DEMOCRATS: Not for the Exercise

The problems of what to say, and how to say it, and when, were agonizing for Adlai Stevenson. He had been brooding about this ever since that disastrous night of defeat in 1952, when he said that he was "too old to cry, and it hurt too much to laugh." As he traveled about the U.S. in 1954, speaking at Democratic rallies, loyal supporters urged him to try again. By the end of last summer he had made the decision: he would run.

In 1952, he had never said that he wanted the nomination. But he knew he could not be a reluctant draftee a second time. Even though Stevenson was miles ahead of any other Democratic candidate, the script for 1956 called for an early start toward formal campaigning -most of which could be directed against the Republicans rather than against his hopeful Democratic rivals.

The Torture of Decision. But when should he announce? To some, the Democratic National Committee's $100-a-plate dinner at Chicago last week, where he was scheduled to speak, seemed to be an ideal platform. But Democratic National Chairman Paul Butler, a Stevenson man, included New York's Averell Harriman and Tennessee's Senator Estes Kefauver on the program for the sake of party peace.

Democrats not inclined to support Stevenson would resent his using the dinner for his personal sendoff. So he decided to announce just before the Democrats began to gather in Chicago.

But how to say it? Adlai thought of making a simple statement that he was a candidate, but that might seem too wholly political. Perhaps he should explain, in a dignified manner, why he was running. And yet he did not want to skim the cream off his first post-announcement speech at the dinner. For two days, at his farm home in Libertyville, Ill., he labored over his pronouncement. Most of the time he worked alone, but on the second day he called in staff members and tried the statement on them. He decided it would not do, went to work on it again. Then. finally having decided what to say, he was ready.

"Roll 'Em." The announcement stage had been set carefully. On the dance floor of the Boulevard Room in Chicago's Conrad Hilton Hotel, workmen had put together the setting of a business office. There was a mahogany desk equipped with an "in" box, a telephone and a lectern, with an American flag at one side and a plain grey curtain in the background concealing the nightclub decor. Gathered in the room, on the appointed day, were some 100 reporters and a few politicians.

Stevenson arrived ten minutes late, stepped down the aisle and sat down quietly at the desk. This was television and newsreel day. His staff had informed reporters that the candidate would make his statement for the cameras, but would answer no questions until a press conference the next day. Stevenson placed a typed copy of his statement on the lectern and accepted a glass of water (on his standing order, it contained no ice) from an aide. He looked uncertainly at Radio-TV Executive Leonard Reinsch, who was directing the show, and asked how much time he had. Director Reinsch told him to take all the time he wanted, checked with the cameramen, and then sang out: "Roll 'em."