by Allen Drury
“What do you mean by that?” he asked in genuine alarm. She leaned back and gave him the long, straight look he had often received in their life together.
“What did it sound like?” she asked.
“It sounded as though you weren’t going to help me,” he said in dismay. “That’s just what it sounded like.”
“Of course I’ll help you,” she said. “I always have, haven’t I?”
“Then tell me what to do,” he said.
“My dear,” she said quietly, “do you really want me to?”
At this he paused and thought for a long, long time, staring out across the water while she watched him with the same appraising, waiting look. Finally he spoke slowly.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. In a way—”
“Go on,” she said.
“In a way I’m not so sure I do.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s the first step in really coming to grips with it.”
“But you’ve always given me your advice—” he began.
“Yes, but this is really it. This is It with a capital I. This is the Presidency. What right have I got to put in my two-bits’ worth?”
“I’d give you the right,” he said, still protesting but knowing in his heart that he was already accepting her decision and beginning to be glad of it, it had come like a dash of cold water, but of course it was the only thing and he knew it, “if you wanted the right.”
She shook her head.
“My dear,” she said again, “nobody could want that right. The others were wise. It’s too big. Much as I want to help you, and much as I am prepared to help you in whatever you decide, the decision has got to be yours. About all I can say is what I expect Bill said and what I expect the others said: Orrin Knox has lived in a certain way and come to mean certain things to his country and his time. He has to decide now whether he wants to mean something else. It’s as simple as that.”
“Simple!” he said with a groan. “My God, what a word. Look at this,” he said, remembering the paper and giving it to her. “Does this make it simple?”
She glanced at it quickly and handed it back.
“Why don’t you give it to the Smithsonian?” she suggested with a smile. “They have everything else.”
“Oh, Hank,” he said, reaching for her hand in a last dependent gesture, “what am I going to do? What am I ever going to do?”
“I suppose,” she said, squeezing it firmly, “that you’re going to do what’s right for you to do. I’ve never known you—with a few exceptions,” she added with a chuckle, “to do anything else.”
“But if I decide the wrong way—” He said. She shook her head.
“Who’s to determine that?” she asked. “You, or the Lord? Have a little faith, Senator. It will all work out for the best.”
He thought for a moment and spoke in a much lighter tone.
“All I can say is,” he said, “you’re a hell of a lot of help.”
“I think,” she said as she started the car, “I have been. Where do you want to work this out?” she asked humorously. “Staring at Abe or brooding by the Capitol?”
“Abe may be a little tired of me by now,” he said with an answering, returning humor. “Why don’t you drop me at the foot of the Hill and I’ll do a little walking and thinking before I go back to the floor?”
“That’s fine,” she said. Five minutes later she stopped the car at the bottom of the long lane of slate steps leading up to the West Front of the Capitol and leaned over and kissed him firmly.
“I love you very much, Senator,” she said. “I’m not worried about you.”
“That’s good,” he said wryly. “You’re about the only one.”
Above him the great Capitol loomed against a sky still tinged faintly with a lingering, lemon light; a few cars passed, most of them bound up the Hill to discharge the visitors who were converging upon the Senate to hear his speech; a lone cop stood sentry in the distance, a few tourists wandered; there was a peaceful stillness under the trees and along the walks and over the vast expanses of the lawn.
Here between the Capitol and the town he stood suspended between the two parts of his life, the great floodlit building above, and below, when he turned to stare down the Mall, the imperial needle of the Washington Monument, the lower mass of the Lincoln Memorial, the glow of the city, the dim hills of Virginia ... and the White House, distant and almost lost amid the haze of lights and the soft concealment of the trees.
Almost lost....Almost lost. Why did he not be honest with himself and say, completely? For it was, he knew it now, there had never really been the slightest doubt in his heart of hearts what he was going to do. He had gone through the hours since receiving the President’s offer as though he were sleepwalking; and each new rebuff he had received from those he had counted on to help him in his time of greatest need had simply confirmed his strange impression that somehow it was all something in a dream, that he was wandering out of bounds on the edge of destiny and sooner or later would have to wake up.
Well: they had made him wake up, and that, apparently, was what they had all intended to do, from his old friends, each of whom had contemplated at one time or another the goal that now lay within his grasp and so could understand the turmoil of his indecision, to the Speaker, who understood the ways of ambition as few men did, to his wife, who not only understood the ways of ambition but understood him. Make up your own mind, they had said, making it up for him in their own calculated refusals; make up your own mind, and act like Orrin Knox.
And yet—and yet. Here within his reach lay all that he had dreamed of for thirty years, the chance to be President, the chance to run the country as he believed best, the chance to do the great things for America that he knew, he knew, he could do if he had the power. With all the vigor of his passionate heart he was convinced that he could serve the country in a way that would be to her great and ultimate good. He knew he could be a good President, quite possibly a great one; he had thought so often about what he would do, how he would handle it, the goals he would set and the ways he would achieve them, the clear direction he would chart and the strong leadership he would provide. Here it all lay, in the palm of his hand, needing only the bargain to be completed, the deal to be struck, for the hand to close tightly at last upon the prize it had reached for so long.
The Lord will judge, his wife had said; but who was to know for sure but what the Lord wanted him to have the prize? Maybe, in the way things had of working themselves out in fashions men did not expect and could not foresee, that was the decision he was supposed to make. Possibly God wanted him to be President ... or possibly, of course, He did not.
It seemed to him then, as the final moments of indecision gripped his heart and roused anew the turmoil in his mind, that somewhere, somehow, in all this great universe, there must be some sign that would tell him what to do. But it did not come, he could not find it anywhere. All he saw was the clear spring evening, the great Capitol, the town where Power and Ambition lived and worked and had their way with men. All that came to him in that time of ultimate clarification of his life were voices: a wistful boy said, “I suppose that’s a sign of lots of friends, when you have three nicknames”; another, brash and confident, said, “I think I’ll run for the state Senate;” yet another said, “Governor, I hope you will be with me,” and a little later, in that horrible hour, “I suppose you’re like all the rest! I thought I could count on your integrity, but I guess that wouldn’t fix you up so well, would it?” And more immediately, other voices said: “It has been my observation that when a man deserts something he basically and fundamentally believes in, he loses something inside. Yes, sir, he loses something inside.” And, “Whether you’d want to keep on living with Orrin Knox if you got it on a bargain of that kind, that, too, I don’t know.” And, “Orrin Knox has lived in a certain way and come to mean certain things to his country and his time. He has to decide now whether he wants to mean
something else. It’s as simple as that.”
But I want to be President, his heart cried out in bitterness. I have such great things in me for my people and my country; I want the chance to do them, I want to save this blundering, helpless, goodhearted nation that is fundamentally too decent to know how to deal with the ring of sharpies who encircle her, some with the face of enemies, and some with the face of friends. I want to do what I know I can for her. I want to help her find the way.
He realized with a start that he must have spoken half aloud, for a pair of tourists whose approach he had not even heard had paused and were watching him curiously nearby. He managed a smile and a firm, “Good evening,” and after a moment they said, “Good evening, Senator,” in a reserved and curious tone and walked slowly away, murmuring to one another. Don’t you see, he felt like crying out, I am deciding whether or not to be President and you must not wonder about my strange noises. This is an agony not many know, and you must forgive me if I do not keep it entirely under control.
But he must, he realized; he must. It would soon be ten o’clock, and he had promised Powell Hanson, knowing even as he did so that he was also promising himself, to have an answer by that time. It was not something that had to be prolonged, after all: an offer like this came like a thunderclap and like a thunderclap it would go away, and only the echo would rumble a little in his own heart, and then in the passage of time the heart would come to rest and even the echo would at last be gone. He did not need hours to decide about the Presidency, when he had contemplated it so long; nor, in truth, did he need hours to decide about Orrin Knox, with whom he had lived for fifty-eight years, and with whom he must continue to live until it pleased Providence to call him home.
But oh, he did not want to do what he was about to do. Knowing as he did that he had no real choice, still he was not ready for the rending pain that struck his heart as he prepared to turn and go up the long steps and back to the forum where the whole world watched his actions. Now he would never be President, for his opponent would never forgive him, he would do everything he could, and it was quite enough, to defeat him in the convention. Never again would Orrin Knox come even close to the goal he had always sought. All the things he might have done, vanished; all the contributions he might have made, possible in that office as in no other, lost beyond recovery; all his hopes and plans and dreams, forever at an end.
And why? Because two men, equally strong, equally ambitious, had come to their final meeting over an issue that both regarded as fearfully vital to the country; and because both, he was finally charitable enough to perceive, were completely sincere in their approaches to it. The President, this time, was being completely honest in his attitude toward the nomination, and also, strange as it might seem, toward the Senator’s potential candidacy. He was offering a bargain, but Orrin did not think so little of him but what he knew that the bargain would not have been offered if the President did not feel in his own mind that the result of it would be good for the country. For he, too, in the ironic way of Washington, which so easily turned the dreams and plans and basic convictions of men back upon themselves, carried in his heart a vision of the country and what he could do for it every bit as sincere and all-dominating and all-consuming as the Senator’s own.
But this could not weigh with the Senator. He could not change his own views, nor could he modify himself, however great the personal advantage might be, when the consequence the President sought was something he so greatly disapproved. There was no possible compromise left for him and his opponent, and actually there never had been. They were met upon a ground where all men in government ultimately stood to be judged, the ground of what was best for the nation, and no more than the President could he retreat an inch from his own position. The President had not been without precedent in trying to persuade him, for some men might yield; but Orrin was not some men. “Well,” he had said tartly: “I am as I am.” And so he was, and that concluded the argument.
He turned away from the city below in a slow and reluctant and painful fashion as though he were giving up the whole meaning of his life, as he thought in a very real sense he was, and faced the Capitol.
The great dome loomed above him against the deepening sky, shimmering, perfect, white and pure, over the city, over the nation, over the world. On the Senate side the flag slapped lazily in a gentle breeze. Utter peace, utter serenity, lay upon the Hill.
Surprising and sudden, tears came into his eyes.
O America, he thought, and it was like a crying in his heart: O America! Why do you suffer us your people, who are such fools, and what have we done to deserve you?
Then he shook his head with a quick, impatient movement and strode firmly up the long flight of steps to keep his date with Robert A. Leffingwell.
***
Chapter 7
On the morning of the day of Bob Leffingwell’s defeat the major supporters of his cause went all out in one last hysterical insistence to the Senate that it overlook his shortcomings, uphold his general record, and confirm him. Although there was some falling-away, there were still quite a few vigorous editorials demanding his approval; several early-morning television programs managed to work in several plugs for him; there were statements by prominent citizens issued over the radio, special commentaries were put on the air, full-page ads by something known as “Citizens for Leffingwell” appeared in major cities over the land; and lending the inevitable final touch, a noisy line of picketers marched back and forth in front of the Capitol until the cops hustled them away shouting sarcastic comments to the passersby and carrying placards reading, “We Need Leffingwell, The Man of Peace!” and “You Talk Peace—Vote Peace!” and, “What Now, Little Men? Leffingwell and Peace? Or WAR?”
In the office buildings of the Senate, too, the final drive was on, telegrams, special-delivery letters, and last-minute telephone calls were flooding in, final talks and conferences were being held. An air of excitement pervaded the Hill, made greater by the news that Moscow, quite possibly with an eye to the Senate’s scheduled meeting at noon, had now confirmed that its broadcast would be received in the United States at twelve-thirty Eastern standard time. REDS SAY MESSAGE MAY DECIDE FATE OF WORLD, the headlines read; SENATE TO VOTE TONIGHT ON LEFFINGWELL. It was a combination of dramatic tensions to rank with the best to be found in the history of a capital that had known many of them.
Busy at his desk, reading the angry analyses of his speech last night, impatiently scanning the concluding personal attacks and the last spiteful smears, the senior Senator from Illinois paused long enough to tend to two personal matters before going to Seab’s office for a final strategy conference. The first was to call the National Chairman and say to that embarrassed and uneasy gentleman, who now thought himself to be caught in a bind between two imperious personalities, that he wasn’t. Orrin had found he would be tied up next week, he said, it would be impossible for him to speak to the National Committee, much as he appreciated the invitation, so many thanks and perhaps some other time. The National Chairman’s relief was so fervent as to be almost maudlin, for most of his night had been spent amongst uneasy visions of an angry President breathing fire on one side and an angry Senator breathing fire on the other. “Thank you, Orrin,” he said earnestly as their brief conversation concluded. “Thanks a million. You’re a real prince, boy.” “Just call me Prince, Jim,” Orrin suggested dryly. “As in, ‘Sick-’em, Prince!’” But this was too deep for the National Chairman and he said good-by with an uncertain laugh and reiterated fervent thanks.
That done, the Senator called the White House, and when the operator, who was politically hep as anybody, had put him through to his objective with a surprised and knowing, “Why, yes, Senator!” he spoke without preliminaries of protocol.
“I have a message for you,” he said. “In writing. I’ll have my admini-strative assistant deliver it in fifteen minutes if you will arrange to have him admitted at the West Gate.”
“I will,” the Pre
sident said in an expressionless voice.
“Thank you,” the Senator said in the same tone, and hung up.
He picked up the handwritten statement on White House stationery and looked at it for a long time; for it was indeed, as they had all assured him, a most historic document and neither he nor any other man, in all probability, would ever see its like again. He thought of his wife’s suggestion that he give it to the Smithsonian, and suddenly he grinned. Then without adding an enclosure to it or commenting upon it in any way, he refolded it neatly, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, and wrote, “The President” in a firm hand which he underscored with a heavy black line that looked as emphatic as he felt.
“Art,” he said into the intercom, “I have something here I want you to deliver personally to the President for me. Right now.”
And with a shiver of his shoulders as though he were finally freeing them of the last of a heavy burden, he rose and carried the envelope to the outer office and his waiting messenger.
“I wonder,” AP said thoughtfully at the press table in the restaurant where the usual ten o’clock coffee crowd was gathered, “whether this would have worked out any differently if Leffingwell had been honest with the committee at the start.”
“Oh, I think so,” the Newark News said. “I think so. I don’t think he would have had any trouble.”
“With Cooley and Knox on his trail?” UPI asked skeptically.
“Knox wasn’t, at first,” the Times pointed out, “and Seab could have been overcome, easy enough.”
“Well, not so easy, maybe,” the Philadelphia Inquirer said, “but it could have been done.”
“There comes a time for most clever men in this town when they get too clever, particularly when they deal with the Senate,” the Herald Tribune remarked philosophically. “The Senate doesn’t like it.”
“I see some of the boys aren’t giving up, though,” the Chicago Tribune observed. “There are still some editorials for him, regardless.”