by Allen Drury
“Mr. Chairman,” Bob Leffingwell said, speaking directly to Brigham Anderson, “in these times, what man among us is not called upon to speak on foreign policy and foreign events? How can one escape it? Am I to be attacked because I responded to an invitation made me by a reputable organization, the Chamber of Commerce of the state of Ohio? That was the topic they gave me, Mr. Chairman. I suppose I was to give them a discourse on stockpiling titanium?”
“I think,” Brigham Anderson said, “that the witness’s point is well taken, Senators. Suppose we return to the substance of what he said, if that is your interest, Senator Knox, and skip the whys and wherefores of how he came to say it.”
“Very well, Mr. Chairman,” Seab said politely, “if that is your desire. But in forty years’ time, Mr. Chairman—no, sir, in almost fifty years’ time—I have seen many men angling for high office, Mr. Chairman, and this is how they do it, Mr. Chairman. They make speeches. They participate. They mingle into matters that do not concern them. They flaunt themselves, Mr. Chairman. That is how they do it. Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Senator,” Senator Anderson said. “Proceed if you wish, Senator Knox.”
“This was, in truth, only one of a series of speeches you have been making in recent months, was it not, Mr. Witness?” Orrin said, deliberately adopting Seab’s form of address, and Bob Leffingwell, who had started to relax, braced himself again.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Christ,” the Baltimore Sun snapped angrily, “so he made speeches. So what?” “Well, it’s important,” the Chicago Tribune countered. “Oh, hell,” the Sun snapped back.
“I believe there have been some ten of them since the first of the year, have there not?” Senator Knox inquired.
“Yes, sir,” the nominee said.
“And all have concerned foreign policy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And none has concerned the functions of your office?”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” Orrin said, “I shall not draw the conclusion from this that our colleague does, but I will say that these addresses furnish fertile fields for interrogation.”
“Oh, that mine enemy would make a speech,” Bob Leffingwell said with a little smile.
“And write a book, too,” Orrin Knox said with an answering smile. “I understand they are being collected and published in book form.”
“Yes,” Bob Leffingwell said.
“For publication when?” Senator Knox inquired.
“A week from Wednesday,” the nominee said.
“Under what title?” Orrin asked.
“Do We Really Want Peace?” the nominee said. “With the subtitle, A Program for America.”
“Strangely challenging labels for a treatise on stockpiling,” the Senator from Illinois remarked dryly. “However, to return to those principles, Mr. Leffingwell. Tell us about your principles, if you will. Just go ahead and expound on them for a minute or two. I know the country is interested, and so are we.”
“Well, Mr. Chairman,” the nominee said, leaning forward and folding his hands again one upon the other in a grave and earnest manner, “how does a man define his principles? By what he says about them, and by what he does about them. He defines them also, I think, by the consistency of what he says about them, and the consistency of what he does about them. In all my public life I have attempted to define them both by word and by deed, and I have attempted within the limits of human frailty to be as consistent as I could about them. I do not maintain that I have been perfect, for no man is that; I do maintain that, in general, I have done my best both to express them as forcefully as I could, and to live up to them as fully as I could. Allowing for a certain number of lapses—and who is so superior and above the customary needs and weaknesses of ordinary men that he can tell me he has never lapsed, and criticize me for lapsing?—I have done my best to uphold them. They are these:
“I believe that the United States of America, while imperfect in many ways, yet comes closer to achieving what might pass for perfection in an imperfect world than most; certainly I believe she tries harder than most, and means better than most, and has a more conscientious and, in general, I believe, a more humane and friendly purpose toward the world than most.
“I believe that I am fortunate, as all Americans are fortunate, that I have been born here and have been able to grow up here and live here in relative peace and well-being, free to think as I please and speak as I please and live as I please within the bounds of a stable society and a decent world.
“I believe there is incumbent upon me as an American, the charge of so living and so speaking and so acting that I may bear my citizenship proudly and be worthy of my heritage and do what I can to maintain and preserve it and pass it on undamaged and if possible increased and strengthened to those who will come after me.
“I believe that there rests upon the individual citizen the responsibility for America. I believe that each of us is America, and that together we are America, and that what we do is always and forever and in every way important to America. I believe I must never forget this. I do not think I ever have. I do not think I ever will. Those are my principles, Mr. Chairman.”
As he finished, speaking quietly but firmly into the hush that had again descended upon the room, Brigham Anderson brought his gavel down sharply before the applause could start and said, “Senator Knox?” in a deliberately level tone.
“I admire your speeches, Mr. Leffingwell,” Orrin Knox said with a certain coldness in his voice, “and I admit I asked for that one. I do not think, however, that they are helping you particularly with this committee. I would still like to know what the principles are which are outmoded and old-fashioned and out of date and tie us down when we search for peace. Is it wrong to ask the Russians to prove their good faith? Is it wrong,” he said, unconsciously picking up Claude Maudulayne’s phrase at Dolly’s, “to be suspicious of more than four decades of dishonor? These are the things I want to know from you. Tell me.”
“Of course it is not wrong to want to feel that those with whom you deal are dealing in good faith,” Bob Leffingwell said with a certain coldness of his own, “and I have never said that. I have felt that possibly we were too suspicious, too quick to see bad motives, too hasty in attributing desires and ambitions and evils that may not exist. I do not say they do not exist. I say we may not know for sure that they do exist. I say we should perhaps show a little Christian charity and once in a while assume that they do not exist, and that there is a desire for peace which meets us, as genuine as our own.”
“On what basis, Mr. Witness?” Seab said flatly from his end of the table. “Where’s the proof? If a man lies to me and attacks me and is my enemy for year after year after year, why should I assume he wishes to be my friend? Oh, Mr. Chairman!” he said with a sudden harshness. “These pious, hopeful men! Do you regard me as your friend, Mr. Witness? Should I regard you as my friend? Is there any reason for us to trust one another?”
“Well, now, Mr. Chairman,” John Winthrop said with a sudden quiet anger of his own, “I think we can get along without that kind of questioning—”
“I agree, Senator,” Brigham Anderson said. “Senator will confine himself to the matters in hand, if you please, and proceed in order.” Senator Cooley gave him an impassive look and went on.
“I ask again, Mr. Chairman,” he said calmly, “on what basis? On what proof? Those are valid questions.”
“Now they are,” Senator Anderson agreed, “and I would like witness to answer them if he will, please.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Bob Leffingwell said, “I do not know that I could ever answer them in a fashion to suit the Senator from South Carolina, or possibly even the Senator from Illinois. It is true that there is much in the record to warrant suspicion of the Soviet Union; but we must not—I think we must not allow that to obscure the greater objective of peace in the world.”
“In other words, they can do us dirt as much as they pl
ease but we aren’t to let it bother us, is that it, Mr. Leffingwell?” Orrin Knox suggested dryly.
“Senator,” the nominee said, “that is an oversimplification, but in the most complete and highest sense, the answer, I think, would be yes. This is an answer,” he went on firmly as Senator Cooley, Senator DeWilton, and Senator Richardson all stirred warningly, “which will be easily misinterpreted by those who wish to misinterpret. But I mean that we must rise above our impatience, our mistrust, yes, even our feelings of vengefulness and retaliation, and greet them with a sincere desire for peace and a candid willingness to see things as they see them.”
“My God,” Orrin Knox exploded suddenly, “what more would you have us do? How many concessions do we have to make, how far do we have to let them go before we have a right to ask that they try to meet us with a sincere desire for peace, that they show us a candid willingness to see things as we see them? Must it always be a one-way street?”
“Senator,” Bob Leffingwell asked quietly, “would you have us fight a preventive war?”
“Who in blazes,” Senator Knox demanded in a tone that held a note of real distaste, “is talking about a preventive war?”
“That would seem to be the alternative,” the nominee replied.
“There are people in this country and in this world,” Orrin Knox said in a quieter tone, “who would attempt to persuade us that this is the only alternative, yes. They skip neatly over all the stages of honest negotiation, fair dealing, firmness of purpose, and unafraid adherence to principle—real principle, Mr. Leffingwell—that lie between. They cry surrender or they cry war; they try to prevent us from discussing the other possibilities that still exist, the only possibilities, it seems to me, of ever achieving that genuine peace they are always yapping about. They are usually people like yourself who either consciously or unconsciously prey upon the fears of their countrymen concerning the horrors of another war.”
“I don’t want war, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell said simply.
“Do I?” Senator Knox demanded coldly, and for a long moment he held the witness’s eyes with his own in a straight, unwavering stare. Bob Leffingwell was the first to look away, but when he did it was with an audible sigh, as though confronted with all the wayward wrongfulness of the world.
“Who can say what course means war and what means peace, Senator?” he asked. “I can only believe that my course is less likely to lead to it; you believe that yours has the same advantage. History may have to decide between us, each of us according to the other, as we must if the nation is not to be torn apart on these issues, the depth and sincerity of his belief.”
Orrin Knox made an impatient gesture.
“I have no further questions of the witness at this tune, Mr. Chairman,” he said.
“I guess our boy showed him,” the Washington Post whispered triumphantly at the press table. “Damned good stuff,” United Features agreed. “I wonder,” the Herald Tribune said thoughtfully.
There was a sleepy explosion at the other end of the line and Crystal Danta smiled in a satisfied way.
“I just thought I’d call to find out if you were sleeping well,” she said pleasantly.
“Not as well as I will be in another week,” Hal Knox replied promptly from the house in Spring Valley, and Crystal chuckled.
“That’s a lewd remark,” she observed.
“Prompted by a lewd woman,” her fiancé told her. “Anyway, I was sleeping well until you woke me up.”
“At eleven o’clock?” Crystal asked. “Isn’t it about time you got up?”
“You forget,” Hal said, “that I will soon be a married man with cares, responsibilities, and a job, and all this carefree life will be over.”
“I haven’t forgotten that at all,” Crystal Danta assured him. “Particularly about your being a married man. Have you?”
“Right at this moment,” her betrothed informed her candidly, “I’m remembering it with great strength and vigor.”
“All right, now,” she said, trying to sound severe but not succeeding too well. “That will do, young man. I didn’t call up to listen to you being naughty.”
“I’m not naughty,” Hal said complacently. “I’m just a simple, passionate child of nature who right at this moment well, anyway, if you weren’t such a sweet old-fashioned girl you would long since have—”
“Yes, little boy,” she interrupted. “No doubt. We’ll see who’s old-fashioned next week. How about lunch and some shopping?”
“Again?” Hal exclaimed. “We’re in debt for thirty years to come as it is. All right. Where and when?”
“Pick me up at the apartment at twelve and maybe we can eat down on the waterfront,” Crystal suggested.
“Okay,” Hal said. “Honestly, woman, I never knew you were so extravagant or I’d never have proposed in the first place.”
“Want to reconsider?” Crystal asked, and he laughed.
“Not on your life,” he said.
“Mr. Chairman,” John Winthrop said in his level, clipped voice, smiling a little, “I shall try to be as brief as possible, because I know we want to move this along and I know that other Senators, like myself, have many demands on their time. In fact at this moment, Mr. Chairman, I am supposed to be present at three committee meetings, two subcommittees, an appointment with the chairman of the Interstate Commerce Commission, and a ceremony on the Capitol steps welcoming the senior class of Northampton High School to Washington, to say nothing of mail, phone calls, and miscellaneous constituents. All of which is typical of the situation with all of us on this Hill all the time. So I shall try to keep it short.”
“Senator,” Brigham Anderson told him gravely, “your devotion to duty does you great credit. Passing up committees, ignoring subcommittees, flaunting the chairman of the Interstate Commerce Commission, and missing phone calls from constituents is nothing. But when a man gives up the chance to be photographed on the Senate steps with the senior class of Northampton High School, he is making a sacrifice beyond compare.”
“Those kids will be voting for you in another five years, John,” Arly Richardson suggested into the general laughter that followed. “Maybe you’d better ask to be excused, and question the witness later.”
“I don’t know whether they will be voting for me or not,” Senator Winthrop said, more soberly, “but maybe they’re important in a much deeper way than that. The world they will be living in when they reach voting age is going to be determined in large part by the policies and actions of this witness, if we confirm him; so maybe I can serve them better by stayin’ right here and askin’ questions than I could if I went and had my picture taken.”
“I think you’re right, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell volunteered with a smile.
“Good,” Senator Winthrop said. “We start agreeing, anyway. How do you feel about all this pressure we’re under from our allies for new efforts to snuggle up to the Kremlin?”
The nominee smiled again.
“I don’t know whether I’d say ‘snuggle up’ Senator,” he said, “but I think there obviously is a great desire all over the world—including, I think, in our own country—that we make further attempts to reconcile our differences as soon as possible.”
“And you aim to reflect that desire in your statements to the subcommittee here, and in the policies you plan to follow if the Senate confirms you?” John Winthrop asked.
Bob Leffingwell looked thoughtful for a moment and then answered with care.
“This is a delicate area, Senator,” he said, “as we have already seen in the questioning so far, and I want to be very careful not to put myself in a false position by what I say. I do not, as the Senator from Illinois seems to think, wish to reach agreement on any terms whatsoever, regardless of whether it’s convenient for us, or profitable for us, or not. But neither do I want to be so adamant that any possibility of agreement is killed before it starts.”
“What terms do you think would be valid?” Senator Winthrop asked.
The nominee hesitated and then his look became at once more candid and, curiously, more closed-off.
“There, Senator,” he said, “you realize that we get into an area that must inevitably be one in which I cannot testify to any specific degree. It is a matter of agreement between the President and his Secretary of State, covered by the doctrine of Executive privilege, which must in most respects be confidential. What I might think were valid terms the President might consider unjustified, and naturally as his Secretary of State I would be bound to follow his views.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Cooley said, and Senator Winthrop said promptly, “I yield to the Senator, if he intends to be brief.”
Seab bowed ironically and leaned forward to stare along the table at the senior Senator from Massachusetts, who returned him stare for stare and then gave him a broad wink and grin.
“Oh, Mr. Chairman,” Senator Cooley said with dignity, “now that is an unwarranted implication. The Senator knows I will be brief because I am always brief, Mr. Chairman; except when the fate of my country is concerned, and then I don’t believe even the distinguished Senator from Massachusetts would want me to be too brief, Mr. Chairman.”
“Proceed, Senator,” Brigham Anderson said in an unimpressed voice, and Seab turned his slow and calculating gaze upon the nominee.
“Why are you afraid to tell us what terms you favor in talking to the Russians, Mr. Witness?” he asked quietly.
“I’m not afraid, Senator,” Bob Leffingwell replied with equal quietness.
“Well, you won’t tell us,” Senator Cooley retorted. “Doesn’t that mean you’re afraid? Seems to me he’s afraid, Mr. Chairman. If he isn’t afraid, why can’t he tell?”
“I’ve just attempted to explain, Senator—” Bob Leffingwell began, but Seab cut him off.
“We don’t want lawyer’s talk,” he said with calculated rudeness. “We can get lawyer’s talk in a court. We want to know what you propose to give away to the Russians when you sit down to negotiate for us, Mr. Witness. What is it you intend to give away?”
