Contrasting Styles

"This is one of those moments," wrote a Rocky Mountain pundit, "when politicians aren't sure whether the voter is apathetic or just laying for somebody." The large bloc (estimated upward of 25%) of "undecided" voters was giving pollsters and politicians the jitters. But that was only half the puzzle: those voters who came into direct contact with Jack Kennedy or Dick Nixon seemed to be impressed. Each candidate was working out a campaign style uniquely his own--and as different from the florid behavior of yesteryear as farm subsidies are from free silver.

Kennedy on the speaker's rostrum is tense and brief. Although his speechwriters work hard at their craft, Kennedy makes so many cuts and interpolations that advance copies of his text are almost useless. Says Arthur Schlesinger Jr.: "The difference between Stevenson and Kennedy is that Adlai puts subordinate clauses in all the speeches you write and Jack takes them out." Frequently, sensing the mood of his audience. Kennedy discards his prepared text altogether and speaks fluently off the cuff (both Nixon and Kennedy are at their best in ad-lib situations ). His speeches are breathlessly brief: never more than five minutes in daytime appearances, with an outside limit of 20 minutes for an evening speech. Oftentimes people who have waited long wish there were more. Kennedy seems almost apologetic about keeping his audiences too long; he plunges directly to the issue at hand, with only the barest amenities for the local celebrities, and races quickly through to the end, discarding oratorical filigree as he goes.

Waiting his turn to speak, he fidgets with his coat buttons, smooths his hair, swings his right foot restlessly. A gesture of extreme agitation: a desperate fingering of his necktie, reserved for the approach of Indians bearing war bonnets, nuns, or other disconcerting greeters. He obviously has a New England reticence about himself, is unwilling to surrender some recess of his privacy. Mingling with the crowds of well-wishers, Kennedy moves rapidly, shaking every available hand, signing autographs, smiling shyly and murmuring "Thank you" or "Glad to be here," as he goes. Greeting his fans from a distance, he lifts his right hand in a diffident, shoulder-high wave that is identical with the football signal for a first down, but deliberately resists such exuberant gestures as the wide-open Eisenhower arms. Generally, he goes over fine: some politicians even suggest that he has the old "Roosevelt aura."

Nixon makes speeches that are longer and more leisurely--but no marathons. To a standard, pretested speech, Nixon adds a few fresh, homey touches and local references, culled from his information-crammed notebooks on every campaign stop. He bears down heavily on patriotism, and, growing solemn, flatters his audiences by talking seriously to them. One favorite technique is to read a letter from a local partisan. In a Flint, Mich, parking lot last week, the letter was from Linda McGrain, 13, who wanted one of the Nixon family's new kittens. She would get her wish, said Nixon with a grin, provided it would not cost him her mother's vote. With that, the crowd was well warmed up, and ready for the marrow of the speech. It is a well-conceived tactic, to offset the feeling that he is lacking in warmth. He gains from the violence of previous denunciations (such as the ugly shot of him, with the legend: "Would you buy a used car from this man?"), appearing more personable in person.

On the stand, Nixon is relaxed and meticulous. He is more practiced than Kennedy at endorsing all the local politicians, quick to freshen up his text with an impromptu reference (a Democratic campaign billboard in Pennsylvania last week caught his eye and gave him a handy introduction to a speech). Among the throngs of greeters (ably abetted by his constant companion, Pat Nixon), he is friendly and easy, shaking as many hands as are offered, stopping to chat frequently. Old folks, invalids and children get special attention. Nixon is always dignified and cool--he has never been caught in a really embarrassing situation--and, like Kennedy, he shrinks from war bonnets, kissable babies, and other classic campaign situations that might make him ridiculous.

The two men share some striking similarities in their public images. Their speeches are clean-cut, utterly devoid of oratorical flamboyance. They are both, though smiling often, fundamentally a new, sober breed of politician. And though many who have seen neither close up regard them both as machine-made organization men, one of the surprises of the campaign is the intensity of their impact in person. The crowds swarm around them, eager to touch or be touched by them.

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