He Didn't Say Yes But He Didn't Say No

After a rough but remarkably successful legislative session, Pennsylvania's Republican Governor William W. Scranton, 46, flew to his vacation abode at Hobe Sound, Fla. He spent a couple of weeks playing tennis, reading books (17 in all) and trying to relax. He also dropped in on some old friends in the neighborhood, but after a few such visits his rest was almost ruined. Repeatedly, Scranton was given a sly wink, told what a cagey fellow he was to pretend that he didn't really want the 1964 G.O.P, presidential nomination, and assured that his political strategy was just right. One acquaintance let it be known that he had already underwritten $25,000 in Scranton-for-President campaign contributions.

"You Can't Do That." Scranton was appalled. For months he had been telling people that he did not intend to try for the nomination. But still, everybody seemed convinced that he was playing games. He phoned Harrisburg, told Press Secretary Jack Conmy to set up a news conference for the following week, advised him to pass the word that he would have something to say about the presidency.

The phone call threw Scranton's aides into turmoil. He refused to tell them what he planned to say, brushed aside inquiries from even his closest staffers. The day before the press conference, the Philadelphia Inquirer splashed an eight-column headline across its front page announcing that Scranton had decided to reject a draft for the nomination. Even State Attorney General Walter Alessandroni, his top political adviser, did not know what Scranton intended to say. Fearing that he meant to issue a Shermanesque statement, Alessandroni admonished: "You can't do that."

The day of the press conference, some 100 newsmen jammed the ornate wood-paneled reception room in Harrisburg's State House. Scranton, looking tanned and healthy in the glare of television floodlights, read his 600-word statement deliberately, but with such sincerity that at one point tears welled in his eyes.

Crystal Clear. "I have emphasized many times in the past that I was not a candidate, did not wish to become one, and would do nothing to encourage moves to make me one," he said. Despite this, many persons "evidently believe that deep in my heart I do desire the nomination and that I am only waiting until the right moment to make my move. This is not true. But it seems to be part of our American folklore to believe that every politician wants to be President."

Scranton said he had considered announcing flatly that he would reject a draft, but "I believe no American has the right to take that position." If a draft did materialize, he continued, it would have to be "one which I personally would feel came from the hearts of the people," and not one that was "engineered or arranged." But he sought to make it "crystal clear" that he would prefer not to be drafted. Said he: "I sincerely do not wish to run."

After the press conference, Scranton aides were elated. Their man hadn't said yes. But he hadn't quite said no, either. That was what they had feared he would do, and now, in adding up the effects of his statement, his backers came up with some healthy pluses.

Three Pluses. So far, the Republican presidential race has been pretty dreary. The active, avowed candidates have succeeded mostly in boring the voters. From a standpoint of popular appeal, it is almost certainly better to be above the race than in it.

In last week's statement, Scranton obviously meant what he said. Thus, he projected the image of a man who was not about to connive or deceive in an effort to reach the White House. That was one plus. By staying out of presidential primaries and state convention battles for delegates, Scranton can avoid the political attrition of open warfare. That is another plus. By keeping himself open to a genuine draft and by preaching Republican unity, he appeared as a citizen willing to subordinate his personal desires to the national, and the party, interest. That was the third, and perhaps the largest, plus.

Add them all up, and by the time the July 13 Republican Convention rolls around, the G.O.P. may very well have no place to go but to Scranton. If that happens, it will demonstrate that, at least in 1964, the best of all possible strategies for a Republican is to have no "strategy" at all.

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