NOTHING was beyond his desire. He wanted to be unifier and savior, uplifter of the poor at home and
father of democracy in Asia. He yearned to be a latter-day Lincoln to
the blacks, to outshine F.D.R.'s memory among reformers, to surpass
Truman's humane but hardheaded foreign-policy record, to evoke the
affection accorded Eisenhower. Above all, Lyndon Johnson ached for the
trust of today's voters and the respect of tomorrow's scholars. Now, with so many of his glittering hopes broken, Johnson makes his
farewells, grinds through the last budget, the final State of the Union
message. He gleans what satisfaction he can by recalling victories in
Congress, his associations spanning three decades, his joy over the
last moon shot. String music, champagne and nostalgia warm the waning
days. “I love Washington,” he said last week. “I love this capital.” Without doubt, he would have loved another four years in power. A second
full term would have given him a total of nine years in office, more
than any other President except Franklin Roosevelt. “More” was his
byword. And more time in office would have given him the opportunity to
get the nation out of Viet Nam. Scarred Belly. The war consumed the nation's resources and its leaders'
attention. Midway through Johnson's Administration, it aroused a horde
of critics from among those who favored his other policies, if not the
man himself: the young, the black, the intellectuals and those whom
Historian Eric Goldman calls metro-Americans—the educated, affluent,
growing middle class to whom the Alamo psychology is as alien as a
President who thrusts his operation-scarred belly at the public. But it was not just the war or his occasional crudities that soured the
promising Johnson years. Horace Busby, Johnson's friend and a
perceptive former aide, pointed out recently that social changes now
come so rapidly that they outstrip the ability to comprehend them, let
alone cope with them. Occasionally, Johnson's shrewd mind did grasp the
moment and the need. When, after Selma, he went before Congress to vow
“We shall overcome,” he was genuinely moving. And some of the
innovative programs he began, such as Headstart, testified to his
willingness to seek new solutions. Yet all too often he answered the
call of the '60s with the responses of the '30s. He too readily fell
back on “Molly and the babies,” on the you-never-had-it-so-good rubric.
To be sure, most Americans had never had it so good. But now they
wanted it better and different. The nation needed to be engaged. It needed a personality that it could
warm to and trust. Instead, it got a preacher and teacher who measured
accomplishment in statistics that were irrelevant to the haves and
incomprehensible to the havenots. And as opposition became
increasingly strident, Johnson reverted more and more to the defensive,
secretive, untrusting and, in return, untrusted.
