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In the Senate, Knowland has won the regard of the old Taft loyalists. He publicly urged the Republican national committee to give them responsible assignments during the 1956 campaign. Although he followed his considered judgment of the merits in each case, his votes for the Bricker amendment and against the censure of Joe McCarthy (even the club's pariahs have their rights, reasoned Knowland) further endeared him to the Republican right wing. But there is a wide gulf between Knowland and the Neanderthals—the McCarthys, the Bill Jenners and the "Molly" Malones. The gulf was widened considerably last fall when Knowland campaigned 25,000 miles for Eisenhower and Nixon—and especially when he accepted appointment as a U.S. delegate to the U.N. Knowland owes the Neanderthals nothing; it is they who want the favors from him.
Time for a Drink. The Senate's close party balance requires a harmonious relationship between the Democratic and Republican leaders. After a cool start, Knowland and Lyndon Johnson have become warm friends. When Lyndon was convalescing from his heart attack, Bill twice weekly wrote long, gossipy letters with news of the Senate and its members. He also assured Johnson that he would work to prevent anyone from taking political advantage of Lyndon's absence—and he did.
The most valuable lesson Knowland has learned is that a leader must generally ease his way through the Senate, that the Senate cannot be battered into submission. The Senate's informal life can be as important as its parliamentary procedures. When Knowland first became majority leader, Lyndon Johnson once dropped by his office for a drink and a chat. Knowland had one bottle on hand, which he kept in a refrigerator. He had no corkscrew, and his ice trays were frozen fast from long disuse. Bill struggled futilely for 15 minutes, trying to get the cork out of the bottle. Lyndon finally dragged him upstairs to his own office—"where we know how to open bottles." Now Knowland keeps a well-stocked refrigerator for thirsty colleagues. Such concessions to Senate society have helped him in his work—but they have not slowed his man-killing pace.
Wed to a Whirlwind. In his two-bedroom, $175-a-month Berkshire Hotel apartment, Knowland is up six mornings a week by 7 o'clock, reads the Washington Post and Times Herald and the New York Times in his official limousine (a perquisite of his position as minority leader) on his way to the Capitol. The Senate restaurant normally opens at 8:15, but one waiter comes regularly at 8 to serve Knowland his orange juice, eggs, toast and coffee. It is always a working breakfast, once a week with White House Legislative Aide Jerry Persons, other mornings with Cabinet officers or sleepy-eyed Senators. Then, with the giant stride that often forces his companions to a dogtrot, Knowland plunges onward into his day. That day continues even after he arrives home with what Helen Knowland calls his "bulging 20-lb. briefcase." Says she: "He opens that old briefcase, spreads papers all over the place, gets on the telephone, and in minutes the room looks as if a whirlwind had struck."