George F. Kennan: An American Life (76 page)
Read George F. Kennan: An American Life Online
Authors: John Lewis Gaddis
Tags: #General, #History, #20th Century, #Political Science, #International Relations, #Historical, #Modern, #Biography & Autobiography
Kennan’s imagery—the dinosaur in particular—would pursue him for decades. It dramatized, but vastly oversimplified, what he had been trying to say since studying Clausewitz at the National War College in 1946: that while war must always be subordinate to policy, alternatives to war can always fail. Hence, the need for grand strategy
in peace as well as in war
.
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in peace as well as in war
.
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Hastily composed, passionately written, brilliantly if not deliberately timed,
American Diplomacy
became Kennan’s “long telegram” to the American academy: it insisted on the need to see the world as it was, not as professors of international relations might like it to be. For the young Kenneth Thompson, who had studied with the University of Chicago legal and institutional scholar Quincy Wright, Kennan opened “a whole new world. I’d never really heard a ‘realist’ interpretation of foreign policy.” One grateful reader wrote to
Time
magazine that, having read Kennan, he could now retire his well-worn copy of Machiavelli’s
The Prince.
To be sure, Morgenthau, Niebuhr, and Lippmann had all warned, in their writings, against relying on principles while neglecting power. They, however, had done so from outside the government. Kennan was still, to most of his audience, an insider, and that—together with his flair for the dramatic—was what made his argument so compelling.
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American Diplomacy
became Kennan’s “long telegram” to the American academy: it insisted on the need to see the world as it was, not as professors of international relations might like it to be. For the young Kenneth Thompson, who had studied with the University of Chicago legal and institutional scholar Quincy Wright, Kennan opened “a whole new world. I’d never really heard a ‘realist’ interpretation of foreign policy.” One grateful reader wrote to
Time
magazine that, having read Kennan, he could now retire his well-worn copy of Machiavelli’s
The Prince.
To be sure, Morgenthau, Niebuhr, and Lippmann had all warned, in their writings, against relying on principles while neglecting power. They, however, had done so from outside the government. Kennan was still, to most of his audience, an insider, and that—together with his flair for the dramatic—was what made his argument so compelling.
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It was also, to careful readers, unsettling. He had
not
meant to say that Americans should abandon “decency and dignity and generosity,” he assured the historian Arnold Toynbee. His point, rather, had been that the United States should refrain from claiming to know what was right or wrong in the behavior of other societies. Its policy should be one of avoiding “great orgies of violence that acquire their own momentum and get out of hand.” It should employ its armies, if they were to be used at all, in what Gibbon called “temperate and indecisive contests,” remembering that civilizations could not stand “too much jolting and abuse.” There was no room, in the modern world, for moral indignation, “unless it be indignation with ourselves for failing to be what we know we could and should have been.” He should have said all of this at Chicago, but “the material had to be compressed, I was dilatory, the last lecture was written in the publishers’ office on the day it was delivered, and there I was, before I knew it, making myself out an amoral cynic for all time.”
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not
meant to say that Americans should abandon “decency and dignity and generosity,” he assured the historian Arnold Toynbee. His point, rather, had been that the United States should refrain from claiming to know what was right or wrong in the behavior of other societies. Its policy should be one of avoiding “great orgies of violence that acquire their own momentum and get out of hand.” It should employ its armies, if they were to be used at all, in what Gibbon called “temperate and indecisive contests,” remembering that civilizations could not stand “too much jolting and abuse.” There was no room, in the modern world, for moral indignation, “unless it be indignation with ourselves for failing to be what we know we could and should have been.” He should have said all of this at Chicago, but “the material had to be compressed, I was dilatory, the last lecture was written in the publishers’ office on the day it was delivered, and there I was, before I knew it, making myself out an amoral cynic for all time.”
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Father Edmund A. Walsh, the legendary founder of the Georgetown University School of Foreign Service, certainly saw it that way: he publicly attacked Kennan in July 1952 for having abandoned “the concept of right and wrong in judging the actions of a foreign state.” That logic led “straight back to the jungle” and had even been “used as a defense for Hitler’s extermination of 6,000,000 Jews.” Kennan was in Moscow by then, but Walsh’s excoriation worried him enough that he drafted—but wisely did not send—a letter to
The New York Times
restating the explanation he had given Toynbee. It would not have been the moment, while trying to run an embassy in a forbiddingly hostile state, to get into an open argument with the most formidable American Jesuit.
The New York Times
restating the explanation he had given Toynbee. It would not have been the moment, while trying to run an embassy in a forbiddingly hostile state, to get into an open argument with the most formidable American Jesuit.
“[T]he reaction in academic circles is really intense,” Philip Jessup warned the Policy Planning Staff in September, “and I think it is doing some harm.” Morgenthau’s hefty
Politics Among Nations
had already become a standard university text, but Kennan’s brief book, which was about to appear in a thirty-five-cent reprint, would surely compete with it. And yet, “as I have gathered from talking with him, it is not a final and profound statement of his thinking.... It is by no means the complete negation of law and morals which many people think it is.”
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Politics Among Nations
had already become a standard university text, but Kennan’s brief book, which was about to appear in a thirty-five-cent reprint, would surely compete with it. And yet, “as I have gathered from talking with him, it is not a final and profound statement of his thinking.... It is by no means the complete negation of law and morals which many people think it is.”
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As if to confirm the fears of Toynbee, Walsh, Jessup, and even Kennan himself, the American Political Science Association had already by then named
American Diplomacy
“the best book of the year in the field of international relations.” And so its author—told by diplomatic historians that he was not yet ready to join their guild—found himself enshrined instead within a “realist” theoretical tradition that dated back to Thucydides—whom Kennan had not yet even read. Meanwhile his Northwestern lectures, a far more careful exposition of his thinking, had appeared unheralded in the
Illinois Law Review
, where they have languished in obscurity ever since. It was yet another example of Kennan’s strange tendency to be remembered more for what he said in haste than for what he took the time to ponder.
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IX.American Diplomacy
“the best book of the year in the field of international relations.” And so its author—told by diplomatic historians that he was not yet ready to join their guild—found himself enshrined instead within a “realist” theoretical tradition that dated back to Thucydides—whom Kennan had not yet even read. Meanwhile his Northwestern lectures, a far more careful exposition of his thinking, had appeared unheralded in the
Illinois Law Review
, where they have languished in obscurity ever since. It was yet another example of Kennan’s strange tendency to be remembered more for what he said in haste than for what he took the time to ponder.
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The well-informed Reston broke the news of Kennan’s ambassadorship on November 20, 1952, before the Soviet foreign ministry had provided the necessary
agrément
. A delay of several weeks followed, along with a
Pravda
complaint about Kennan’s association with the East European Fund—he had by now resigned as its president. This convinced Harrison Salisbury, the
New York Times
Moscow correspondent, that Stalin was about to veto the appointment. Kennan was well known, after all, as the author of the “long telegram” and the “X” article; moreover, Ralph Parker, a left-leaning British journalist, had been allowed to publish a book in Moscow in 1949, entitled
Conspiracy Against Peace,
claiming that at the victory celebration outside the Mokhovaya four years earlier, Kennan had turned away cynically from the cheering crowds to predict a new world war. By December 26, Salisbury had a story ready on the impending rejection, but the censors refused to clear it.
agrément
. A delay of several weeks followed, along with a
Pravda
complaint about Kennan’s association with the East European Fund—he had by now resigned as its president. This convinced Harrison Salisbury, the
New York Times
Moscow correspondent, that Stalin was about to veto the appointment. Kennan was well known, after all, as the author of the “long telegram” and the “X” article; moreover, Ralph Parker, a left-leaning British journalist, had been allowed to publish a book in Moscow in 1949, entitled
Conspiracy Against Peace,
claiming that at the victory celebration outside the Mokhovaya four years earlier, Kennan had turned away cynically from the cheering crowds to predict a new world war. By December 26, Salisbury had a story ready on the impending rejection, but the censors refused to clear it.
Andrey Gromyko, the wartime Soviet ambassador in Washington, had advised Stalin that “it is hardly conceivable that the USA government at present may appoint a more acceptable candidate.” Whether for that reason or some other, the Kremlin boss then gave his approval, allowing the White House to confirm that Kennan was indeed Truman’s choice. Salisbury, for once, was grateful to the censors: “By killing my adverse speculation [they] spared me an embarrassing error.”
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A week later, in bed at the Princeton house with a sprained back from having fallen off his bicycle, the ambassador-designate wrote out in longhand, for his future embassy counselor Hugh Cumming, what he hoped to accomplish:
It seems to me that the best an ambassador can hope to do in Moscow is to reside there patiently, cheerfully, and with a reasonable modicum of dignity, burdening the rest of the Mission as little as possible with his household and his presence, holding himself available for such chores of negotiation as may come his way, gaining what understanding he can of the local scene from such fragmentary evidence as the regime finds it impossible not to divulge to him, keeping himself prepared to give advice on Soviet-American relations whenever it can be useful to the Government, and helping himself and his associates to remain of good heart and bear themselves with confidence and dignity in an atmosphere of hostility and insults, of suspicion and misinterpretation of their every action, of attempts to belittle their world and their beliefs—an atmosphere of lies and distortions, in other words, of which the very essence is the unceasing effort to induce people to abandon the evidence of their senses and of all objective criteria and to accept as valid a version of reality artificially created, unconnected with objective fact, and calculated to reduce them to a state in which no reactions are operative but those of fear and respect for the mysteries of Soviet power.
This might seem an “overly modest set of aspirations,” Kennan added, “but I think you will agree with me that it is job enough for any man; and if I am able to acquit myself of it with as few mistakes and as much distinction as have my immediate predecessors, I shall be satisfied.”
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Cumming would probably also have agreed—a very long telegram once having made its way from Moscow—on the appropriateness of a very long sentence now making its way back.
EIGHTEEN
Mr. Ambassador: 1952
“GEORGE F. KENNAN, THE STATE DEPARTMENT’S ‘MR. X,’ IS LEAVING for Moscow this spring to take over a job for which he has been preparing for 25 years—and which he doesn’t want.” This is how the journalist Louis Cassels introduced the new U.S. ambassador to the Soviet Union to the readers of
Collier’s
in March 1952. Based on a conversation with Kennan at the farm on the day after Truman announced the appointment, the article portrayed an envoy who “probably knows as much about Russia’s history, literature, and national characteristics as many members of the Politburo.” He would be the first since the opening of relations with the U.S.S.R. to need no interpreter when meeting Stalin. He “certainly ought to know his way around,” the president was said to have commented. Even
Pravda
had honored the ambassador-designate by awarding him “its highest decorations for Western statesmen—‘spy,’ ‘warmonger,’ and ‘tool of Wall Street.’ ”
Collier’s
in March 1952. Based on a conversation with Kennan at the farm on the day after Truman announced the appointment, the article portrayed an envoy who “probably knows as much about Russia’s history, literature, and national characteristics as many members of the Politburo.” He would be the first since the opening of relations with the U.S.S.R. to need no interpreter when meeting Stalin. He “certainly ought to know his way around,” the president was said to have commented. Even
Pravda
had honored the ambassador-designate by awarding him “its highest decorations for Western statesmen—‘spy,’ ‘warmonger,’ and ‘tool of Wall Street.’ ”
Why, then, did Kennan
not
want the job? The “deep dark truth about Mr. X,” Cassels revealed (not quite accurately), “is that he has never had any great ambition to be ambassador to Russia, or anywhere else.” What he wanted instead was “to write a dozen or so books that have been stillborn in his wide-ranging mind during his hectic two and a half decades as a public servant.” The Institute for Advanced Study had given Kennan that opportunity, so why had he agreed to go to Moscow? Because, Cassels suggested (not inaccurately), Kennan believed in predestination.
not
want the job? The “deep dark truth about Mr. X,” Cassels revealed (not quite accurately), “is that he has never had any great ambition to be ambassador to Russia, or anywhere else.” What he wanted instead was “to write a dozen or so books that have been stillborn in his wide-ranging mind during his hectic two and a half decades as a public servant.” The Institute for Advanced Study had given Kennan that opportunity, so why had he agreed to go to Moscow? Because, Cassels suggested (not inaccurately), Kennan believed in predestination.
He was, after all, the son of three men. One was his real father, a stern Scotch Presbyterian with a strong sense of duty and—owing to his youthful travels in Europe—an international outlook rare in turn-of-the-century Wisconsin. Kossuth Kent Kennan would not have wanted George to decline the job for which the Foreign Service had trained him, at public expense, over so many years. “I’ve never had the opportunity of serving in the armed forces,” the younger Kennan added. “I don’t think any man has the right to refuse to serve his country in any position where he might be useful.”
A second “father” was the first George Kennan. When given the choice, in 1928, of studying Chinese, Japanese, Arabic, or Russian, young George had chosen the last out of deference to his famous ancestor. The many parallels in their lives, down to sharing the same birthday, “almost makes me believe in astrology,” the mature George admitted. Then, while studying Russian in Berlin, he had encountered a third “father,” Anton Chekhov, whose plays and short stories Kennan came to regard “as Russia’s and perhaps the world’s greatest literature.” Trained in medicine, Chekhov made his reputation as a writer—a trajectory Kennan envied as he weighed his professional obligations against his literary inclinations. And it had been Chekhov, he believed, who had posthumously persuaded him to buy the farm. George knew he had to do it when Annelise compared the place with the run-down Russian estate in
The Cherry Orchard
.
The Cherry Orchard
.
No visitor could regard its owner as an aloof intellectual after seeing him tramping around “in torn khaki trousers, plaid cotton shirt, heavy leather boots and a Russian-style fur hat.” Kennan did much of the work himself to hold down expenses: “He is not independently wealthy, as some people suppose.” Finances, not fame, preoccupied him on the day the newspapers reported his appointment: “Well-wishers found him behind a paper-strewn desk in the parlor of the farmhouse, struggling with ‘the books’ and trying to make out his income-tax return.”
Cassels concluded his profile by reporting one further step Kennan had taken to put down roots: in a “full-cycle return to the faith of his fathers,” he had recently joined the First Presbyterian Church in Princeton. “I drifted away from the church when I was a young man,” Kennan explained. “But I have come back to it. I still see much in formal religion that is imperfect, but I know now that a man with no religion is a very hideous character. I have a great horror of people who have no fear of God.”
Arthur Link, who knew Kennan well, was certain of his belief in predestination: “He was reared a Presbyterian, but he’s been much more influenced by Russian Orthodoxy: the acceptance of things as they are, without getting too high expectations; [the view] that the world is fundamentally evil and that really there’s not a great deal that you can do about it.” Kennan himself, recalling his stay as a young man at the Pskovo-Pechorsky monastery in Estonia, assured a Russian Orthodox bishop late in 1951 that “I have never felt anything but the deepest respect for the grandeur of [the Church’s] spiritual tradition, the power and beauty of its ritual, and the warm current of human feeling that flows through all of its life.”
Princeton was a long way from Pskovo-Pechorsky, however, so First Presbyterian would have to do. He worried that he would be “a very imperfect Christian,” Kennan wrote its pastor on accepting membership early in 1952, but he would be bearing a burden “far away and in loneliness.” The Soviet Union was
the most impressive example of hell on earth that our time has known—and to reside there as the leading representative and exponent of the world with which the Christian faith is today most prominently identified . . . is surely a heavy and unusual task for any Christian: . . . perhaps this one may be forgiven if he concentrates his attention at this time on the problem of how he can best cleanse himself and brace himself spiritually for the ordeal.
One model, he thought, might be the Prince in Dostoyevsky’s
The Idiot
: “To make one’s self as pure of heart as one is capable of becoming, to put fear and cynicism and craftiness behind one, and to abandon one’s self to the reflection that if the simple truth will not do, then nothing will.” He would have to remind himself, however, that what he would be managing was “not the encounter of George Kennan with the phenomenon of Soviet power but the encounter of the political entity known as the Government of the United States of America.”
The Idiot
: “To make one’s self as pure of heart as one is capable of becoming, to put fear and cynicism and craftiness behind one, and to abandon one’s self to the reflection that if the simple truth will not do, then nothing will.” He would have to remind himself, however, that what he would be managing was “not the encounter of George Kennan with the phenomenon of Soviet power but the encounter of the political entity known as the Government of the United States of America.”
Had he not already spent enough time in that awful place? Kennan stared into the fire for a long time before answering: “[F]ate pushed me into the diplomatic service. A man has to do what fate calls him to do, as best he can.”
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