Lend Me Your Ears: Great Speeches in History (157 page)

Assuming that intense media interest would crack through grand jury secrecy, the president decided to make the admission himself directly to the U.S. public. Most political observers friendly to the president and some White House aides expected that short, nationally televised speech to be contrite; by frankly apologizing, they felt that he could rely on the forgiveness in the American psyche (and in enough members of the House of Representatives) to be able to leave the subject behind. A speech draft was submitted to pursue that ameliorating course.

But the president was profoundly angered by the unrelenting nature of the questioning before the grand jury. He did not merely edit the “soft” alternative; rather, on short notice, Mr. Clinton with some help from aides wrote an entirely different speech. Gone was the word “remorse.” Though he did not flinch from characterizing his conduct as “wrong,” he charged that the original Jones lawsuit was politically motivated and noted that the independent counsel’s investigation was itself under investigation. Rather than demean himself by asking forgiveness, the president asked his viewers to “turn away from the spectacle of the past
seven months.” The undelivered contrite draft concluded with “God bless you, and good night”; the speech as given ended more formally: “Thank you for watching, and good night.”

As some on his staff anticipated, the defiant speech was not well received. But the Clinton counterpunch had the advantage of coming straight from the shoulder; though it contributed to the House impeachment, it did not lead to a Senate conviction. From the speechwriting point of view, both addresses were crafted excellently, providing us with an example of different ways to deal with the same crisis.

***

MY FELLOW AMERICANS
:

No one who is not in my position can understand the remorse I feel today. Since I was very young, I have had a profound reverence for this office I hold. I’ve been honored that you, the people, have entrusted it to me. I am proud of what we have accomplished together.

But in this case, I have fallen short of what you should expect from a president. I have failed my own religious faith and values. I have let too many people down. I take full responsibility for my actions—for hurting my wife and daughter, for hurting Monica Lewinsky and her family, for hurting friends and staff, and for hurting the country I love. None of this ever should have happened.

I never should have had any sexual contact with Monica Lewinsky, but I did. I should have acknowledged that I was wrong months ago, but I didn’t. I thought I was shielding my family, but I know in the end, for Hillary and Chelsea, delay has only brought more pain. Their forgiveness and love, expressed so often as we sat alone together this weekend, means more than I can ever say.

What I did was wrong—and there is no excuse for it. I do want to assure you, as I told the grand jury under oath, that I did nothing to obstruct this investigation.

Finally, I also want to apologize to all of you, my fellow citizens. I hope you can find it in your heart to accept that apology. I pledge to you that I will make every effort of mind and spirit to earn your confidence again, to be worthy of this office, and to finish the work on which we have made such remarkable progress in the past six years. God bless you, and good night.

***

GOOD EVENING.

This afternoon in this room, from this chair, I testified before the Office of Independent Counsel and the grand jury. I answered their questions truthfully, including questions about my private life—questions no American citizen would ever want to answer. Still, I must take complete responsibility for all my actions, both public and private. And that is why I am speaking to you tonight.

As you know, in a deposition in January, I was asked questions about my relationship with Monica Lewinsky. While my answers were legally accurate, I did not volunteer information. Indeed, I did have a relationship with Ms. Lewinsky that was not appropriate. In fact, it was wrong. It constituted a critical lapse in judgment and a personal failure on my part for which I am solely and completely responsible. But I told the grand jury today—and I say to you now—that at no time did I ask anyone to lie, to hide or destroy evidence, or to take any other unlawful action.

I know that my public comments and my silence about this matter gave a false impression. I misled people, including even my wife. I deeply regret that. I can only tell you I was motivated by many factors. First, by a desire to protect myself from the embarrassment of my own conduct.

I was also very concerned about protecting my family. The fact that these questions were being asked in a politically inspired lawsuit, which has since been dismissed, was a consideration, too.

In addition, I had real and serious concerns about an independent counsel investigation that began with private business dealings twenty years ago—dealings, I might add, about which an independent federal agency found no evidence of any wrongdoing by me or my wife over two years ago. The independent counsel investigation moved on to my staff and friends, then into my private life. And now the investigation itself is under investigation.

This has gone on too long, cost too much, and hurt too many innocent people. Now, this matter is between me, the two people I love most—my wife and our daughter—and our God.

I must put it right, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes to do so. Nothing is more important to me personally. But it is private, and I intend to reclaim my family life for my family. It’s nobody’s business but ours. Even presidents have private lives. It is time to stop the pursuit of personal destruction and the prying into private lives and get on with our national life.

Our country has been distracted by this matter for too long, and I take
my responsibility for my part in all of this. That is all I can do. Now it is time—in fact, it is past time—to move on. We have important work to do, real opportunities to seize, real problems to solve, real security matters to face.

And so tonight, I ask you to turn away from the spectacle of the past seven months, to repair the fabric of our national discourse, and to return our attention to all the challenges and all the promise of the next American century.

Thank you for watching, and good night.

As July 20, 1969, approached—the day that astronauts aboard
Apollo XI
were scheduled to set foot on the moon—White House speechwriters excitedly submitted drafts of a triumphant statement and “talking points” for the president of the United States to use in communicating live with the first earthlings on another celestial body.

The euphoria was suspended by a telephone call from Frank Borman, the veteran astronaut selected by the National Aeronautics and Space
Administration to be liaison with the White House. “You want to be thinking of some alternative posture for the president,” he said solemnly, “in the event of mishaps on
Apollo XI
.” When I failed to react promptly, he dispensed with NASA’s euphemistic language and put the problem starkly: “Like what to do for the widows.”

He explained that the time of greatest danger would not be landing the lunar vehicle, with Neil Armstrong and “Buzz” Aldrin inside, on the moon. NASA scientists and engineers were most concerned about the ability of the astronauts to get the vehicle off the moon into lunar orbit, where it could join the circling command module, captained by Michael Collins, for its return to Earth. What if the planned liftoff failed and the men were marooned on the moon? “We would have to close down communication.” It would not do for the world watching on television to see the men slowly starve to death or commit suicide.

All euphoria gone, I sent a memo to H. R. Haldeman, the White House chief of staff, suggesting that if such a terrible moment came, “the president should telephone each of the widows-to-be” to offer the nation’s condolences. “After the president’s statement, at the point when NASA ends communication with the men: a clergyman should adopt the same procedure as a burial at sea, commending their souls to ‘the deepest of the deep,’ concluding with the Lord’s Prayer.” But I wondered if submitting a draft of that sorrowful presidential statement would be in order, or would be taken as an ill augury—considered bad luck to be too prepared for the worst.

The thought occurred to me that General Eisenhower had faced that question on the eve of D-Day, and had scribbled down a brief message in the event of disaster. He threw it away the next day, after the Allied forces secured a landing in Europe, but an aide retrieved it. (I had occasion to read the original copy recently: “Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based upon the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone.”)

With that as precedent, I asked for a copy of a famous poem, “The Soldier” by Rupert Brooke, a sailor in the Royal Navy who was killed in World War I. He had written, “If I should die, think only this of me:/ That there’s some corner of a foreign field/ That is forever England.” (At historic moments, speechwriters turn to poets. In 1986, the world watched in horror as the space shuttle
Challenger
exploded on takeoff, killing all seven aboard. Peggy Noonan, a writer for President Ronald Reagan, paraphrased
lines from “High Flight,” a poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., an American killed flying for the RCAF in World War II: “they prepared for the journey and waved good-bye and ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth’ to ‘touch the face of God.’”)

But in 1969, the moon-shot euphoria was justified as the moon landing was celebrated as a triumph. Haldeman, who had never handed the draft remarks to Nixon, tossed the memo in a file that went back to NASA. I kept no copy and forgot about it completely. Decades later, the
Los Angeles Times
columnist Jim Mann unearthed the two-page typescript while doing research in the National Archives and did a column about it pegged to the thirtieth anniversary of the moon landing. On that occasion, NBC’s Tim Russert had Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins on
Meet the Press
and slowly read the tribute to them as the camera panned their faces. Alive to hear their would-be eulogy, the former astronauts were visibly moved.

The National Archives put on a major exhibition in its rotunda in 2001, showing great and small artifacts of American history ranging from George Washington’s account book to the Emancipation Proclamation in Lincoln’s handwriting, from John Wayne’s application to become a spy with the OSS to the scrap of paper on which Eisenhower had taken responsibility for failure on June 5, 1945. (Apparently nervous that night, Ike had misdated it July 5.)

There in the blazon of history’s majesties and oddities, in a glass case right next to Lincoln’s proclamation, was my little speech. Frankly, its presence there knocked me out. Evaluating it now more coolly, and recognizing that the repeated use of “men” and “mankind” would today be found jarring, I decided it worthy of inclusion in this anthology. Though it is hardly a “great” speech, and one happily never delivered, the short address shows how the context of a dreaded dramatic occasion can make memorable words written to be spoken aloud.

***

FATE HAS ORDAINED
that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.

These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.

These two men are laying down their lives in mankind’s most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding. They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will
be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown.

In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.

In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.

Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.

For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.

Adlai E. Stevenson. From
Major Campaign Speeches of Adlai E. Stevenson
. Both speeches reprinted by permission of the estate of Adlai E. Stevenson.

Eugene J. McCarthy. From
Year of the People
by Eugene J. McCarthy. Copyright © 1969

by Eugene J. McCarthy. Used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.

Margaret Thatcher. Reprinted by permission.

Will Rogers. Reprinted by permission of the Will Rogers Memorial Commission.

Eric Sevareid. Reprinted by permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. Copyright © 1977 by Eric Sevareid.

Boris Yeltsin. Reprinted by permission of the Associated Press.

Orson Welles. Used by permission of the Estate of Orson Welles.

Job. From
The New English Bible
. © Oxford University Press and Cambridge University Press 1961, 1970. Reprinted by permission of Cambridge University Press.

Natan Sharansky. From
Fear No Evil
; Random House, New York. Copyright © 1988 by Natan Sharansky. Reprinted by permission of the author.