a guest of honor, the wife of the guest of honor will be served first simultaneously with Mrs. Nixon, and then the guest of honor
and I will be served second.” The new instructions are “to be followed explicitly from this time forward.”

The president’s memos often include peremptory warnings that his orders are final: “the decision is not subject to appeal or further discussion unless I bring it up myself;” “There is no appeal from this decision—I’ve thought it through and have concluded;” “There is no appeal whatever;” “Don’t discuss it with me further.” These admonitions are less authoritarian than shy, designed to avert face-to-face conflict. In the Archives, the President’s Personal Files (PPF) and President’s Office Files (POF) remained full of courtesy to subordinates, their dullest policy memos receiving Nixon’s enthusiastic compliments. He did not enjoy chewing people out. On November 20, 1972, two weeks after his landslide re-election, Nixon’s personal secretary, Rose Mary Woods, sends him a note wondering if he “and the family might want to go to the Eisenhower Theatre (Kennedy Center) to see
JOCKEY CLUB STAKES
. It is supposed to be a great comedy (British) and is not trying to promote some cause or other.” But in RN’s emotional makeup, Kennedy trumps Eisenhower, and a handwritten refusal, perhaps to spare Miss Woods’s feelings, goes to Haldeman: “I don’t want to go to the Center for anything at any time unless it is an event I have to participate in.”

The nadir of presidential communication probably arrived with the “recommended-telephone-call” memo—staff suggestions to a president about whom to call, with “talking points” on what to say. “Hope she is feeling better each day” reads point number one in a March 1971 memo recommending a call to Mary Higgins, an administrative assistant on Capitol Hill then terminally ill with cancer. The automatism of the prescribed dialogue is decidedly creepy, and yet Miss Higgins got the call because she had touched Nixon’s proudest nerve, the comeback. The “Background” section above the “talking points” explains: “During the years 1960–1968 (when there [were] not too many strong loyalists on the Hill) she had an enormous picture of the President behind her desk and really stood up for him when many people asked why she had a picture up of ‘that has been,’ etc.”

The request for this phone call was put in by Rose Mary Woods,
whose lasting fame will rest upon the suspicion that she created the eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap on one of the Watergate tapes. But Miss Woods contributed far more to Nixon’s accrual than his deletion: in addition to maintaining the PPF, she was part of a White House system that assembled a voluminous Handwriting File of materials personally annotated by Nixon and retrieved from staffers to whom they’d been sent. Nixon’s fountain pen leaves him oddly and more lastingly animate than the typewritten words to which he’s reacting. A letter from John H. Dawson, president of Adrian College in Michigan, congratulating him on the Paris peace accords, begins apologetically: “I’m well aware that you are now receiving a veritable deluge of letters from college and university educators …” Nixon underlines the sentence and writes a note to pass on to “H & K”: “If he only knew—at most a light drizzle—no deluge!”

On occasion, the president would draft an entire reply in the margins of a letter he was reading. Early in 1972, Joyce E. Kozielec, a secretary at the White House, wrote him an emotional, admiring letter of resignation in which she identified herself as “the young lady who clips signature blotters on all materials to be signed by you and follows through on your written requests from the Daily News Summary. As a secretary, I don’t believe I could have been closer to your personal thoughts.” Nixon’s response, “just a note to tell you how deeply I appreciated your letter of February sixteenth,” went out to Mrs. Kozielec not in the ink in which he first composed it—but as a typewritten letter, whose carbon copy, along with the presidential handwriting she never received, survives amid so much of the archival material only now being transferred to the Nixon Presidential Library in California.

What handwriting he did send had an odd tendency to slip toward the edge of the paper: as he went farther down the page, the left margin would widen, herding his words toward the right. He seems always in the process of making an exit, even when conducting his last, most personal, campaign, the one for rehabilitation. In March of 1982, he is making himself useful to Ronald Reagan, offering to cheer the president, during a bad polling patch, with a story more in Reagan’s style than his own: “Our grandson, Christopher,
was three years old yesterday,” writes Nixon. “When playing with his dog, they knocked over & broke a vase. He looked up at Tricia and said: ‘Don’t worry, mommy, Reagan will fix it!’”

It was Nixon himself who broke the presidential inkwell. The installation of the taping system, a device more comprehensively revealing of the presidential mind than any letters or diary could be, ensured, by its discovery, that presidents would never again permit themselves the degree of self-revelation practiced, off and on, by two centuries of White House occupants. The special prosecutor now looms larger than posterity, and the potential “evidence” of a president’s letters is a more legal, and less historical, matter than it used to be. (As First Lady, Hillary Clinton explained in all seriousness that she did not keep a diary because of its vulnerability to subpoena.) Nixon chased his successors, not just himself, toward the margin and off the page.

FOR IMMEDIATE
, crushing practicalities—not Jefferson’s distant hypotheticals—few letter collections can match the angry, agitated stream that Florence Nightingale sent home to England from Scutari at the height of the Crimean War. Dispatches by William Howard Russell to the London
Times
after the Battle of Alma had forced the British public to realize the terrific neglect of its wounded soldiers, and within days of Russell’s worst disclosures—still not even sure she could believe them all—Nightingale was organizing a “small private expedition of nurses,” and telling Eliza beth Herbert, wife of the secretary of war, just how she was going about it. Her syntax has an urgent brevity quite uncharacteristic of the Victorian lady-epistolarian:

After a few more clipped sentences like these, she breaks the paragraph and writes “Now to business”—as if she’s been anything but.

Her private funding, resented by the army’s officers and doctors, hasn’t been enough to clear the rats and a Russian general’s corpse from some spare rooms in the Barrack Hospital before she and her group of forty-two take up residence there. The casualties Nightingale finds are astronomical—“We now have 4 miles of beds—& not 18 inches apart”—and the conditions so unimaginably mean and filthy that a reader expects nothing but a sustained cry of horror in an early letter she sends home to Dr. William Bowman, a surgeon at King’s College Hospital. Instead, the electrified Miss Nightingale marches from sarcasm to humor to lyric affirmation in the course of a single page. From the beginning, she respects the ordinary suffering soldier, reserving her contempt for the complaining officers and whichever of the women prove inadequate to the job they came out to do:

She refuses to treat the men as the “brutes” their superiors insist they are. Finding that the soldiers respond not only to kindness but to higher expectations, she secretly sets them to reading and to sending money home for their wives and mothers. She receives, in return, their hearty cheers and shyly proffered nosegays. On the six-month anniversary of her arrival, the wellborn thirty-five-year-old nurse can describe herself as being “in sympathy with God, fulfilling the purpose I came into the world for.” She has, in fact, performed a miracle, one that years later will stop even Lytton Strachey in his normally debunking tracks; he can only summarize Miss Nightingale’s first days at the Barrack Hospital in the rhetoric and rhythms of a fairy tale:

Our enduring image of Florence Nightingale has her walking the ward with a glowing lamp. But she spent at least as much of her time in Scutari wielding a pen, its nib sharpened to a point that could puncture every obstruction and enemy. In the letters, she sizes up each of the women, mocking their trivial complaints—” ‘and if I’d known, Ma’am about the Caps, great as was my desire to come out as nurse at Scutari, I wouldn’t have come, ma’am’”—and discovering only one sheep for every three or four goats: “About ten of us have done
the whole work.”
Too many of the others have turned to drink and husband hunting for Nightingale to want any more than the forty she has to look after. Some nuns from Bermondsey prove invaluable—she thanks their Mother Superior “gratefully, lovingly, overflowingly”—but she can’t bear the Catholic nurses complaining to their priests and being held “scatheless by [them]—through any misconduct.”

Her pleadings with distant officialdom are always for more authority and less wasting of her time. The sympathetic correspondent she most frequently assaults is Sidney Herbert, the tactful war secretary who, back in London, presides over what Nightingale tells him is a “grand administrative evil,” a Circumlocution Office of paper and red tape that, at her remove, is pitifully irrelevant. Letters from Scutari thrust the conditions she’s found under Herbert’s eyes and nose:

Hoping to antagonize Herbert toward her own foes, Nightingale lets him know how officials on the scene complain of his administration.
Herbert should understand that “these dreadful people” are “refusing, some to tell you the truth, some to know it themselves.” But she emphasizes how Herbert must not allow her to look like a government spy and pointedly reminds him to keep her letters confidential. She continues to regale him with horrors—and use him as a back channel—after he’s left office in 1855; but his emeritus status earns him no soft soap:

Her letters to Herbert will have to serve as an apologia to all her countrymen—“I wish to leave on record some instance of that which nobody in England will believe or can even imagine”—since others’ letters, her enemies’, often carry lies. In October of 1855, almost a year after her arrival, Nightingale informs Lady Charlotte Canning “that the correspondence of Miss Salisbury was seized by order of the Commandant here, who thought this step a necessary one—as indeed it proved—& that it laid bare a most conscious system of falsehood, which she had been pursuing in her letters to England. It is so easy for an adventurer of this kind to trade upon people’s sympathies in this way.”

Tales of “the honorable men who have been our murderers” make even Nightingale’s letters to relatives part of the long aggrieved testament she intends to leave behind. However real the agonies staring up at her from the cots, she cannot keep her correspondence free from the tone and style of paranoia. She is sure her uncle Samuel Smith believes she has “a wild imagination,” but she promises she can lay everything out for him, chapter and verse, with supporting evidence: “I will give you the slightest, pettiest instance of the hindrance which the pettiest official can make out here, if so minded.” Fitfully, in letters to her family, she will allow her guard to drop, making fun of herself as “Poor old Flo steaming up the Bosphorus,” and recounting, mock-heroically, her killing of a rat. She will also confess to small, compulsive anxieties all out of proportion
to their circumstances. Some five-pound debts she’s left at home “torment” her in a paragraph she writes just after one in which she describes an earthquake that’s killed thousands.

If she had fewer “interruptions & business of all kinds,” she would make her letters shorter, and their indictments tighter, but among all her other duties is the epistolary task of signing condolences to families and kin who don’t always deserve them: