The Animal Fair

If all the world were to be transformed into an animal kingdom, a dog fancier would have a wonderful time typecasting members of Congress. In both houses it would be easy to spot such specimens as the mournful mastiff, the excitable spitz, the busy dachshund with his close-set lawyer's eyes, the bloodhound with his air of sad preoccupation. Furthermore, there is an engaging and familiar quality about the aimless circling, the friendly tail-wagging, the snoozing and occasional fang-baring which take place on the floor.

Few men of modern times have brought forth the maddened howl of the U.S. legislator as dramatically as has Secretary of State Dean Acheson. Congressmen, almost to a man, regard the Secretary as a cat, and feel an unholy urge to chase him up a tree. Some of the congressional baying he has aroused is rooted deep in partisan politics. But the Secretary's unblinking disregard for opinion on Capitol Hill, and his back-arching criticism of his tormentors, has at times driven even Democrats to tooth-clicking leaps.

On Neutral Ground. Last week, after a long period of planning, Administration peacemakers tried to bring about a truce between the Secretary and Congress. Their scheme was based on the frank and open approach; they admitted that the Secretary might be a cat, but felt he was such a wonderful cat, so cold of eye, so sharp of claw, so silky of whisker, so clever of mind that even the dogs would admire him if they just got to know him. The Secretary was just back from Europe, full of news of the Western Big Three meeting and of the twelve-nation North Atlantic Council. Would the Congress let him give them a report of his activities?

It was a novel idea, based, in a sense, on the honored British tradition by which the House of Commons may squeeze information from any Cabinet member. Congress accepted with good will, and members filed into the auditorium of the Library of Congress. But when the Secretary arrived, looking as if he had just left a London tailor, their enthusiasm began to pall.

For one thing, the back of the hall was jammed with photographers whose cameras produced incessant clacking and whirring sounds. For another, the Secretary was no more inspiring than a wary cat on a high front porch. When he spoke he came to grips with an insurmountable problem: a cat, addressing dogs, does not dare speak like a dog for fear he will be accused of imitating an Airedale, and dare not speak like a cat for fear of annihilation. There is only one recourse--a dry, neutral marsh-bird tone.

A Good Bite. Acheson's report was hopeful, educational, and not very startling. The free West was facing the Russians with a "quiet, practical" unity. It had arrived at an understanding of "immense significance": an agreement on both the military and economic requirements of self-defense. None of the eleven Foreign Ministers whom he had met had any fear of immediate war--although all agreed there could be no weakening in the face of ponderous Russian pressure (later in the week, Acheson told a Senate committee that the cost of military aid to Europe would probably rise, not decline, in years to come).

As he progressed, the sound of coughing and of creaking seats mingled with the muffled disturbances of the cameramen. And when the question period began, the more excitable of his audience could not resist the opportunity of getting a good bite at him.

At first he preserved his businesslike calm. But when Minnesota's scholarly Republican Congressman Walter Judd, needled him over the prospect of Red China's being admitted to the U.N., he quit being neutral too, icily announced that he had already explained the subject a thousand times. "And," cried Judd, "I'm still trying to get an answer."

Then Mississippi's hot-eyed old John Rankin lumbered to his feet, bawled that Trygve Lie, "a known Communist," was trying to get control of the U.S. through the United Nations. "That's your statement," said Acheson, with unconcealed disdain. The meeting was hastily ended. The Congressmen gave Acheson a rising round of lackluster applause. Acheson stepped forward to shake hands with the polite minority who congratulated him. Then all concerned went back--seemingly with a sense of relief--to the same old dog & cat basis.

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