by Allen Drury
The National Anti-War Activities Congress had become increasingly threatening, increasingly harsh, but not until that night had it burst into open violence. When it did, everyone of influence and authority had denounced it and demanded its elimination from American life—except the man who had profited most from its political support. Once again, and this time with the lines drawn so tragically that no one could escape their implications, unless it be willfully, he equivocated. And finally, at last, lost—almost—his wife.
Why he had not, she could not exactly define for herself, except that it seemed to come down to one thing—the fundamental decency of the man who was now asking her to succeed her fallen husband.
In her darkest moments at “Vistazo,” where she had fled to spend several days alone except for faithful Manuela and Tomás, riding patient old Trumpet down the long meadows to the crashing sea and back again, thinking, thinking, thinking, the thought she had kept coming back to was: Orrin Knox is willing to trust him. The corollary to that, of course, was: Then why shouldn’t I? And finally, after all the arguments were exhausted, after she had fought out all her battles with the handsome stranger who smiled at her from familiar photos in accustomed places, she had come back to that question for the last time, and answered it—as she had not, for a while, been at all sure she would—in Ted’s favor. The deciding factor, as she had never had a chance to tell her husband, had been Orrin. If a man with that much integrity and that much experience of politics and the world could place his faith in Edward M. Jason’s ultimate decency and ability to break free from the violent, then her last reservations were canceled. She knew politics too, and she knew that much of Orrin’s decision had been forced upon him by Ted’s supporters and by his own necessity to win. But she also knew Orrin well enough to know that no matter what his own self-interest or political advantage might be, if he really did not consider Ted trustworthy he would not have taken him.
And now Orrin had decided that she should run for Vice President: again, for his own political advantage, but also, she believed, because he really considered her worthy of his trust and confidence. Unlike so many of his critics, she did not underestimate the integrity of the Secretary of State. She felt flattered, humbled and grateful for his endorsement. She had no intention of using it, as many of her husband’s supporters were already urging that she do, as a weapon for political trading.
Because, indeed, what would she trade for? Basically she agreed with Orrin (though the fact was unknown to those who greeted her proposed elevation so ecstatically) on most of his major positions. She was against the violent, she was worried about the Russians, she had been privately appalled at Ted’s tendency to drift further and further toward an attitude of appeasement, if not downright surrender, in his quest for peace. She was no more certain than Orrin, in fact, exactly how sincere that quest had been. She agreed with Ted that the wars in Gorotoland and Panama must somehow be ended as speedily as possible, but she knew Orrin agreed too. Orrin’s proposed methods—or at least his frequently stated intention to get out in a way that would not leave the United States and its allies hopelessly exposed to Communist domination—had always seemed better to her than Ted’s. Basic loyalty to her husband had prompted the suppression of her own ideas, even when she had questioned his most. Now there were other loyalties remaining: to the country, to the nominee for President and to herself.
This was what her decision narrowed down to as the limousine drew up to Checkpoint Alpha, the guards snapped to attention, the welcoming committee stepped forward with friendly smiles and a sudden intense and intently watching silence descended on the world. What did she owe the country and Orrin Knox—and what did she owe Ceil Jason? And would it be possible to accommodate them and in so doing make victory in November inevitable?
She was not sure, but she knew she had to try.
Like Orrin, when she arrived she too leaned on her family and obviously favored her wounds. But her charming speaking voice rang out steady and clear as she stepped forward and held out her hand to Roger P. Croy, who somehow managed to be in the forefront of the welcoming committee.
“Governor—” she said, “ladies and gentlemen of the Committee—thank you so much for coming out to meet me. I appreciate your kindness.”
“Madam Vice President,” Roger Croy said gravely, “you confer the kindness and honor upon us.”
“I don’t know about that title,” she said, smiling a little, with the sudden shift to informality that was one of her principal appeals on the platform, “but anyway, I am glad to be here.”
“As we are glad to have you,” Blair Hannah said with a fatherly warmth that did much to wipe out the memory of his initial reservations when Orrin had first proposed her name. “Your presence confers great grace upon us all.”
At this there was a burst of applause inside the Playhouse, a great shout of happiness and approval from the throngs outside. There followed a few moments of bustle while Ceil shook hands with the rest of the committee and introduced the members of her family. Then the party moved up the steps, the doors were opened, they disappeared inside, the doors were closed again. The tensely watching silence settled once more over all.
“Ladies and gentlemen—” William Abbott said solemnly a minute later as there came again the sound of soldiers coming to attention, rifles being slapped into position, the familiar rituals of pomp and circumstance—“the next Vice President of the United States!”
And again they were on their feet in wild ovation, Committee, guests and media alike, while outside a long crowing roar of triumph rose along both sides of the placid steel-lined Potomac.
She was dressed, reporters noted and the cameras showed, very simply, in a plain black dress with a small black off-the-face hat, black gloves, black shoes. Her flowing blonde hair was severely restrained in an unobtrusive black net. She wore a single white rose over her heart. Her face was pale but composed, her expression reserved, unsmiling but not unfriendly; and no more tense and nervous than might naturally be expected.
She and her family came forward slowly down the aisle while the ovation gradually subsided. Valuela, Selena and Herbert took the seats set out for them at the President’s right. He and Orrin stepped forward and greeted her with kisses, which she returned with an obvious fondness, brushing aside tears that for a moment threatened to overwhelm her. The ovation roared up again in wild approval, gradually subsiding as she took her seat. Silence settled again. The President once more formally introduced her. She stood up and came forward to the podium. Applause roared up, terminated. The profound expectant silence resumed. Clearly and steadily, referring only to a few scribbled notes which she arranged on the lectern before her, she began to speak; and many things in American politics were immediately rearranged.
“Mr. President,” she said gravely, “Mr. Secretary, ladies and gentlemen of the Committee: like the Secretary, I too wish to begin by expressing my thanks for your expressions of sympathy. They are very”—her voice began to tremble but she steadied it and proceeded—“very welcome and helpful to all of us, in both families. Things sometimes seem to happen that have no reason at all, but we have to assume that there is a pattern somewhere, otherwise we could not go on living. In that faith we are all going forward. Your help and support make it, if not easy, at least less difficult. We feel we are not alone.”
She paused, took a sip of water, looked up with a sudden complete candor into their eyes and the eyes of the world.
“Mr. President, I hope you will all believe me when I say that the occasion for my being here came as a complete surprise to me. It is due directly and entirely to the generosity of the nominee for President.” (“And his desire to be elected,” the Guardian whispered to the Post, who nodded and smiled an unamused, unforgiving little smile.) “I do not believe he consulted anyone before announcing his choice. Certainly”—and the briefest trace of humor touched her lips—“he did not consult me.
“Nonetheless, Mr. President,” she
said, while the murmur that greeted this began as she knew it would, “I deeply and most sincerely appreciate the honor.”
Again she paused. The tension in the room and wherever people watched or listened suddenly shot up for some instinctive, undefined reason.
“I only regret,” she said clearly and distinctly, again giving them her straightforward, candid look, “that it is impossible for me to accept.”
“My God!” the Times exclaimed, as the world exploded into excited sound and at the press tables AP, UPI, CBS, NBC and ABC scrambled their way out of their chairs and raced for the special telephone booths set up in the hall. “My God, now what?”
It was apparent from his astounded and dismayed expression, which the cameras faithfully seized upon, that the same question was occurring to the Secretary of State; and it was also clear, from Patsy Jason Labaiya’s outraged squawk of “WHAT?” to the Indian Ambassador’s startled “Oh, my gracious!” that Ceil had created a universal astonishment and, for most people, an honest and completely genuine dismay. It was some measure of how much their hopes had become concentrated upon her in the past two hours, of how eagerly and with what relief the enormous burden of expectancy had been transferred to her shoulders from those of her dead husband. It was some measure of how important Ceil Jason in her own right had become since the fateful words of Orrin Knox so short a time ago.
Because of this, her own words now were more fateful still; and after giving them a few moments to sink in, and to allow the general hullabaloo to subside, she went on in her pleasant, cultured voice to explain herself more fully and to do what she could to repay the debt of gratitude she knew she owed the nominee.
“Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, ladies and gentlemen: I do not state this decision lightly, nor have I reached it on any spur-of-the-moment impulse. Believe me, I have given it a great deal of thought in the past two hours. Yet I know if I were to consider it for a much longer time, I should still arrive at the same conclusion. I cannot, and I will not, accept—sensible though I am of the very great honor and responsibility the Secretary wished to place upon me. I do not think it would be fair to him, or to you, or to the thing we must all keep firmly in mind, now more than ever: to the country, which is the charge and responsibility of all of us, most particularly those of us directly or indirectly associated with public office and the public trust.
“I think it is impossible accurately, just yet,” she said, and her voice became more quiet, her eyes more somber and haunted, “to assess the life and career of—of my husband. I like to think he brought many good things to the people of our state, and I like to think he represented many good things to people everywhere. We will never know whether he would have achieved them. But I would like to think he would have tried.”
(“Not exactly a widow’s fervent tribute,” the Saturday Review whispered to the San Francisco Chronicle. “I heard there was something funny there a few days ago,” the Chronicle whispered back, “but I was never able to trace it down.”)
“One thing,” she said, and at the sudden note of strain and challenge in her voice an alert watchfulness seized the press and all her audience in the room, “disturbed me. That”—and her voice steadied and became quite firm—“was the nature of some of his support.”
In the distance, puzzled, uncertain, prepared if necessary to be hostile, an uneasy rumble came from the gangs of NAWAC. It was obvious she heard it, but aside from a heightened color and an even greater firmness in her voice, she gave no sign.
“At the end, I believe he intended to repudiate once and for all the ugly gangs that had gathered behind him under the general banner of the National Anti-War Activities Congress.” The uneasy sound howled up instantly into an angry roar. “For his memory, and for my own self,” she said clearly above it, “I repudiate them too, in everything they do and everything they truly stand for, under the pious pretense of peace-loving with which they seek to fool the country.”
Now the angry roar knew no limits, beating in upon the Committee without challenge for several moments. Then suddenly, started by Ewan MacDonald MacDonald and Blair Hannah, joined in enthusiastically by the President, Orrin and many others, joined in dutifully because they did not dare refrain by Roger P. Croy, Esmé Harbellow Stryke, Patsy, her aunts and uncle, and some others, applause for her courage began and rose until it drowned out, at least in that small room, the ugly sound.
Out in the world the ugly sound continued and would be a long time dying, with fateful consequences for them all.
“I know very well,” she said finally, “that in taking this position I am inviting great hostility from these elements, and that is one of the reasons I am withdrawing from the ticket.” She smiled slightly. “Secretary Knox has enough burdens without carrying me.” The smile faded. “If I accepted the support of the violent, I should be a heavy weight upon him. Now that I have repudiated their support, as I must or betray everything I believe in, I should be a heavy weight upon him. I think I can help him better acting independently from outside. This,” she said, and the firmness grew in her voice, “I intend to do.”
The angry roar rose again in the distance, again it was drowned out in the crowded room by the applause of her audience, this time wholehearted and, except for some obvious dismay along the press tables, unanimous.
“I intend to do so,” she said, “because I believe that in Orrin Knox we have a candidate for President who honestly and forthrightly stands for what he believes, who has nothing but America’s well-being at heart and who will not hesitate to do what he thinks is right to achieve that well-being.”
(“And Ted wouldn’t have?” the Saturday Review whispered quizzically. “I told you,” the Chronicle reiterated. “There was something there.”)
“I intend to do so,” she went on, “because I firmly and completely believe that in his election lies the best hope for our country at this time. He will not appease, he will not trim, he will not equivocate. The whole world knows where he stands, and while some don’t like it, I do. And so, I hope and believe, do a majority of our countrymen.
“Orrin Knox repudiates the violent, he repudiates the appeasers, he repudiates the weak of heart and the flimsy of purpose. He will extricate us honorably and effectively from the wars in Panama and Gorotoland, he will preserve our independence and that of the free world in the face of the ongoing threats and subversions of the Soviet Union in its voracious and implacable imperialism. Domestically, also, I believe he will find the way to national unity—”
The noise outside rose in a sudden hoot, disbelieving, exaggerated, elaborately skeptical and sardonic. She flushed but lifted her head with a sharp motion that recalled her husband, and went on.
“—the way to national unity,” she repeated firmly, “which can only lie in the repudiation of the violent and the re-establishment of decent compromise and cooperation among all the elements of our society that genuinely want to preserve it.”
The careful and deliberate distinction again brought angry noises from outside, a counter of heartily approving applause from within the room.
“For myself,” she said quietly when it all died away, “I pledge my full and active cooperation to the election of Orrin Knox in November. I thank him again for his confidence and trust, I thank you for your support, I urge you to help him find a running mate who will do justice to the job that lies ahead for all of us. I will be with you all the way. Goodbye for now, and God bless you.”
And with a little bow to the President and Orrin, who led the standing ovation that immediately ensued, she left the platform and moved up the aisle, followed by her family, whose faces were studies of complex emotion. So swiftly yet so gracefully did she go that she seemed to pass among them like some elusive golden presence that they attempted, with a hungry yearning, to touch and hold, yet could not; and was gone, out the door, past the guards, down the steps, into the waiting limousine and away through the now jeering and hostile crowds, almost before they knew it.
> There occurred then in the crowded little room an odd phenomenon that no one present ever forgot: a great silence and then a sudden, instinctive, unanimous sigh, a release of pent-up breath and emotion, deep and profound, as they all realized with a shattering impact the loss of certainty that they had suffered in her refusal.
It was followed almost immediately by a sudden restless stirring.
The President, an old veteran who knew all the signs, moved instantly to head off the uproar that was about to occur.
“Without objection,” he said smoothly, banging the gavel with a loud crack! that startled them into silence and carried the point over many tentative, half-formed protests, “the Committee will stand in recess until noon tomorrow.”
“But, Mr. President—!” Roger P. Croy, Blair Hannah, Mary Baffleburg and Esmé Stryke all cried at once. “But, Mr. President—!”
But the President was out and gone, too, as fast as he could move; and after a moment Orrin and Hal and Crystal followed, and then, by ones and twos and threes, the rest, upset, baffled, uneasy, uncertain, beginning as they went the angry and disputative chatter which would now, until such time as they had selected a successor to Edward M. Jason, become the burden of their days.
Mrs. Jason rejects vice presidential nomination. Repudiates violent, pledges all-out campaign for secretary Knox. Decision leaves party stunned and without candidate. Battle lines drawn between war and peace factions as pressures mount for quick decision. Overnight recess may give secretary chance to work out new compromise.
4
But it wasn’t very certain, and as afternoon wore on into evening and then into night, it was again obvious that there were many in influential places who wanted, not compromise, but victory, for their views.
“It is amazing,” Walter Dobius wrote rapidly in the den at “Salubria,” hushed and quiet in the gently steaming twilight of the lovely Virginia countryside, “how rapidly politics can be rearranged in this fantastic land. One moment Mrs. Ceil Jason, supremely attractive, supremely qualified, supremely able, is the nominee for Vice President. Two hours later, by her own wish and deliberate decision, she is no longer the nominee for Vice President.
