Old Lies Subvert Nixon’s Hold on History

Fifteen years ago, on the evening of Aug. 8, Richard Nixon told the nation that he lacked “a strong enough political base in the Congress” to maintain himself in office. Nixon’s contention that he had to resign the presidency merely because of partisan politics sounded the leitmotif for his last campaign--his struggle for the grace and favor of history.

That political base was Nixon’s to lose, yet he implied that he been victimized by others. He mentioned the Watergate “matter” only once.

Nixon’s apologia alarmed Rep. Wright Patman (D-Tex.), who, the morning after Nixon’s speech, wrote to Rep. Peter Rodino (D-N.J.), urging the House Judiciary Committee to complete its investigation. Patman told Rodino that it was imperative to preserve and publish additional presidential documents and tapes. Patman said he suspected that “in the coming weeks and months, there will be some who will attempt to distort the record, misconstrue events and to cloud the real issues.”

But Rodino, always a reluctant warrior, retreated to his familiar obscurity and shut down the impeachment inquiry. Nixon, meanwhile, was more than ready to go about the business of refurbishing his historical reputation.

What he said when he resigned and what he has said and done since have been part of a carefully choreographed campaign to capture the soul of history.

Historian Ronald Steel once wrote that Nixon was the Ancient Mariner, forever tugging at our sleeve, anxious to tell his story. More is to come, as the former President has announced he will publish yet another memoir next spring in which he will discuss his resignation. But shall we dismiss the long account of his final days in his 1978 memoir? Nixon compulsively must retell his tale, driven, it seems, to neutralize any account that might challenge his control of his history.

The desire for control best explains Nixon’s decision not to destroy the Oval Office tapes. In his 1978 account, Nixon admitted “that the tapes were my best insurance against the unforeseeable future. I was prepared to believe that others, even people close to me, would turn against me . . . and . . . the tapes would give me at least some protection.”

As we ponder Nixon as historian, and as we mark the anniversary of his resignation, we should remember why he resigned. “Let us begin by committing ourselves to the truth,” Nixon told the Republican convention that nominated him in 1968.

But lies became the quicksand that engulfed him, estranged him from his natural political allies and eventually snapped the fragile bond of trust between leader and led that binds government and the people. Nixon’s lies brought him to the dock and cost him his presidency.

Watergate weakened Nixon’s support in Congress, but the President’s lies, deceit, and “stonewalling” eventually destroyed it. The Saturday Night Massacre and his dismissal of the special prosecutor convinced many that Nixon had something to hide. The revelation of the taping system betrayed a sinister side to the White House. The 18 1/2-minute tape gap, the incorrect transcripts and the President’s shifting explanations chipped away at his credibility. The “smoking gun” tape transcript was the last straw for Nixon’s hard-core loyalists in Congress, who noted that the truth “could not be unleashed without destroying his presidency.”

Barry Goldwater thought that Nixon’s lying “was the crux” of his failure. That deceit was intended to obscure the overwhelming evidence that he had abused power and obstructed justice. The actions of the President and his men were serious. More than 70 persons were convicted or offered guilty pleas, including several Cabinet officers and Oval Office aides. Revisionism, to be whole, must produce more than pardons at the bar of history; it must produce the necessary exculpatory evidence.

Nixon’s deeds, as well as his own words, convicted him. “I brought myself down. I gave them a sword. And they stuck it in,” he bitterly observed. But he reminded us of what he was: “And, I guess, if I’d been in their position, I’d have done the same thing.” If he were to resign, he had said in 1973, it would mean he was guilty, and resignation would weaken the presidency he so cherished. For two years, he had resisted his accusers in the name of “preserving the presidency.” But in the end, he willingly sacrificed the presidency in order to save the President.

When George Washington offered the nation a very different Farewell Address in 1796, he remarked that “virtue and morality” formed the “necessary spring of government.” Washington and the cherry tree myth are deeply ingrained in American civil religion. Richard Nixon never understood. Nearly a decade after he resigned, he wrote, “virtue is not what lifts great leaders above others.” But even those words of self-incrimination pale next to the most fateful ones he ever uttered: “I hereby resign.”