Nation: THE GOVERNMENT IN EXILE

FROM his bedroom window on the 23rd floor of the Conrad Hilton, Eugene McCarthy viewed the carnage on Michigan Avenue, turning now and again to the TV screen to watch the dissolution of his own hopes at the convention hall. Only once, when California’s Jesse Unruh, a holdout supporter of Teddy Kennedy, appeared on the screen, did he show anger. And even that was relatively subdued. “That doublecrossing son of a bitch,” he growled.

His main concern was with the young people below. “Oh, Dad,” pleaded his daughter Mary, “help them!” That evening he went down to his staff headquarters on the 15th floor, where his doctor, William Davidson, had opened a makeshift hospital. McCarthy comforted the bruised and bleeding. A girl who had been injured wept hysterically, and photographers crowded around her. Only then did McCarthy show the emotion reporters had looked for during nine long months of arduous campaigning. “Get out of the way, fellows. You don’t have to see anything. Get the hell out of the way!”

Keeping Cool. Shaken, he returned to his suite. In one final gesture, which even he probably knew would be useless, he sought to end the violence, telephoning his campaign manager at the International Amphitheatre to tell him to withdraw the name of Eugene McCarthy from the balloting. “It looked,” he remarked later, “like the convention might break up in chaos. I thought this might stabilize it.” By then it was too late. The balloting in the convention hall had already started, and the count—and the violence below—went on.

Next day, a few hours before Humphrey’s acceptance speech, McCarthy crossed the street—still lined with troops and cops—to speak to a rally of the disaffected in Grant Park. “I am happy,” he said, “to be here to address the government in exile.” When he said farewell to a group of cheering campaign workers, he added: “I may be visibly moved. I have been very careful not to be visibly moved throughout my campaign. If you people keep on this way, I may, as we say, lose my cool.” Already, some of his followers were wearing black arm bands and a new campaign button. It was blank.

In the end, as at the beginning, the Senator from Minnesota was a mystery —a nearly unfathomable blend of intellect, humor, humility and arrogance. Always he was his own man. When he was asked whether he would make a good President, he answered: “I am willing to be President. I think I would be an adequate President. I really don’t want to let you believe that I’m carrying the whole burden for the country. I’m kind of an accidental instrument, really.”

Pride and Persuasion. Yet sometimes this understatement became a form of intellectual pride. Persuasion was somehow beneath him. Talking to delegates uncertain about his position on Viet Nam, he would say: “I’ve written three books on my positions” or “I put out a position paper on that last week.” Though he needed Negro support, he refused to make any special pleas, noting airily that “when the Negroes know my record, they’ll come along.” They never did. He yearned for the support of César Chávez, a Bobby Kennedy supporter and leader of California migrant workers who has become a virtual messiah to thousands of Mexican Americans. The Senator did in fact have long talks with Chávez. But he could not bring himself to ask for the labor leader’s help. He only observed mildly that “we hope you will be with us.” Chávez sat on the sidelines.

At times, McCarthy could be petty and vindictive. Robert Kennedy could never understand the apparent hatred McCarthy felt for him—an emotion that seemed to have deeper origins than Bobby’s political sin of joining the race after New Hampshire. The bettereducated, McCarthy told an audience in Oregon, preferred him to Kennedy. “Kennedy plays softball,” he said at another point. “I play baseball.” His flair for the malicious aside showed again when he talked about Speechwriter Richard Goodwin, an early supporter who left him for Bobby, then returned after the assassination, staying on until the last ballot. “Dick Goodwin,” said McCarthy, “has been a good and faithful servant—on and off.” McCarthy was nevertheless deeply disturbed by the murder in Los Angeles. As for its political repercussions, he noted last week: “If Senator Kennedy had not died, we would have this party under control on Viet Nam.”

Whatever McCarthy’s feelings may have been about Robert Kennedy as a rival, he was willing to give up nine months of effort for Ted last week. Sounded out by Stephen Smith, Kennedy’s brother-in-law, at the height of the Teddy boomlet, McCarthy offered to throw all his weight to the last surviving brother. “Smith said Teddy wouldn’t go for it if he had to fight with me,” McCarthy recounted. “I told him he wouldn’t have to fight with me. I told him I was willing to give all the strength I had to Kennedy on the first ballot—or any ballot.” McCarthy’s gesture was unexpected, and tears came to Steve Smith’s eyes.

Looking to 1972. In defeat, McCarthy stuck to his guns. The traditional show of party unity was beyond him—particularly after what he had seen on Michigan Avenue—and he refused to appear on the convention platform with the winner. He would not, he said, endorse either Humphrey or Nixon. “We’ve forgotten the convention,” he told his supporters. “We’ve forgotten the Vice President. We’ve forgotten the platform.” For the next two months, he said, he would work for senatorial candidates who supported his view on the war. In the future, he would work to remold the party.

Indeed, the idea of remaking the party seemed to excite him more than the chance of gaining the presidency. “We have tested the process and found its weaknesses,” he said. “We’ll make this party in 1972—perhaps 1970—quite different from what we found it in Chicago!” McCarthy was not boasting idly, and his insurgents were already planning for 1972, many of them hoping for a Nixon victory this fall to “purify” the Democratic Party by defeat. Even while they were losing in Chicago, the McCarthyites won concessions, such as abolition of the unit rule, that will make future conventions more democratic. The party, in any event, cannot ignore the talented young people who have stormed its fortress. “People know we have power now,” said Tom Saltonstall, one of the Senator’s downy-faced staffers from Massachusetts. “And we’re going to keep using it. We’d be negating everything we’ve done for the past nine months if. we drop out now.”

The New Party. Not everyone, however, believes the Democratic Party can be either reformed or purified. Anticipating Humphrey’s convention victory, organizers of an entirely new party—called, unsurprisingly “the New Party” —have already put their organization on the ballot in five states: Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, North Dakota and Oregon. They claim enough signatures to win places in New York and Tennessee, and are trying as well to go before the voters in 18 more, including such electoral prizes as California, Ohio and Illinois. (The filing date has already passed in most other states.)

All that is lacking is a candidate. McCarthy would be the perfect choice, and New Party leaders, mostly disillusioned Democrats, still have faint hopes of persuading him to bolt the Democrats entirely. He has given them little encouragement. In any event, his candidacy would be only symbolic. Even if it won all of its rights and court suits, the New Party would still be on the ballot in only 25 states with a combined total of 290 electoral votes (270 are needed for election).

Yet even without McCarthy, the New Party might hurt Humphrey. In a tight election, it might pull enough liberal and peace votes away from the Democratic candidate to give the election to Nixon. Even a few thousand votes could be decisive in California and New York, the centers of the peace movement. No Democrat in modern times has won election without one of the two most populous states. Actually, however, the New Party men are looking to future elections, when they hope to displace the Democratic Party. “I think the Democratic Party is lost,” says Marcus Raskin, a former disarmament aide to President Kennedy who is one of the New Party’s chief proponents and organizers. “What happened here this week shows that it now represents only the party bosses, the police and the military.”

Losers’ Gains. Though they never came close to Humphrey in the delegate count, neither McCarthy nor South Dakota’s George McGovern, the third candidate, could in fact be called a loser at Chicago. By standing in the national spotlight, Senator McGovern, who entered the race only 18 days before the nomination, has probably improved his chances for re-election to a second term this fall. Not only will his restrained performance as a presidential candidate enhance his reputation in the upper house (assuming that he is re-elected), it will probably also gain him consideration for a spot on some future national ticket.

For his part, McCarthy has forced the retirement of the President, precipitated the de-escalation of the war, and brought about a re-examination of the American political structure. That may eventually prove more important than anything he could have done during four years as President. As leader of the government in exile, he will remain the conscience for millions of Americans and a formidable figure that the President, whoever he is, cannot ignore. Who knows? In 1972, Eugene McCarthy may even begin again his lonely, quixotic quest for the White House.

“I am prepared to stay with the issues,” he said, “so long as I have a constituency—and I still have a constituency.” Neither Hubert Humphrey nor Richard Nixon is likely to dispute him.