Mr. Secretary Stettinius ( See Cover ) The Senate's Lone Ranger, North Dakota's Bill Langer, took the floor one day last week. He had an objection to make, to the appointment of Edward R. Stettinius Jr. as Secretary of State. The objection took up two and a half hours of his and the Senate's time, and filled 57 columns of type in the Congressional Record. But Bill Langer spoke with the air of a man who knew the truth of Ben Franklin's dictum that he who spits against the wind spits in his own face. He made it clear that he had no personal objection to Edward R. Stettinius Jr. In fact, most of Bill Langer's objections, in the old Midwest Senatorial tradition of denouncing Wall Street, seemed to be against Stettinius Sr. (d. 1925) and the House of Morgan to which he belonged. At last, not winded but despairing, Langer confessed: "I realize I am a lone voice in the wilderness." A few moments later, the Senate voted confirmation: 68-to-1.
"Thanks, Bob." Day after the Senate confirmation, into Cordell Hull's old black leather office crowded tittering Government clerks, a jostling mass of hardelbowed photographers, the Stettinius family—wife Virginia Wallace Stettinius, sons Edward R. III, 16, Wallace and Joseph, twins, 11—the protocol officer in striped pants, Supreme Court Justice Robert Jackson in black, General George Marshall in olive drab, and Ed Stettinius in a blue business suit. The Secretary of State's desk, stacked high for twelve years with pamphlets, cables and memos, was clean.
Justice Jackson read the oath of office and radiant, robust Ed Stettinius, hand on Bible, boomed out a baritone "So help me, God!" Then the new Secretary characteristically thrust out a friendly big hand to the Justice: "Thanks, Bob!" He turned about and kissed his wife (too quickly for the photographers; he had to do it again for them). Soon after, he held a spot press conference, where he paid Cordell Hull what must have been his 200th tribute. He told the correspondents, in effect, that from now on, boys, whatever you want is yours. This was welcome news; State Department newsmen are often treated as if they carried concealed weapons.
It is this very friendliness that has taken Ed Stettinius so far so fast. He calls people by their first names, which he always remembers. He chews gum, smokes cigarets, smiles often. He has an almost pastorlike skill at presiding over meetings. He has a knack of getting people to agree. He leans back, crosses his legs, talks in formally. A caller at his office is greeted like a long-lost brother; Ed sits down facing him, slapping his big hands down on both knees, leaning forward, all interest. He has presence. He is tall, handsome and prematurely white-haired. The color of his hair, and his quick rise to position, long ago gave him a nickname, not always spoken in jest: the White-Haired Boy. (Other nicknames: Little Stet, Mr. Statistics, Junior, Big Ed.)