Advise and Consent Page 7

  “Senator Fry,” he said in his rapid Brit’sh-In’ja way, “how good of you to grace my humble table with your honored presence.”

  “Good morning, K.K.,” Hal Fry said amicably, “you can refrain from the flowers.”

  “How, please?” said Krishna Khaleel. “You are always joking me, Hal.”

  “Nothing,” Senator Fry said gravely, “could be further from my mind. I meant we could dispense with the frills and get down to business. What position are you folks going to take on Bob Leffingwell?”

  “Ahhh,” said K.K. softly. “Bob Leffingwell.”

  “The same.”

  “He is an interesting man,” the Indian Ambassador observed.

  “Fascinating,” Senator Fry agreed.

  “Controversial, however,” the Ambassador added.

  “Most,” conceded Senator Fry.

  “But able,” Krishna Khaleel hastened to remark.

  “Among the best,” Hal Fry admitted.

  “It is a problem,” K.K. said with a sigh.

  “It is a problem,” Senator Fry agreed cheerfully.

  “Well,” K.K. said abruptly. “You want to know what we think. We think this appointment could be one of great importance for the world, one which could do great good for the world. But we also think it could cause trouble in the world, and could precipitate difficulties in the world. Now then. It is a question, is it not, of whether it would cause good for the world, or whether it would cause bad for the world, and if the first, and indeed the second also, you understand, whether it would be the position of my government that the good it might cause would be sufficient to counterbalance the bad it might cause. It might, you see, cause both things in one man, you see. Such is the diversity of human nature. And one should not take too firm a position on the basis of human nature, for human nature, our friends in the West to the contrary, is always changing, is it not? And therefore sometimes it is better to ignore human nature and look at the long view of things. Although of course one cannot leave human nature out of account, for it too is important for the world. This is what we think of the nomination, since you ask me, Hal.”

  Senator Fry conceded defeat with a laugh.

  “You damned Indians,” he said genially, “are always using syntax as a weapon. Why don’t you ever say what you mean, right out?”

  “Half the troubles in this world, my friend,” said Krishna Khaleel with sibilant explicitness, “are caused by people saying what they mean right out. You Americans always want to bring things to a head; you always want to make things come to an issue. But heads and issues are not good for the world, my friend. They make people take positions. Positions can be dangerous. Possibly positions are not good for the world. Or possibly they are, of course. Is it not so?”

  “You lost me on the last curve, K.K.,” Senator Fry said dryly. “I fell right out of the bus and I’m going to have to walk home. I’ll tell Washington what you think.”

  “I shall tell Washington myself,” Krishna Khaleel said firmly. “Is there not the party at Dolly’s tonight? I shall be there.”

  “So shall I,” said Hal Fry.

  “A lovely woman, Dolly Harrison,” the Indian Ambassador said thoughtfully. “A little too obvious about her feelings for the good Bob Munson, but very kind of heart, I think.”

  “She’ll catch him yet,” Senator Fry said with a chuckle.

  “A consummation devoutly to be hoped,” K.K. remarked; and added with a twinkle, “There, I have said something right out. Dolly and Bob—I am for it, I approve. The Indian Republic is for it, it approves. The world is for it, it approves. Is it not so?”

  “It is so, O Akbar,” said Hal Fry with a grin.

  “In about another hour,” Bob Munson said, “we’re going to begin to get the reaction on Leffingwell from the country.”

  “You want to dictate a form letter?” Mary Hastings asked.

  “How did you know?” Senator Munson said.

  “I anticipate,” Mary said. “Isn’t that what you pay me for?”

  “I pay you,” said Bob Munson, surveying the dark-eyed, dark-haired, quick-witted forty-six-year-old intelligence that ran his office staff, “to be the best damned administrative assistant on the Hill. And so you are. Take a letter to whom it may concern—Joe Doaks, Susie Soaks, and all the folks—

  “Dear So-and-So, With reference to your letter of present date, I want you to know how much I value your opinion on the President’s nomination of Mr. Leffingwell to be Secretary of State. It is obviously an office of the greatest importance to all of us, and it is only through voluntary expressions of opinion from back home, such as yours, that we in the Senate can make up our minds about it.’ Paragraph. ‘As you know, in my position as Majority Leader, I am to some extent bound to follow the Administration view on most matters, but I consider this so vital that I am, for the time being, reserving final judgment on what I shall ultimately do. Your letter is one which will weigh heavily in my decision. It was most kind of you to write, and I appreciate it deeply. With warm regards,’ etc. That isn’t too evasive, is it?”

  “No more than usual,” Mary said.

  “Well, damn it,” Bob Munson said. “You know our problem. We can’t commit ourselves too much in advance on something like this, there are too many factors involved. We’ve got to allow a little leeway, in case Seab turns up the fact that he was convicted for dope or white slavery or something. You know that.”

  “Yes,” Mary said comfortably, “I know that, Senator. It’s a good letter and about all you can say at the present moment, I should judge.”

  “Then don’t give me back talk,” Senator Munson said. “I can’t take it, in my delicate condition of being pregnant with the hottest nomination in the present presidential term. Now let’s get rid of whatever else there is. I’ve got to get on my horse and get out around the building.”

  Little warning bells rang on all the news-tickers in all the offices all over town that had them. “This is to advise,” the teletype machine said impersonally, “that Robert A. Leffingwell will not repeat not hold his previously announced press conference at 10:30 a.m. today.”

  “This building,” one of the Capitol guides was telling the day’s first batch of tourists, listening attentively in the great rotunda, “stands on Capitol Hill 88 feet above the level of the Potomac River, on a site once occupied by a subtribe of the Algonquin Indians known as the Powhatans, whose council house was located at the foot of the hill. The building covers an area of 153,112 square feet, or approximately 3½ acres. Its length from north to south is 751 feet, four inches; its width, including approaches, is 350 feet. It has a floor area of 14 acres, and 435 rooms are devoted to offices, committees, and storage. There are 679 windows and 554 doorways. The cornerstone of the Capitol was laid on September 18, 1793. The northern wing was completed in 1800, and in that small building the legislative and judicial branches of the government, as well as the courts of the District of Columbia, were housed in that year when the government moved here from Philadelphia. The southern section of the Capitol was finished in 1811, the House of Representatives then occupying what is now known as Statuary Hall. At that time a wooden passageway connected the two wings. This was the situation when the Capitol was burned by the British on August 24, 1814, entering up the narrow, winding steps known as the British Stairway which you will see later in your tour.

  “Restoration of the two wings was completed in 1817, and construction of the central portion was begun in 1818 and completed in 1829. Congress, which met in a special building erected on part of what is now the present Supreme Court grounds across Capitol Plaza, moved back into the Capitol in 1819.

  “The building of the present Senate and House wings was begun on July 4, 1851. The House moved into its present chamber on December 16, 1857, and the Senate occupied its present chamber on January 4, 1859. The original low dome, which had been constructed of wood covered with copper, was replaced by the present dome of cast iron in 1865. There are two S
enate Office Buildings and three House Office Buildings included in the Capitol grounds, which now cover an area of 131.1 acres. The statue on top of the Capitol which you saw as you approached the building is the Statue of Freedom, which stands with its back on downtown Washington. This is no reflection on our government, but is so turned because the East Front is the official front of the Capitol, the original builders having thought the District of Columbia would grow toward the east instead of the west.

  “The Capitol dominates the city of Washington and is generally accepted throughout the world as the most familiar symbol of the Government of the United States, this great country of ours which is the world’s greatest democracy and are we glad of it. Now if you will follow me—”

  The Secretary of Agriculture, on his way out of the White House after seeing the President, met the Secretary of Defense on his way in. “Say,” he began, “what do you think of—” The Secretary of Defense held up a cautionary hand. “Not me, boy,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”

  When Brigham Anderson came past the press table shortly before ten, everybody was still there drinking coffee. Committees hadn’t started yet, the day was still young, the daily budget of gossip not yet exhausted. Nobody was in much of a hurry to get to work, and the appearance of the senior Senator from Utah just went to prove that work, as often happened, might come to you if you sat at the proper crossroads and waited for it. So everybody said, “Hi, Brig,” and invited him to sit down.

  “If I dare, at this august table,” Brigham Anderson said. “What’s the topic before the house this morning?”

  “As if you don’t know,” AP told him.

  “What?” he said innocently. “The nomination?”

  “Is there any other topic this morning, Senator?” the Times asked humorously.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Brig said. “We’re going to have a battle royal before we’re through with this one.”

  “What are you going to do, Senator?” the Baltimore Sun asked bluntly.

  “Yes, give us a lead for the afternoon papers,” UPI suggested. “Senator Anderson condemns Leffingwell nomination. Says it’s unpatriotic, un-American—”

  “Attitude believed influenced by earlier fight with nominee on Power Commission,” AP added.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Brigham Anderson said. “Curb these high-priced imaginations and slow down. Senator Anderson isn’t condemning anything, yet.”

  “But he will?” AP asked quickly.

  “Look,” Brig said, “stop trying to get me in dutch, will you? I’ve got to sit on that committee and judge the nomination. I’m not ready to say anything at all about it yet. There are many aspects of it that I want to explore before I’ll be ready to sound off on it.”

  “Can we quote you on that much?” asked the Times; Brigham Anderson hesitated.

  “I guess so,” he said slowly; “make it ‘many aspects I want to explore before I am ready to take a position on it,’ though. ‘Sound off’ is much too informal for a Senator, you know.”

  “And you’re such a formal Senator,” the Times noted with a smile.

  “Hush,” said Brigham Anderson. “Don’t tell people. I’m always afraid they’re going to bounce me out of the club any day for being so casual about it all. Why, I even fraternize with newspapermen, and you know what that does to a fellow’s character and standing in the community....Actually, I’m much more interested right now in what kind of roses to plant this spring than I am in Bob Leffingwell.”

  “Assuming we can accept that persiflage at face value,” AP said, “what kind of roses are you going to plant?”

  “That’s what I want you to tell me,” Senator Anderson said. “I have room for about five alongside the house, and I can’t decide what they should be. All white; all red; white, red, and yellow, red, white, and blue—you can see what a problem it is.... But I’ve got to run. You let me know if you decide what I should do, will you?”

  “You let us know when you decide what to do about Bob Leffingwell,” the Times told him. The Senator flashed his engaging, boyish, grin as he started toward the door, then came back and leaned confidentially over the table.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said in a half whisper, “I’m damned if I know,” and left on their laughter.

  “He’s certainly a hell of a nice guy,” UPI observed.

  “Yes,” AP agreed, “and he’s going to play a hell of a big part in this one, too.”

  “Maybe,” said the Times in a remark he was to remember and ponder over many times later, “a lot bigger part than he or any of us knows.”

  Across Capitol Plaza in the beautiful marble edifice that prompted Justice Sutherland to say that he felt as though he and his brethren were nine black beetles in the Temple of Karnak, Thomas Buckmaster Davis, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, was busy on the telephone. The telephone was made for Washington, and Mr. Justice Davis was possibly its most devout disciple. Day in, day out, night in, night out, Tommy was on the phone, arguing, commenting, urging, suggesting, criticizing, lecturing, injecting his lively personality into the workings of government on every conceivable issue under the sun, regardless of whether anyone asked for, desired, or even listened to his opinion.

  One of a long line of political Justices running from Jay to Frankfurter (with whose judicial opinions Tommy didn’t always agree), Mr. Justice Davis was a born participant in practically everything. The Chief Justice had mildly reproved him about this once, noting that the ideal of American political theory was that the Court should be above politics. “When was the Court ever above politics?” Tommy had snapped, and the C.J. hadn’t tried to argue very hard. “Well, people should think it is, anyway,” he had said, rather lamely. “You make it so obvious it isn’t.” “It’s a free country,” said Mr. Justice Davis firmly.

  There was illuminated in this brief exchange much about the relationship between the Court and the country, and more particularly, between Tommy and his colleagues. Tommy, it was true, had put his finger on something, and the C.J. with equal perspicacity, had done the same. Whatever the Court’s awareness of the current political climate might be, and it was usually very good, there was a sort of agreed understanding among its members that they wouldn’t admit it, publicly at any rate. Mr. Justice Davis gave a sort of tentative lip service to this, when he remembered about it, but most of the time he made no bones about his own avid involvement in any phase of politics that happened to interest him. This was all phases, and inevitably this brought considerable public criticism and a certain frigidity into his relations with his eight fellows. It was obvious every day when the clerk cried, “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” and the Justices emerged in their stately massed ballet from behind the red-velvet curtain that Mr. Justice Davis and his brethren were not entirely happy with one another.

  Today, however, the Court was not meeting, nor were any conferences scheduled, and there was nothing to interfere with Tommy’s favorite pastime. The Leffingwell nomination, he was aware, provided perhaps his greatest recent challenge, and he was rising to it with all the vigor at his command. At the moment he was arguing with the general director of the Post, who was giving him a bad time.

  “But what other position is there for a liberal to take?” Tommy was demanding. “My dear boy, my dear boy; oh, my dear boy!”

  “I’m still not sure we’re ready to go all out,” the general director of the Post remarked doggedly.

  “But my dear boy,” Tommy said, “suppose the Senate doesn’t confirm him. Think what a black eye it will be for the liberal cause.”

  “Suppose the Senate confirms him and he does the wrong thing in foreign policy,” the general director of the Post shot back. “Think what a black eye it will be for all of us.”

  “Surely you don’t mistrust Bob Leffingwell!” Justice Davis said in a tone of shocked surprise. “After all he has done for the country, all these long, valiant years. Surely there couldn’t possi
bly be a better choice.”

  “W-e-l-l,” the director of the Post said slowly. “In many ways, you’re right, of course. But so much more is involved in this—”

  “Then why hesitate?” Tommy demanded triumphantly. “Isn’t that all the more reason for being for him? Has he ever failed us? Hasn’t he always been on the right side? Why, I can remember clear back under Roosevelt, he was one of America’s greatest fighting liberals. And he’s never changed one bit since; even when”—and the Justice’s tone grew a little pointed—“even when some others wavered now and then, endorsing Eisenhower, and so on, Bob Leffingwell never did. Doesn’t that entitle him to the support of all true liberals now?”

  “Oh, I expect we’ll be for him, all right,” the director of the Post said hastily, “but it may be more gradual and not so immediate.”

  “It’s got to be immediate,” Tommy Davis said firmly. “It’s got to be, my dear boy. Otherwise, they will get the jump on us. All the reactionary forces in the country are mobilizing right this minute to defeat this nomination. We’ve got to mobilize, too. We’ve got to act fast. This is the latest battle in the unending war we liberals always have to fight. Will you fail us when the trumpets sound, my dear boy? Will your banner be trailing in the dust when ours goes gallantly ahead?”

  “Very dramatic, I’m sure,” the director of the Post responded. “But you do have a point. I’ll have to talk it over down here and see what we decide. I will say yours isn’t the only telephone call I’ve received along the same lines. It could be we’ll come out strong for him tomorrow morning.”

  “I hope so, my dear boy, I hope so with all my heart,” Justice Davis said. “Nothing would make me happier than to have you call back this afternoon and say it’s all settled.”