Advise and Consent Page 13

  A spattering of applause broke from the galleries and Harley Hudson banged his gavel hastily.

  “The galleries will be advised,” he said sternly, “that they are here as guests of the Senate and as such they are not permitted to make demon-strations of any kind. The galleries will please observe the rules of the Senate.”

  “Mr. President,” Bob Munson said icily, standing side by side with Seab but looking industriously at the Chair, “will the Senator from Indiana yield to me?”

  “I yield,” Paul Hendershot said.

  “The Senator from South Carolina,” Bob Munson said bitterly, turning his back on him and facing the Senate, “brings to bear all his famous eloquence and invective on Robert Leffingwell. It is not the first time that he has opposed Robert Leffingwell, and it will not be the last; but I venture to assert that his efforts on this occasion will meet with the same success with which they have met on other occasions. Colorful language and dramatic oratory, Mr. President, are not what the Senate needs on this occasion. This occasion is too serious for that. The Senate needs a sober and careful appraisal of this nominee to determine, in its own time and in its own high wisdom, whether he is fitted to fill the great office of Secretary of State of the United States to which the President has appointed him. The Senate is not in a mood for stunts, Mr. President. The matter is worthy of better than that from us.”

  At this the visitors in the galleries who hadn’t applauded the first time broke into a rather hasty riffle of approval of their own, and again the Vice President started to gavel them to silence. Half a dozen Senators were on their feet shouting, “Mr. President!” however, so Harley thought better of it and hastily recognized Brigham Anderson.

  For a moment, in one of those mutually appraising lulls that come in a heated debate, the senior Senator from Utah looked slowly around the chamber, aware of Henry Lytle sitting nervously on the edge of his chair nearby, of Archibald Joslin across the aisle looking upset in a dignified sort of way, of Johnny DeWilton, white-topped and stubborn, of George Keating watching blearily, and Nelson Lloyd listening intently, of the scattering of clerks, administrative assistants, and members of the House who had come in to stand along the walls as they so often did during major Senate clashes, of the tourists gawping and the press gallery scribbling furiously above, and the pulsating tension in the room. Then he looked directly at the Vice President and began to speak in a calm and level voice.

  “Mr. President,” he said slowly, “it is obvious already what all of us have known would be the case since we first heard of this nomination this morning. It has startled, and in some cases dismayed, the Senate. It has created already intense controversy and even bitterness. It has begun to divide us even before we have had a chance to unite on the only issue that should concern us here: can this man represent the United States in the councils of the world as we in the Senate wish it to be represented? The Senator from South Carolina asks if he is the only man who can do the job. That, I submit, is not the question. He is the only man before us, nominated by the President of the United States, to do the job. It is beside the point who else might do it; he is the only man selected to do it. It is up to us now to determine whether he can or not, on his own merits and in his own right. It is this question to which our energies should, indeed must, be directed now....Senators will recall that I have had occasion in the past to be critical of this nominee, indeed on one occasion to oppose and vote against him. It may be that I shall have occasion to do so again before this nomination is disposed of. The point now is that this nomination is not disposed of, that it has only begun to be disposed of; and that as of now, I do not know what I shall do on this nominee. Nor, I submit, does any honest Senator who is not blinded by prejudice or personal spleen know what he will do on this nominee. That is a secret the future holds, and I submit that we would be better advised now to leave it with the future, until this nomination has gone to committee and come out upon the floor in regular order for us to debate and vote upon.”

  “Mr. President!” several Senators said insistently as Brigham Anderson sat down, and Harley saw fit to recognize Orrin Knox. Paul Hendershot protested at once.

  “Mr. President,” he said in his acerbic way, “I believe I have the floor. I am not aware that the Senator from Illinois has asked me to yield to him, and I am not aware that I have yielded to him. I did not think I would have to instruct the Vice President in the rules of the Senate.”

  For once Harley looked really angry, and the Senate thought, with some delight, that for once it might see him provoked into angry retort. And for once, it was not disappointed.

  “The Senator from Indiana,” he said coldly, “is not equipped to instruct the Vice President in anything, let alone the rules of the Senate. The Senator from Indiana has the floor and may dispose of it as he pleases.”

  “Very well,” Senator Hendershot said tartly, “then I yield to the Senator from Illinois.”

  “The Senator from Illinois,” Harley said in the same cold voice, “is recognized by grace of the Senator from Indiana.”

  Amid a general titter, Orrin stood stolidly at his desk, absent-mindedly rearranging the papers upon it. When the titter died he looked up and far away, as though he were seeing things the Senate could not see. This trick of his always brought silence, and it did now.

  “Mr. President,” he said in his flat Midwestern tones, “I thank the Senator from Indiana for his courtesy, and I commend the Vice President upon his. It is not easy for the Vice President to preside over the Senate when passions are stirred as they are on this nomination. The Vice President at best does not have an easy job, and in my opinion he discharges it in a manner that should bring the commendation rather than the criticism of Senators who are privileged to work with him.”

  At this unexpected and startling compliment, uttered against a background of their differences at the convention, Orrin’s shattered presidential hopes, his intermittent bitterness toward Harley since, and all the rest of it, there was an audible murmur which the Senator from Illinois ignored. The Vice President, looking first astounded, then greatly pleased, bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. Senator Knox went on, in the same rather faraway manner.

  “Mr. President,” he said, “what is the issue here? It is not, as the senior Senator from South Carolina says, whether this man is the only man who can do the job; it is, as the senior Senator from Utah says, that he is the only man before us who has been selected to do the job. Like the Senator from Utah, I too am in doubt about this nomination; I too have opposed Mr. Leffingwell in the past, and I too may do so again in this instance. But I do not know at this minute whether I will or not, and I too submit that no Senator of integrity who really has the interests of his country at heart in this time of her deep trouble can know at this minute either. There is much involved here, Mr. President; much that has not yet even begun to be brought out. We have barely scratched the surface of this nomination and all its implications. I too,” he said, his voice rising suddenly, his left arm shooting out before him with a paper still held tightly in his hand, his whole body twisting with the vigor of his utterance, “I too would like to take the easy way out, Mr. President. I too would like to demagogue. I too would like to say, “This man did something to me once, and so I will oppose him forever!’ I too would like to imply that there is ‘some sinister plot against the Republic’ The point is, I do not know, and neither does anybody else. It is so much poppycock to say anybody knows. It is nonsense. It is demagoguery. I will have none of it. I will give him a fair hearing and I will make up my mind after the facts are in. Who among you”—and he turned slowly full around, searching from face to face while the Senate sat in absolute silence—“who among you is so petty, so uncharitable, and yes, so unpatriotic, that he will do otherwise in this hour of his country’s need?”

  After which, having proved that Seab was among his equals when it came to rafter-raising, he sat slowly down and returned to the impassive perusal of his pap
ers while the galleries and Harley went once more through their little routine of impulsive applause and cautionary gavel banging.

  “All right,” Paul Hendershot said bitterly. “All right. Then I will ask the distinguished Senator from Minnesota a question, I will ask him this, if he will give me an answer: is it not true that the President of the United States called in the Senator from Minnesota this morning and asked him to rush this nomination through, perhaps by next Monday afternoon, if he could possibly do it? Is it not true that this plan was concurred in by the Senator from Minnesota and the distinguished Majority Leader? I want to know the answer to that, Mr. President, and then I yield the floor.”

  Tom August got up slowly in his protesting, mole-like way, and looked around the chamber as if seeking solace and support. Apparently he thought he saw neither, for he gripped his desk so hard the press gallery could see his knuckles turn white, and when he spoke it was in his usual soft voice but with an unusual edge of angry resentment.

  “Mr. President,” he said softly, “I do not like the tone of the senior Senator from Indiana, nor did I, earlier, like the tone of the senior Senator from South Carolina. These are not tones normally heard in the Senate, Mr. President, and it seems to me there has been a strange loss of courtesy here this afternoon. It is not becoming to the Senate, and I as one member protest it. The Senator from Indiana asks if the President of the United States did not ask me to, as he puts it, ‘rush this nomination through,’ when we talked this morning. I am not privileged to divulge my conversations with the President of the United States, and even if I were, I doubt if I should divulge them to the Senator, that is the senior Senator, from Indiana. However, I say this only: the President of the United States very naturally wishes this nomination expedited as much as possible. I assured him that insofar as it lay in my power I would co-operate to this end, subject always to the wishes of the Senate. This, I venture to state, is nothing sinister; it is the natural request of a President and it is the natural rejoinder of a member of his own party who happens to be chairman of the great Committee on Foreign Relations.” And with an asperity very rare to him, he added as he sat down, “I would suggest to the Senator from Indiana and the Senator from South Carolina that if they think they can make anything of that, they do so.”

  “Mr. President,” Senator Hendershot began angrily, “Mr. President—” But Senator Cooley forestalled him.

  “Mr.—President,” he said in his slow, deliberate, opening manner, “again I beseech Senators to contemplate for a moment the spectacle we are making of ourselves here. Who is causing this bitterness and hatred and division among us? Robert—A.—Leffingwell. Who is disrupting the friendly and cordial flow of legislative interchange, so necessary to our country’s welfare? Robert—A.—Leffingwell. Who is turning this Senate into a cockpit of angry emotions? Robert—A.—No, Senator, no, Senator, I will not yield. I see my friend, the distinguished senior Senator from Michigan, the great Majority Leader of this Senate, who has sat beside me—or, rather, I should say, beside whom I have sat—for all these many years, Mr. President, in the greatest brotherhood and love and harmony—he is on his feet, Mr. President, seeking recognition, asking me to yield—still beside me, Mr. President, but oh, what a difference! Now he stands beside me in bitterness and hate, no longer my brother, no longer my companion in this great legislative body, Mr. President, his face contorted with passion, his tongue thickened with hate, and why, Mr. President?” He bent low toward the Senate, his voice sank far down, and the answer came in a gusty whisper that swept the room: “Because of Robert A. Leffingwell! No, Mr. President, I will not yield to my former brother, or to those other great and distinguished Senators whom I see ranged eagerly before me, the great Senator from Illinois, Mr. Knox, the great Senator from Utah, Mr. Anderson, the kindly and always patient Senators from Connecticut and Idaho, Mr. Danta and Mr. Strickland, my able and determined young friend from Ioway, Mr. Smith—no, Mr. President, I will not yield to them for they, too, turn to me faces full of hate because of Robert A. Leffingwell. I abominate him, Mr. President!” he shouted abruptly, striking his desk so violently that the ink pot hopped out of its slot and sprayed its contents across his midriff, while the galleries gasped. “I abominate him! He is no good, Mr. President! He is evil, Mr. President! He will destroy our beloved America, Mr. President! I beg of you, Senators”—and both arms rose high above his head in an evangelical exhortation—“I beg of you, if you love our dear country, reject this man!” For a long moment he held the pose and then his arms came slowly down.

  “And now, Mr. President,” he said softly, turning to Senator Munson with a sleepy little ironic smile, “if my brother the distinguished Majority Leader will permit me, I am an old man, and I should like to sit down.”

  And he did so, making no attempt to clean his clothes, but only allowing his coat to fall open a little wider so that all could see his scars of battle.

  Of the many courses open to Bob Munson at that moment, he chose the one that long experience told him was best under the circumstances.

  “Mr. President,” he said with a calmness that cost him, but he knew he must display it, “I suggest that the Senate return to the regular order of business, the Federal Reserve bill. I ask unanimous consent that the Senate vote on the bill and all amendments thereto at 4 p.m. Monday, the time between now and then to be divided equally between the Majority and Minority Leaders.”

  “Without objection,” Harley Hudson said rapidly—and perhaps because the transition of mood was so abrupt, there was none—“it is so ordered.”

  “I yield twenty minutes to the senior Senator from Washington, Mr. Welch,” Senator Munson said and sat down, reaching over as he did so to pick up Seab’s empty inkwell from the floor and, without looking at him, replace it carefully in its socket on the desk.

  An hour later, after extending Julius Welch’s time for the third time running, he turned his chair over to Tom Trummell again and went back to the cloakroom, just off the floor at the back, still ignoring Seab and going out of his way to avoid Paul Hendershot. There were many times and many occasions in the Senate when a sharp exchange on the floor was followed by backslapping and wisecracking and amicable interchanges that wiped out animosities and soothed bruised feelings; but there were other times when matters went too deep for easy persiflage and the sting was longer dying. This was one of them; Senator Munson was in no mood yet to pretend that what had happened was just a jolly romp among good friends, and obviously the others weren’t either. Seab hadn’t spoken for an hour, and Paul Hendershot ostentatiously turned his back when the Majority Leader started up the aisle. Bob Munson had the sinking, unhappy feeling that comes when something that everybody has been talking about casually as bad suddenly turns out to be actually as bad as everybody has been saying. In the short space of an hour anger had been fortified, resentments had been strengthened, patterns of opposition had been frozen; it was suddenly a different Senate, in relation to Bob Leffingwell and in relation to itself, from what it had been an hour ago; and it seemed an ominous change. He knew he was not alone in this feeling, for there was a certain subdued air about the Senate that came when its members knew beyond all evading that they were really in for it. After the heated exchange of the afternoon, they knew it now, and since the Senate is composed in the main of amiable gentlemen who like each other and had much rather get along together than tear each other apart, the Majority Leader was not the only man who felt glum.

  Nonetheless, if they were in for it, they were in for it, he reflected as he pushed open the swinging glassed doors and entered the cloakroom, and they all might as well get down to business about it. On the tide of this thought he looked about the noisy little room, now jammed with Senators lounging on the sofas, sitting in the chairs, and busy on the telephones, and picked out Powell Hanson of North Dakota and Lafe Smith sitting together at one side. Powell raised a hand in greeting and made room for him on the sofa. Lafe’s greeting was terse.

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p; “That old son of a bitch,” he said. “His able young colleague, am I, betraying what I learned at my mother’s knee, am I? He lost a vote by being so damned smart.”

  “Did he?” Bob Munson asked curiously. Lafe paused and then grinned.

  “Well,” he said honestly, “maybe not, I don’t know. But he lost a friend, anyway.”

  “Did he ever have one?” Powell Hanson asked, and Bob Munson smiled.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m one, his dearly beloved brother and companion. I don’t begrudge Seab his little show; you’ll have to admit it’s about the best in the Senate. And I think in the long run it loses him more than it gains him, so I don’t mind if he wants to put it on. It may help me, when all’s said and done.”

  “You’ll need help,” Charles Abbott of New Hampshire observed, coming over and breaking in as was his wont. His face of a very old angel who had taken a detour through hell looked even more raddled than usual today, Bob Munson noted; what in God’s name did Charlie do at nights? It was something everybody wondered and nobody knew.

  “You going to give it to me?” Senator Munson asked, and Senator Abbott looked at him with that innocent candor that usually precedes senatorial evasion. This time, however, the answer was surprisingly direct, considering the place and circumstances.