Lyndon Baines Johnson had an ego that words cannot capture.
A large man at 6’ 4”, Johnson often towered over others. He enjoyed giving them the “Johnson treatment” by leaning into them, sometimes over them, and so invading their personal space that he made himself superior by their discomfort. Photographs of Johnson giving the treatment to Senators Theodore F. Green and Richard Russell, Supreme Court Justice Abe Fortas, and others come easily to mind. He intimidated aides: He demanded that they answer his calls at all hours—he even ordered a phone installed in aide Joseph Califano’s private restroom—and confer with him as he lay in bed, often with Lady Bird discretely under the covers beside him, and in the bathroom as, buck naked, he showered, shaved, and used the toilet. He glorified in referring to himself as “your President,” and he craved and demanded and reveled in the attention due the presidency.
A pair of White House letters that Swann Auction Galleries is currently offering together underscore Johnson’s own self-importance.
A Virginia collector sought the autograph of President John F. Kennedy and, after him, President Johnson. In one of the letters up for auction, dated April 29, 1961, Kennedy responded with a genuine signature. “I am delighted,” he wrote, “to send you this note to add to your collection of presidential letters dating back to George Washington. I appreciate your words of approval concerning my efforts thus far and want to thank you.”
Of course, Kennedy spent little time signing anything, especially in response to requests through the mail. He often delegated the tasks of signing even his own letters to others. Studies by Charles Hamilton, Paul Carr, and lately Andreas Wiemer are replete with examples of the many secretarial attempts to copy Kennedy’s signature throughout his public life. Yet this time Kennedy was willing to add to what he likely saw as a piece of history, a collection of presidential letters that would not be complete without his. Kennedy, who collected historical letters himself, likely saw himself as a link in the historical chain that began with Washington and would continue long into the future.
That meant nothing to Johnson when he got his turn, as the other letter in this lot shows.
That one is a White House letter dated March 13, 1964. Apparently Johnson’s secretary had honored his first request for LBJ’s autograph by sending him a The White House card bearing a secretarial or Autopen signature. As we now know, there likely are no genuinely signed Johnson The White House cards. The collector, probably disappointed, but certainly not fooled, tried again. Johnson’s seemingly cordial reply seethes with irritation:
I am sorry you would not accept the card my secretary sent to you, but at the time your previous letter arrived it was impossible for me to dictate a personal letter.
As you can well understand, if I took time to answer personally more than the very important mail that arrives among the thirty-five thousand pieces we have been receiving each week in the White House I would have little time to attend to the affairs of state.
My best regards.
Then Johnson added a glaring finishing touch: The signature on the letter is secretarial, as Swann notes. It is by Bruce Thomas, Johnson’s secretary who signed scores of souvenir and other items for him.
Lyndon Baines Johnson would never be only a link in anyone’s chain.
