April
1, 2003, 12:20 p.m.
Moynihan
A
personal memoir.
n
the bustling side room of the synagogue where the memorial service for
Allard Lowenstein would soon begin, family, speakers, and special friends
milled about waiting for the signal to file out to their appointed places.
I was chatting with Christopher Dodd when the tall figure came through
the door and began to greet participants at the other end of the room.
"I've never met Pat Moynihan. Would you introduce me?" Of course,
I said, and walked over to where the senator was standing. I introduced
the man who had defeated my brother, Jim, for reelection as senator from
New York in 1976 — to the aspirant politician who would defeat brother
Jim a few months later in his bid to serve as senator from Connecticut.
All in the family.
But the special nature
of a Moynihan friendship had been in place a very long time. He went to
Washington in 1969 to serve as assistant to President Nixon, and called
one day to say he'd like to come up to explain the president's proposal
for a family-assistance program. ...Of course. What about joining the
editors of National Review at dinner, and briefing us jointly?
That was a fine idea, and he arrived on a White House jet and spoke of
his program, which would reconstruct welfare policy aimed at helping the
poor to standing relief and minimizing the welfare bureaucracy. Two undergraduates
had been invited to come in after dinner to sing and play, on guitar and
autoharp, their spirited and lyrical songs. Moynihan was captivated and
stayed late to hear more. The next day he sent a telegram giving a forgotten
detail of his proposed program, complimenting the student musicians, and
asking for my wife's recipe for her oxtail soup. The idea for his grand
new welfare program withered away, torpedoed by Milton Friedman's testimony
that he would certainly favor it provided all other welfare programs were
discarded.
When he served as ambassador to India I had a long cable from him (he
loved, during his time there and in the U.N., to communicate via Western
Union, though never in telegraphese). He had seen the story in the New
York Times reporting that, reacting to student protests, I had withdrawn
my commitment to give the commencement address at Vassar, "GOOD FOR
YOU. DO THOSE LITTLE BASTARDS THINK WE HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO ON SUNDAY
AFTERNOONS?"
He went then to the United Nations, and admiration for him magnified among
my colleagues as he belted the Soviet bloc with his grandiloquent scorn.
At the end of that session of the General Assembly, National Review
nominated him as Man of the Year. Attending the 20th anniversary celebration
of the magazine, he was introduced from the podium and received a standing
ovation.
At his desk as senator he wrote his fine speeches and heuristic books
on subjects that included welfare policy, the venerability of Penn Station,
federal secrecy classifications, and the restoration of Pennsylvania Avenue.
His insights were shrewd and original. His speeches and books sideswiped
joyfully popular liberal cliché-thought. But when voting time came,
he was almost always there to observe the party line. His deportment at
that hour was that of the freethinking monk who, at vesper-time, clocks
in submissively to the catechetical regimen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan didn't
win four elections in New York by stressing the desirability of school
vouchers, or the tragedy of black family disintegration.
Yet he was always
a shining light, giving pure pleasure as a lyrical social philosopher
and wit. At our last meeting at the large affair at the president's house
at Yale preceding the commencement at which we would receive honorary
degrees, he and I were asked, by the president to say something after
dinner, before the Whiffenpoofs serenaded us. Speaking extemporaneously,
his imagination, his memory, and his aptitude for association brought
on light references to obscure events. We got his benevolent smile, the
pixie-Irish face puckered in apparent inquisitive stress. He had a
thought . . . Perhaps it would be of interest . . . Perhaps you Yale people
would find . . . relevant in some way.
And it was over.
And the deans and awardees and professors did smile. I did too of course,
with the special affection I had for the man who took my brother's seat
in the Senate, and, now, with prayerful thoughts for his safe passage.
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n
the bustling side room of the synagogue where the memorial service for
Allard Lowenstein would soon begin, family, speakers, and special friends
milled about waiting for the signal to file out to their appointed places.
I was chatting with Christopher Dodd when the tall figure came through
the door and began to greet participants at the other end of the room.
"I've never met Pat Moynihan. Would you introduce me?" Of course,
I said, and walked over to where the senator was standing. I introduced
the man who had defeated my brother, Jim, for reelection as senator from
New York in 1976 — to the aspirant politician who would defeat brother
Jim a few months later in his bid to serve as senator from Connecticut.
All in the family. 
