aesthetic ascendency of Parisian artists and their dealers, experience for
each other a mutual sympathy.

The interest Verbruggen has in contemporary painting is strong. The
very fact that Brussels is not a major art center may stimulate his curios-
ity about the creative work going on elsewhere. This cosmopolitan approach
I liked.

In my observation most of the young New York painters are self-absorbed, or local-group-involved to such an extent that they feel little interest in the creations of foreign artists. Many hug the belief that New York now shows more creative vitality than Paris. This is possibly so. Verbruggen tells me that Paris art is currently mixed-up and moribund. But even though it probably is so -- Gordon Washburn agrees -- I feel our young New York artists are in danger of a smug provincialism of outlook so long as they relax in indifference to what is being created abroad. A difference between New York and Paris as art centers is this: Paris is a mecca for and becomes the scene of work, for painters and sculptors from the world over. New York, during the period of Nazi dominance in Europe, also attracted artists from many countries. It was fertilized and benefited by a new cosmopolitanism. The museums and dealers help foster the wider outlook. New York is certainly not aesthetically cut off. Yet it is a working place only for artists from all over the United States, plus a rich assortment of foreign-born talent that for the most part came here young enough to receive American educations. Plus also Japanese artists.

Although the major younger European talents have been coming over to
take a look at what is being done here, I believe few if any settle per-
manently, as artists for a century have done in Paris or Italy, to make
this the place of their creative working life. Afro, Davie, Lanyon,

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Santomaso, Mathieu, Soulages have come here to see and be stimulated but none, for economic or other reasons, has chosen to remain. Thus New York as a creative center has its limits. It may lapse into a provincial backseat sooner than its artists foresee.

To conclude my comments on the Pittsburgh Bicentennial International, I amused myself during the early part of the return by train with an examination of the catalogue and a comparison of the price list with that of the 1955 Pittsburgh International. Counting the birthdates of all the artists born in 1910 or later, I figured that 67% of the painters and sculptors represented have been born since 1909, which means that the bulk of them are under fifty, a truly contemporary lot. I'm sure a substantial number are under 35, but I didn't calculate that figure.

In respect to prices, the last three years have seen a considerable increase, although I believe the cost of living index has not notably varied in the United States since '55. Anyway, I found that in 1955 only about 10% of the paintings listed were priced at $2,000 or over; not more than 2 2/5% cost $5,000 or more.

How different is the situation slightly over these three years later! One quarter of the items in the present price list are $2,000 and over; 8 1/2% are in the $5,000 and up bracket! Yet higher prices are not deterring sales. At luncheon, with the exhibition less than half through its first day of being open to the public, Washburn and Arkus were gleefully reporting to us that 79 items were already sold. Considering that in all the past Pittsburgh Internationals from 1896 through 1955 only 1,024 paintings found buyers, this seems remarkable. These sales undoubtedly gratify Gordon as an indication of his wise selection.

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falsehoods. He would confess everything to Richard.

It happens that Stankiewicz does have keen, expressive, probing, candid, perhaps also puzzled eyes. I thought at once of the reaction to Richard's eyes of another Oriental. When I first introduced Kiichi to Stankiewicz, Kiichi at once received the impression, he told me, that he was confronting a true artist. This was before he saw any of Stankiewicz's sculpture.

Walasse Ting was still in the midst of his ever more baffling disquisition on the importance of eyes when three people arrived. One was Marcia Marcus, whom I used to see last summer in Provincetown (and never warmed to what I saw in her eyes). Her appearance truly surprised me, because Dick Bellamy and I had come out of Martha Jackson's in her company only about an hour previously. Dick had invited her to ride downtown with us in a taxi, saying we were going to a dinner party; she declined.

Suddenly here she was at Stankiewicz's (where she had never been before) accompanied by two hirsute men, one of whom was the sculptor John Chamberlain.

Half an hour later the painter Paul Georges and a friend of his dropped in to call. Richard hasn't chairs enough for such a number. Walasse Ting asked to take his girl friend into the farther room to see the sculptures. Richard would not permit this.

Is it possible that Richard did not want Chamberlain, as a rival sculptor, to see his current work? Later, after Chamberlain and the other man who came with Marcia had left (Marcia sat on by herself) we were all permitted to enter that room with its strange fabulous creations rowed on white pedestals.

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March 31, 1959 -- Providence

I revisited my collection at the Rhode Island School of Design this noon, looking hard and long at each painting to determine whether I have made some mistakes. Miss Davidson of the museum staff came past, we chatted, and I asked her what she dislikes. She readily answered that the only one that really angers her is Albert Urban's *Sybil*.

I got into conversation with an interesting couple; they later introduced me to a nice looking man who is a commercial artist. He in turn presented two other commercial artists, his friends. We would no doubt have talked considerably about the paintings had not a 'personage' arrived.

John Maxon scurried through the gallery, glimpsed me and called out, "Where's the Senator?"

"What senator?" I asked, having identified no politician among the few people then in the galleries.

"Theodore!" he replied and hurried away. Soon he hove again into sight and beckoned to me. I was then introduced to our aged but sprightly Theodore Francis Green, whom I must first have met a full thirty years ago. Dear old Theodore's eyes are somewhat dim; he could not be expected to place me in his memory. I admired him for taking the trouble to come to behold this exnibit.

He is a phenomenon. "A very sophisticated old gentleman," John Maxon called him. It was only a month or so ago that he renounced his post as Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee of the Senate because his nearing is not up to par. I noticed he was wearing a hearing aid. Maxon dashed off and left to me the task of showing the pictures to Theodore. I spoke rather loud. We had no sooner started a tour than a body of at least twenty school girls filled the galleries. Theodore clutched a catalogue.

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I commented on the artists; he commented freely on the pictures. He persisted in seeing figures in abstractions. He saw Bill Ronald's Zoroaster as a lobster and a red ribbon. He found eyes and human forms in paintings that were never meant by their creators to have them.

After seeing Bruce Conner's painting with its grotesque bulk of male
flesh, the genitals conspicuous, Theodore slyly insinuated that he can't
understand why young artists are so concerned with the sexual organs.

After he had seen quite a few of my many abstractions the senator
asked me if anyone buys such paintings. I said that indeed they do in New
York. He responded that I am planning to get rich through my paintings. I
think the old boy enjoyed himself. He praised Lyonel Feininger's water
color; he told me Serge Vandercam's painting would be better if a foot of
canvas were cut off the bottom of it; he construed Alan Davie's No. 8 -
1954 as depicting a lock and a safe door. His imagination and his mind
were at least at work.

It's amazing to realize that 59 years ago, in 1900, Theodore became a
trustee of the Rhode Island School of Design. My father was a college boy
then. "Modern art" had scarcely begun; much less what the _Journal_ in
headlining the story of my collection called "modern modern art."

Theodore goes far enough back to have been able to have bought
Cézannes for a pittance. Indeed he was already an adult during the five
years from 1885-1890 that tormented Van Gogh was creating his art in poverty and neglect.

April 2, 1959 -- Providence

I suppose it may be because I have seldom done anything of great
service for people that I get a big kick out of the enthusiasm some people

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are showing over my collection. After luncheon at the Hope Club I revisited the museum today. I had hardly entered the building when I met Gene Richmond. She worked for the museum at the time of the Matisse show in 1931. She said she remembers the antagonism it provoked. In her diffident way she expressed approval of this exhibit. Then in came Evert Freeman's nephew Jerry and Jerry's Aunt Ida. When I met them downstairs in the galleries it was plain that Jerry was not intrigued, but that Ida Clifford was trying. The picture Ida chose to admire because she can translate it into terms of a fabric design is Myron Stout's Red Abstraction.

Just three hours before she told me this the local painter James Herbert, in talking to me of the pictures in a Thayer Street shop, expressed delight in the Donati and the Hosiasson. When I pressed him for what he doesn't like, he mentioned Myron Stout's as a painting that he feels doesn't succeed. One person's taste diametrically opposite to the other's!

It was Jerry Freeman who presented me to the Charles A. Robinsons, accompanied by their youngest son, Franklin.* C.P. Robinson is professor of Greek and archeology at Brown University, the biographer of Alexander the Great, and a distinguished classical scholar. Mrs. Robinson, Mother tells me, is the daughter of Paul Sachs, a great authority on art at Harvard. The Robinsons, who have several times previously examined the collection, began by enthusing over Bill Ronald's Zoroaster; they thought my Dubuffet one of the best of Dubuffets; the Pollock a masterpiece; they were unlimited in their praise of Marca-Relli's Vestibule. What pleased me so much was that they seemed to have a more sophisticated appreciation of contemporary painting than anyone else I have encountered in Providence.

*Franklin W. Robinson, who obtained his Ph.D. from Harvard in 1970, was appointed Director of the Museum of Art, R.I.S.D., in 1979.

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Young Franklin Robinson talked like a connoisseur. He was much taken by
young Bruce Conner's Man, a painting that many artists have admired but
which in Providence is generally viewed with abnorrence. The informed
enthusiasm of the Robinsons pleased me immensely. It is not for "the
public" that artists paint, but for the approbation of minds as aethetical-
ly responsive, as understanding, as the Robinsons'. Professor Robinson
told me that he proposes to bring his classical students to the exhibition,
intending to let them loose, without a preparatory word, among the pic-
tures.

Yesterday a group of Junior High School students were brought to the
museum, each endowed with a mythical million dollars and told to "buy"
anyone they chose from among my pictures. This I learned by reading this
morning's *Providence Journal*. It gave a whole page of pictures to the
children and their choices. I have mailed copies of the page to the
favored artists. One little boy, for instance, selected Ilya Bolotowsky's
Large Cobalt Diamond, declaring, "I like the pattern and choice of colors.
Also, it is interesting the way the artist had the painting framed. I
figure I would pay $2,000 for it."

Well, I was charged no more than $900 for this particular work. If
current taste in New York were more favorable to Mondrian-derived, recti-
linear painting, it is possible that Bolotowsky would get, not $2,000 but
perhaps $3,000 for a work of these dimensions and quality.

April 5, 1959 -- New York

Just a few moments ago I learned by telephone the shocking news that
the painter Albert Urban died suddenly yesterday of a heart attack. He was
barely fifty, a modest, very sensitive man who always seemed calm, sensible

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and restrained. I suspect he suffered from inner tensions which perhaps wore upon his heart. It could not have been easy to be brought up as an artist in Germany in the 30s and emigrate to America to make a career as a painter. He was in youth, a pupil of Max Beckmann.

Part of the tragedy of his going now is that his painting has only within the last year or two been refined to a personal vision. After early artistic successes he seems to have in some way been wounded within -- to have been shocked by his education and training perhaps and been easily hurt by criticisms -- so that he ceased to exhibit for years. It was only this past autumn that he had a one man show. In terms of critical approval I think his show could be called successful, although financially I doubt if it was rewarding. His wife Reva was pushing him hard. She is so ambitious. In the interest of what she called "politics," the Urbans have been going about a great deal this past year in art circles, talking to everyone, getting to be known. For a man of his pride and sensitivity this must have been a strain. I had never questioned his health, but it seems evident tonight that he overtaxed himself.

The worst part of it is that he seems to have been painting better and better. The large canvas Sibyl that I bought from him this winter I consider superior to his Adam of 1957.

About two months ago, on a Sunday at the end of January, the Urbans came here for cocktails along with Virginia Field. They had the pleasure of seeing his Sibyl hanging in splendor at the end of my room. It made a handsome effect. Perhaps this encouraged Albert. At any rate, he talked more confidently and assertively than I had ever heard him. Even the voluble Reva remarked about this. Among other things, Albert said with quiet intensity, "I hate education." He said it had taken him years to

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throw off the restricting forces of his training and reach his own personal vision. He seemed to have acquired a new confidence in his work and consequently in himself. He and Reva looked at a painting of mine. They found words to praise it. However, Albert spoke up, later, and indicated that his first favorable impression was lessened by continued looking. I was still painting around the picture he said, not from the inside out. Reva proposed that we all go to dinner together in an Italian restaurant in the Village. We did. Willem de Kooning, I remember, was seated nearby with a voluptuous young woman. We ate manicotti and a rich frothy Italian dessert. Then at Reva's suggestion we walked to Albert's studio to see his latest paintings. She said earlier that Albert had previously determined not to show his current output to young fellow artists because he found several were imitating him superficially without essential understanding. We were privileged, however, to be shown all his latest paintings.

Virginia and I were both enthusiastic. These paintings were purged of all the complicated forms of his earlier work; they had a sort of delicate purity and sensibility. I particularly admired one that is purple; Virginia favored another predominantly yellow. He told us he was painting with greater ease and rapidity than usual. These paintings flowed out of him.

I meant to write an account of this interesting evening but several hours after getting home I awoke with an attack of diarrhea which made me ill for a day.

Reva had spoken of wishing to take Virginia and me to a Friday session of the artists' club. Only about ten days ago she telephoned on 24 hours notice to propose it, but I was already committed elsewhere. I last saw Albert Urban at an art gallery; I think it was French and Co.'s presentation of Barnett Newman. Reva confided to me that the critic Clement Green-

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berg admired Albert's painting. As Greenberg has been made an advisor to French & Co., she was maneuvering to have Albert given an exhibit in that expensive establishment. The better to clear the ground for this development, Albert had severed his connections with the Zabriskie Gallery where he had his show last autumn. Too much tension, intrigue and excitement for this man of excessive sensitivity. It is a severe loss that in the flowering of his art he has been cut off.

I think back fourteen months ago with some horror to the cocktail party I gave on January 28, 1958 in order that Lee Malone of the Houston museum might meet some of my artist friends.

Three of the painters present that evening have since had heart attacks. Jan Müller, the youngest, died almost the next day. Last fall or early this winter Norman Carton suffered a severe heart attack which laid him up for many months; he has recovered. Now Albert Urban has been carried off as suddenly as Jan Müller.

Is the creative life too great a strain in contemporary New York? Perhaps it is, on top of a youth battered by the international difficulties provoked by Hitlerism. Jan Müller and Albert Urban had in common a German origin, a displacement from their homeland and a youthful adjustment to America.

As artists are more than ordinarily sensitive people, this struggle with the political uglinesses of the 20th century must have taken its inner toll. It would be farfetched and thoroughly unscientific to attribute the early deaths of these two ex-Germans to the fanaticism of Adolf Hitler, but I wonder whether, in an indirect way, Hitlerism is not to blame as well as the mechanics of the human body?

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berg admired Albert's painting. As Greenberg has been made an advisor to Frenck & Co., she was maneuvering to have Albert given an exhibit in that expensive establishment. The better to clear the ground for this development, Albert had severed his connections with the Zabriskie Gallery where he had his show last autumn. Too much tension, intrigue and excitement for this man of excessive sensitivity. It is a severe loss that in the flowering of his art he has been cut off.

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April 1959 -- New York

It was with a depressed, nervous feeling -- for I have always dreaded
the confrontation of death -- that I left my studio yesterday afternoon and
went downtown by subway to the funeral home on Lexington Avenue where I had
been told I might pay my last respects to Albert Urban.

Mr. Urban did not desire a service. It seemed almost unique to have
no service at all. But there his body was to be -- on view -- from 1 p.m.
till 10. I was told that Reva might (or might not) be present. The poor
girl, her face drained of all color, was indeed there, as was her mother,
who has flown from California. A circle of friends, which included art
dealers Virginia Zabriskie and Lou Pollack, and painters Sam Spanier and
Dale Joe, sat with her. Into this soberly clad, almost speechless semi-
circle of mourners I stepped, not knowing what to expect. Reva thanked me
profusely for the letter I had sent her. I felt myself much embarrassed to
become the center of attention in this dismal group. I sat down next to
Reva's mother and had been for some while facing the mourners before I
became conscious that at the other end of the room the body lay in an open
casket. Above it on the wall hung a small painting by Albert. There were
baskets of flowers. Reva said she felt very calm to be there in the
presence of Albert and of his painting. "I loved his painting too," she
said. "I still can't believe it has happened."

The astonishment and upset was such that she had suffered severe
stomach cramps. Her mother told me that Albert died about ten o'clock
Saturday evening. She murmured something about the going out of the
electric lights, which in my nervous state I linked with the romantic
tradition. For a moment I imagined she was telling me that as Albert died
all the lights in the building went out simultaneously, like portents in

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the sky and a clap of thunder at the death of Caesar. After reflection I conclude she was merely drawing an analogy, meaning that Albert's life passed away with the celerity that an electric light is extinguished.

Reva told us that the first thing she had thought about were Albert's paintings. She was not abandoning her plan to have him exhibited in the new galleries of French & Co. She said rather pathetically that on Thursday (less than a week after his death) Dorothy Miller of the Museum of Modern Art and Clement Greenberg are to come to see his last œuvres. "They were invited separately," she said, "but they have arranged to come together. Maybe they are scared of me. They are afraid I will break down and cry. But I don't think I will. I have cried so much already."

To me it seemed almost indecent that Reva should try to push Albert's paintings so soon, the body scarcely cold, but she has a compulsive nature. It was quiet Albert who was always restraining her, holding her back, calming her. I am convinced that he adored her, and there is a lovable quality in her eagerness. Her failing is to overdo. I once heard him say smilingly that she embarrassed him often. It seemed embarrassing now that this -- what might be unkindly miscontrued as merchandising -- should be a widow's first thought.

I asked when Albert had painted last. Reva said on Saturday, the day he died, he had completed his largest painting, one ten feet square. He came home depleted, feeling that in this painting he had culminated his endeavor. She quoted him as saying that now that he had wrought such a huge canvas he would never have to do another.

Sam Spanier rose to say he must leave. Dale Joe rose, and so did flushed Virginia Zabriskie. They took their leave solemnly in a group. As I had come later I sat down again, although I was already late for a

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ceremony uptown at which the Brandeis University Creative Awards were to be
presented.

Alarmed at the prospect of how Dorothy Miller and Clement Greenberg
may feel and react when they are shown his last paintings by Reva (will
they not feel coerced by circumstances into uttering praise in the presence
of an otherwise perhaps hysterical widow, so that they will almost doubt
whatever admiration they feel?), I said to Reva that there would be time;
it was not necessary to organize an exhibition in the next few days.

I then raised a question about his estate settlement, whether she is
at the moment legally empowered to dispose of his paintings. I asked if
Albert left a will. She said he had not. I found it had not occurred to
her that legal steps are customary to regulate the succession of ownership
after an individual's death.

I said that his paintings constitute a property; it would be usual for
them to be appraised as part of his estate; there might be tax questions.
She had thought of none of this. I advised her to consult her lawyer. She
expressed gratitude for this counsel. Two people arriving, I went to the
coffin and looked a last farewell at Albert. Then I bade them goodbye.

The newspaper describes Albert as fifty and reports that he "worked in
Europe until 1939 and participated in group shows with such artists as
Picasso, Chagall and Braque. His painting was condemned as decadent by the
Nazis and he was forbidden to paint. He fled to this country with other
leading German artists in 1940."

I think fifty likely to be his true age, although I had accepted 1919
as his birth year on the authority of the catalogue of the Pittsburgh
International Exhibition using that date, presumably supplied to the Carne-
gie Institute by the artist himself in the catalogue of my Providence show.

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April 8, 1959 -- New York

From time to time, although we meet seldom, the Japanese painter Teruko Yokoi telephones to give me news of the progress of her work. She has been wooing two art dealers, Martha Jackson and Grace Borgenicht, and has made some impression upon each. Neither has yet undertaken to exhibit her work.

Today she gave me an item of news that utterly astonished me. She said she was married last month to Sam Francis. I am not personally acquainted with Sam Francis, nor have I ever been a wholehearted admirer of his painting, but at least I am *au courant* enough to know that he is one of the more successful young abstractionists. He has an international reputation. I always think of him as painting and exhibiting in Paris where his reputation was made before New York knew him.

Teruko told me that he was married before and separated from his wife, so that he had to go to Alabama to get a divorce. All this came as a surprise. Teruko said, "I like it that his painting is so different from mine."

This alliance between them is evidence again of the essentially cosmopolitan nature of artists: the Californian residing in Paris unites with the Japanese living in New York. And yet critics, art historians, collectors, think in terms of German art, American art, English paintings, French paintings, etc. National backgrounds are to be seen in art. More important is art's universality, its transendence of the local, the national.

April 12, 1959 -- Providence

Last Monday, after a ten day preliminary period in the hospital,

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Mother had an operation in her knee in which Dr. Burton removed her kneecap and much else in that area which had become infected and swollen by arthritis. As far as I can tell she came through the operation well, although its ultimate results upon the maneuverability of her leg are as yet undiscernable.

April 14, 1959 -- Providence

Being in Providence amidst the names and places of my earliest years, I am led to reflect upon my youthful associates.

In recent years in New York I have mingled increasingly with people involved with aesthetics -- the makers and sellers of art.

Yet I must have been over 35 before I knew artists personally. Providence reminds me of this fact.

I have been thinking about the boys with whom I grew up, and what they have become. I have gone over the list of them in my mind.

Among my earliest playmates was Amory Bradford. After training in the law and wartime experience in intelligence, he now holds the eminent and influential position of Vice President of the New York Times.

Another early playmate, longer and better known, was Bancroft Littlefield. He too was in wartime intelligence and is now in law practice in Providence as a partner of a leading local law firm. Larned Dorrance is a business man. William Mauran is a pediatrician.

Getting on to my friends at Yale, Lincoln Brownell, after working in a New York law firm, as an air force officer with wartime diplomatic duties in China, as an executive of the conservative old American Bank Note Co., has now for several years been making money as an exporter to Vietnam.

Walter Myers, Jr. was recently elected a judge in his native Indiana,

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where ne's been a practicing lawyer since he finished at the Yale Law
School.

Phillips Norton is employed in the legal department of a large New
York bank.

Stuart Atkins is a professor at Harvard University and not long ago
published a book on Goethe's Faust.

Two of my closest Oxford friends were killed in World War II. Trevor
Kerslake, having abandoned the British Colonial Service as a career, has
been using his scientific training and his mind in the employ of the
brewers of Guinesses Stout.

Philip Hunt, when last I heard, had come to Canada as a British civil
servant in connection with a trade mission.

Sam Welles writes for Time-Life, Inc.

Herbert Merillat, having been variously a tax lawyer for the U.S.
Treasury, a public relations officer in combat with the U.S. Marines, and a
writer for *Time* magazine, is in India representing a scholarship program of
the Ford Foundation.

These are nearly all good sound professional careers. The boys I
accepted as friends were good students, intelligent, and professional-
minded. They weren't fanciful creative types. I didn't feel comfortable
with unstable people. These old friends of mine have had steadier,
sounder, more productive careers than I. Nearly all fit in with what the
Providence environment would favor. Lawyers, a doctor, a professor,
responsible corporation executives -- all within the bounds of respectabil-
ity. Definitely these were the kind of associates I chose. Not one of
them would deserve exclusion from the level of my family background. Only
Stuart Atkins, difficult, odd, an intellectual, was a problem, and our

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friendship floundered.

It dawns upon me that my personal subservience to convention explains the kind of friends I chose. These were fine boys, but intermingled with them should have been creative, daring, screwball fellows. No, I wouldn't have permitted it. The truth is I wouldn't have known how to cope with excessively imaginative, brilliant, talented, unreliable young men. I was, and probably still am, chillingly conventional. The apple cart must never be upset. No crazy kids, no neurotic oddballs, no pansies, Jews, Negroes, no unshaven, dirty Bohemians, no revolutionists. I'm rather ashamed as it becomes clear to me how little tolerance I formerly had. I wasn't strong enough to take the weak, the wicked, the displaced, the strange, under my protection and enjoy what merits they had. No, I was so afraid of society that I preferred all my associates to be "acceptable" people, conformists to the upper bourgeois standards. If that was underlying my attitude then, no doubt it still is. One alters only a little in life. Yet I think I have changed my outlook somewhat since I've lived in the cosmopolitan metropolis, New York. The change is partly because I am now almost outside society. Being my own boss, primarily concerned with art, in which the individual, not the organization man, is supreme, I have -- or feel -- less pressure upon me to conform.

April 15, 1959 -- Providence

Peter Prentice, a student last summer at Provincetown and a sophomore now at Brown University, lunched with me today at the Hope Club. At my request, he accompanied me afterwards to the museum where we discussed the greater number of paintings in my collection. Peter had visited it several times previously -- once with a couple of men from the art faculty at Brown

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-- and had already sorted out his favorites. The picture that engages his
fullest admiration (and for this he was gently apologetic since the artist
is comparatively unknown) is Nathan Oliveira's *Seated Man with Object*.
Peter expatiated extensively on the qualities of this painting. He was
very keen also on the Dubuffet, the Esteban Vicente, the Burri, the Marca-
Relli, the Tapies, and the Hofmann.

April 16, 1959 -- Providence

For years I have heard the severest criticism of John Foster Dulles as
the arch-agent of United States foreign policy. Every foreign statesman
has seemed to deplore him.

Yesterday morning, after two operations to counteract malignant
cancer, he resigned as Secretary of State, a weakened and doomed old man,
who has given to the service of this country phenomenal intellectual and
physical contributions. For six years it has been he, more than any other
individual, who has personified the United States in negotiations abroad,
traveling while in office more than any Secretary of State in history. He
has been adamant and inflexible, vigorous, self-confident and, if his
critics are right, too legalistic.

Today, however, the world is giving forth innumerable tributes to his
courage and wisdom.

It will be interesting to learn what the historians think of him
twenty-five years hence as they study his personal role in the "cold war."
It seems evident that he has been very influential with President Eisen-
hower. The decisions are of course the President's, but Foster Dulles
would appear to have provided the mind behind most of them. In this recent
period the United States has had a more responsible role in shaping world

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