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                                                                                NATION, Page 26

Broke but Unbowed


Suspending his bid for the White House, Paul Tsongas mulls how
he can keep his message alive

By SAM ALLIS/BOSTON


    Paul Tsongas is one of the stranger stars in the
political sky. He is a telegenic disaster with a sophisticated
message and an aversion to hardball. Unlike Bill Clinton, he
enjoys almost anything more than shaking hands with strangers.
Yet when he ended his crusade for the White House last week,
Tsongas in his own weird way had accomplished a lot. He had
moved the Democratic Party toward the economic center, where he
thought it belonged. He had gained respect and departed with
uncommon grace. He had even complimented the media.

    Tsongas claimed at the beginning of his 11-month campaign
that if the people were ready for his message, it didn't matter
who the messenger was. Two days after his resounding defeats in
Illinois and Michigan, it was clear they were ready for
neither. Tsongas knew that when he stood on a chair in his
Boston headquarters and told his true believers that he was
quitting the Democratic race. They were stunned. They shouldn't
have been. Tsongas has had an exquisite sense of timing
throughout his charmed political career from city council to
Senate. It was time to go.

    The reason was that Tsongas was broke. "If money is the
mother's milk of politics, our mothers didn't show up until late
January," he quipped at a press conference. The problem, he
said, was not the amount of money coming in this year. "This
campaign was lost in 1991 because of lack of resources," he
argued. Although he had raised $2.8 million since the beginning
of February, his organization was already starved by then. There
were no reserves to pay the huge costs of the media war against
Bill Clinton in the South and Midwest. The specter of an ugly,
expensive New York primary on April 7, where his penury would
have left him naked once more against waves of Clinton
television broadsides, was too much. "I would have been defined
by others and unable to defend myself," Tsongas explained.
"Worse, my message would have been wounded, and all that we
worked for this past year would have been put at risk. The
message must endure."

    Moreover, Tsongas believed he would have helped George
Bush win another White House tour had he stayed in the race.
"The alternative was clear -- to play the role of spoiler," he
said. "That is not what I'm about. That is not worthy. I did not
survive my ordeals in order to be the agent of the re-election
of George Bush."

    A few staff members had begun to wonder about his future
last Wednesday, when the candidate seemed lackluster during
appearances in Connecticut following his stinging defeats in the
Rust Belt. Tsongas publicly pledged to fight on, but his doubts
were growing. That evening at his Victorian home in Lowell,
Mass., he agonized about his future with his wife Niki; his
campaign manager and best friend, Dennis Kanin; and fund raiser
Nicholas Rizzo. Kanin told him he would need at least $1.5
million to be competitive in New York. The money wasn't there,
and the campaign debt was approaching $500,000. At 9:30, Tsongas
decided to withdraw. The group begged him to sleep on it. He did
and told his staff the grim news the next morning.

    From the start, Tsongas' campaign was a long shot. He had
been out of the Senate for six years when he declared his
candidacy last April in Lowell. At the time, Bush's popularity
was in the stratosphere and better-known Democrats declined to
enter the race. He ran on a pro-business platform that appealed
to affluent suburbanites and independents but sounded
suspiciously like warmed-over Republicanism to union members,
minorities and liberals. In an era when elections are determined
by televised campaign advertising, his most effective weapon was
an 85-page book in which he spelled out his plan for restoring
American competitiveness. To overcome doubts about his health
after his long struggle with cancer, some of his TV ads featured
footage of Tsongas vigorously doing the butterfly stroke in a
swimming pool. He did not seem comfortable firing negative TV
spots against Clinton, but he fired them nonetheless. "He began
to lose his sense of originality after New Hampshire," says an
adviser. "He began to behave like an ordinary politician, which
he isn't."

    Tsongas remains very much a player in this election. He
refuses to endorse either of the two remaining candidates and
is mum about running with Clinton in the fall. In the past, he
denied repeatedly any interest in the vice presidency, and those
who know him well doubt he is suited to the job. He is
supremely independent, and would chafe at the limits of the
office.

    Still, the idea of a Clinton-Tsongas ticket has appeal.
Tsongas would bring integrity and credibility to a nominee
perceived to be in short supply of both qualities. More
important, he could attract independents and moderate
Republicans fed up with Bush's inept handling of the economy.

    Technically, Tsongas "suspended" his campaign as opposed
to shutting it down. Under party rules, this ensures that a
greater number of his 430 delegates will reach the convention
in New York City this summer still in a position to cast their
votes for him if they choose to. He intends to use his remaining
muscle to shape the platform and incorporate his views in the
fall campaign, when voters may get the chance to decide whether
they like Tsongas' message better if it comes from a different
messenger.