(10 of 24)
The key appointment is that of Deputy Secretary of State. I wanted an alter ego in the job, a man who would share every detail of my work and to whom I could give my deepest confidence. He must also be a Reagan loyalist. One name, that of William Clark of the California Supreme Court, was mentioned frequently by people close to Reagan. It came up in an official way one day, early in January, when Dick Allen and I were going over his list of candidates. In one of the most significant decisions of my life, I seized upon it.
At my request, Clark came to Washington and slipped in a side door of the State Department. He is a very tall man with a boyish face and the simple manners of a rancher, which he is; he wears a Stetson and Western boots. I took a great liking to him. He has a very manly and open and easygoing manner. "I don't know a thing about foreign policy," he told me with amiable candor. I knew that already. It didn't matter: State abounds with experts in foreign policy.
Clark had a single, overwhelming qualification: he was an old and trusted friend of the President's. I was not, and in an Administration of chums, bonded together by years of faith and hope and hard work on the campaign trail, this was a handicap. I was already puzzled by the methods of the President's aides; perhaps Clark, who had known these men for years, could explain them to me. No less important, he could explain me to them.
"I know the Governor's ways," he told me. In Clark's way of talking and thinking, I saw similarities to Reagan—the casual manner, the ready smile, the friendly tone, the easy equality—and understood why the two were friends. It seemed to me Clark and I could work together.
Questions had been raised about Clark's ability to grasp complex issues, and there was some anxiety in the department about his confirmation, as he lacked even the rudiments of an education in foreign affairs. Some of the ablest foreign policy experts in Washington set about to tutor Clark, but they did not have time to fill the empty vessel. Clark flunked the senatorial quiz, although he was confirmed anyway. I discounted these difficulties. Most public men are thought to be less intelligent than in fact they are. Bad publicity tends to arouse my sympathy for its object.
Haig was the object of some bad publicity himself, largely through the unwise choice of one word during a press conference.
It is diverting to attempt to identify the precise moment when the grain of sand enters the oyster, beginning the long process of irritation that ends with the pearl. In my case, the sea change that later produced my resignation, though I should hesitate to characterize that act as a pearl, began almost at the start of my days as Secretary of State. It began in a jest.
At my first news conference at the State Department, on Jan. 28, 1981, I remarked, "When I accepted this position, I was assured by President Reagan personally that I would be his chief administrator, if you will, and I use the term vicar "—a word I had used earlier with