IN a cold autumn drizzle, a crowd of 100 waited on the macadam at Allegheny County Airport. They had been standing there, soggily, for five hours. When his plane finally taxied in through the puddles and Edward Kennedy stepped off, it came—a current of slightly awesome arousal, a rush of something more than just celebrity. People surged, straining to shake his hand, to touch him, collect an autograph or simply stand near. With a touch of marvel, a Kennedy aide remarked: "They aren't Bobby crowds yet. But they're close."
Such scenes are repeated in other cities, epiphanies of the old Kennedy magic. They confirm what all pollsters and politicians know—that against all expectations of two years ago, Edward Moore Kennedy has become a compelling if not predictable presence in the 1972 presidential race. Insistently disavowing any interest in running, shadowed by that night at Chappaquiddick, the last Kennedy brother must nonetheless be regarded as a major candidate for the Democratic nomination.
A Harris poll last week showed him the first choice of rank-and-file Democrats, leading Muskie by 26% to 19%, with Humphrey following at 16%. The Gallup poll, in a two-way contest, had Muskie the front runner, ahead of Kennedy, 50% to 39%, among Democratic voters.
Full Stride
"I have said 1 am not a candidate," Kennedy repeats, "and I don't believe in drafts. I can't see myself reconsidering under any circumstances." The intriguing thing is that he has said just that on 25 trips round the country during the past ten months. Since last August, he has also raced abroad to India, Israel and Sweden on a trajectory that would mark any other man as a candidate in full stride. Humorist Art Buchwald, reflecting on such a frenetically busy noncandidacy, fantasied Kennedy riding up Fifth Avenue "in an open convertible, with his wife Joan, hoping to discourage New Yorkers from considering him as a Democratic hopeful."
Kennedy's noncandidacy is elaborately ambiguous, involving some deep and painful hesitations. The questions of Chappaquiddick remain in the public's mind and perhaps in Kennedy's own. He also has tragically good reasons to fear that he might not live through a race for the White House: even now he probably receives more death threats than any other American political figure except the President. Still he remains powerfully fascinated by the presidency—if not next year, then in 1976 or perhaps some election year beyond. Now 39, he could theoretically be a plausible candidate in elections up to the year 2000.
What politicians call "the Kennedy thing" is a psychological compound of iridescent myth and charisma, excitement and guilt, admiration and sometimes a morbid voyeurism. Even the blandest men in power—William Mc-Kinley, for example—can draw a maniac's fire. But the Kennedys are freighted with American legend and invite the passionate involvement of strangers. It shows in the grimy and lonely attention of people who have carved away pieces of the Dike Bridge at Chappaquiddick for souvenirs, or those who have taken to the Kennedy Center like locusts, swiping prisms from the chandeliers, bits of the wall coverings and pink marble handles from the ladies'-room faucets.
Broken Promises