ugene McCarthy may have learned something last week: You can't re-create a unique experience. The factors that produced it might be reassembled, but the combination won't click the same way a second time.

On Wednesday afternoon, before his speech to the Law School Forum, McCarthy met with about 100 students for an informal rap session at the Signet Society.

He had returned to Harvard, an unannounced but obvious Presidential candidate, ready to claim his bright young idealists and embark upon another "impossible quest." But when he ran his new candidacy up the flagpole, nobody saluted.

II.

The setting of the meeting was perfect. After all, his views have always been more literary than literal, more poetic than political, and what better place to present them than the book-lined sitting room of Harvard's literary club?

Framed citations on the walls honored not politicians but fellow men of letters. There was one for Thomas Stearns Eliot '10, and another for John Updike '54 ("Eulogist of the farm, mythologist of the locker room, erotologist of suburbia, alchemist of the word," read the award).

For a man who gave up a Senate seat to teach poetry at the University of Maryland, this was the only place to have the meeting.

But there was a deeper appropriateness. McCarthy may have passed for a politician in 1968, but no longer. Though a candidate, he is without a political base, in the throes of divorce (which blows any previous claim to the Catholic vote), and scorned by even reform Democrats for his petulance. His 1968 campaign at least operated on the outskirts of political reality. Now, in terms of any tangible success, his chances are nil.

Yes sir, the professor was at home at the Signet Society.

III.

The students that came were there out of curiosity, not allegiance. This was no 1968 Gene McCarthy the-impossible-dream crowd. In even this early in the campaign, were lapel buttons worn for Candidate and other correct and animated, light-hearted as the faithful awaited arrival.

But the special shared high purpose that characterized McCarthy's 1968 campaign is gone. His arrival is now awaited almost silently, buttonless students standing with a wedge of jack cheese in one hand and a can of Red Cap beer in the other, hoping that the meeting won't last long because there is that paper to write that didn't seem so important in 1968.

The Candidate arrives. "He's here!" says one girl, almost alone in her enthusiasm. And so he is, looking as distinguished as ever in a blue pinstripe suit, gray sweater and red tie. His hair is pure silver now; a liability for a Humphrey or a Nixon, but essential to McCarthy's professorial image.

Assistant professor of Social Studies Martin Peretz, a striking contrast to McCarthy with his long brown beard, brown plaid suit, red polka-dot shirt and white tie, parades the Candidate around. A few hands are shaken, then McCarthy is ready to begin. He sits on the arm of a big red easy chair and the meeting starts.

Many in the room worked for Clean Gene in 1968. For some, this is the first glimpse of the Candidate since they were thanked for their support in the ballroom of some hotel on primary night and bid "On to Chicago."

Well, they went on to Chicago, and now they're back. They've changed. And they wonder, has he changed, too?

IV.

A student with long hair and a mustache introduces McCarthy, then sits back down on the floor. Well, McCarthy drawls, he's here to talk about 1972, but first he wants to say a few words about 1968.

What he gives is basically the same When-we-started-in-the snows-of-New-Hampshire-they-said-we-were-crazy-but-we-showed-them speech that reporters covering him in 1968 learned by heart.

The issues he raised in the campaign, McCarthy says, were heretical then but are accepted now. Even House minority leader Gerald Ford, he notes, wants to see J. Edgar Hoover retire. "But when Gerry Ford is just three years behind you," McCarthy says, "you know you weren't really ahead of your time." The Candidate earns his first laugh on that one.

He finishes talking, removes his jacket, and asks for questions. The student on the floor calls on someone in the back who wants to know why he should work for McCarthy instead of another candidate.

McCarthy talks of the unique stands he is taking, saying something about making corporations more responsible by forcing them to hire minorities and invest part of their capital in real estate.

"What about capital gains tax?" the student asks.

"It's a minor concept in terms of the overall picture," says McCarthy.

And it begins to dawn on those in the room that something is terribly wrong here. In 1968, McCarthy's issues were gutsy--life and death stuff. But who's going to go Clean for Gene over real estate subsidies? And noble as the thought may be, can you base a Presidential campaign on increasing minority employment? Vietnam is fast becoming a non-issue, and McCarthy is floundering.

"Do you have any specific proposals?" the beautiful girl at his feet asks.

"Well, equal rights for women. How about that?"

He gets a laugh, but it's cheaply won. That's Bob Hope material.

"What about day care centers?" asks the girl.

"That's all right," the Candidate replies.

He seems tired, ambiguous, disinterested--only half believing what he is saying. He's said it all before and knows that everyone in the room has heard it all before. McCarthy plays with his handkerchief or sweater when talking, not looking questioners in the eye.

"Politics is like coaching football," he once said. "You have to be smart enough to understand the game and dumb enough to think it's important." McCarthy seems to have gotten a lot smarter on the second count since his last crusade.

A student wants to know, in light of the disillusionment of some supporters with his post-convention actions, if he can count on their help in 1972.

"I said I wasn't going to speculate on subjunctive clauses: 'What would happen if," he says. It's a familiar McCarthy rejoinder, usually reserved for Face the Nation panelists with their multi-level loaded questions. In that context, it's an effective evasion. But is it really appropriate when courting a small student audience? Would he have been that perfunctory in 1968? Is he getting sloppier the second time around?

Maybe so. He answers a question about forming a fourth party by taking a swipe at an entire state. "It'll be hard to get on the ballot in North Carolina," he says, "but who cares?" In 1968, that statement might have produced headlines in North Carolina: "Senator Thinks North Carolina Unimportant" or "Who cares about North Carolina--McCarthy." But now, as the man says, who cares? If he isn't losing any sleep over the fair state of North Carolina and their 13 electoral votes, does anyone else care about his put down?

The students aren't bitter or hostile, but their questions imply criticism. Does McCarthy wish he had supported Humphrey earlier and more actively when he sees the caliber of Nixon Supreme Court nominees?

The question hits a raw nerve. He's been asked this before, countless times, and resents being cast as the unwitting architect of Nixon's victory. He answers with poorly concealed distaste.

"I haven't found anybody who voted for Humphrey because I told them to," he says, "or said they would have voted for him if I'd endorsed him a week earlier or if I had been more enthusiastic about it. How could I have been?"

V.

And the meeting continues in this same vein, more a press conference than a pep talk. Finally, about an hour after he arrived, McCarthy is ready to go. He'll take one more question.

"Do you want to be President?" a student calls from the back of the room. Everyone, including the Candidate, laughs. It really is a funny question, considering.

For anyone but McCarthy, the question would mean, "Will you run for President?" But McCarthy is clearly running. In his case, the question means, "Are we supposed to take you seriously or is this just an intellectual exercise at our expense?"

"Well did he want to be the President?" wondered Arthur Herzog in McCarthy for President, his book about the 1968 campaign. "He was 'willing,' again, the right answer from the intellectual's point of view, but the wrong one from the conventional politican's. Ambiguity appeared to be a quality which, however human, Americans did not like to contemplate in a President."

Does he want to be President? Four years later they're still asking the same question. "I don't think anybody should want to be," McCarthy says. "I think you should be willing to be. That's a more rational commitment." Willing. Four years later the answer is still the same.

In 1968, the students in the room considered that position refreshing. "He's no ruthless opportunist," they used to say. "Just think, he doesn't even want to be President!"

It's different now. McCarthy can promote his "willingness," but he'll have to do it virtually alone. Most of his young idealists want a serious campaign, not a symbolic gesture.

The meeting ends. Students "interested in Mr. McCarthy's plans for 1972," presumably those who want to help him advertise his availability but not desire for high office, are asked to fill out cards.

"I thought he was niiiiiice," purrs a girl, one of the few filling out a card.

"Oh yeah, he was nice," says a guy with her.

"He was pretty," the girl says.

"Oh yeah," the guy agrees, "I had no idea he was that pretty."

VI.

It's cold outside. Soon it will start snowing and candidates will slosh through the New Hampshire winter scrounging for votes. If McCarthy is there, will they think him crazy again? For the same reasons?

A beat-up Fiat parked in fron the Signet Society is covered with McCarthy "daisy" stickers. The stickers were designed by a Los Angeles campaign staffer in 1968 and appeared a few weeks before the California primary. They are flower shaped, five or six inches in diameter, with a blue and white "McCarthy" in the center.

Of all the bumper stickers in the 1968 elections the McCarthy daisies have had the most staying power, Even now they can be seen--dirty and peeling at the edges--on car bumpers, worn as some sort of badge or tribute.

But the daisies on the Fiat are new, Clean. With fresh air bubbles, Although the candidate has lost his child crusaders and his legion of reporters and some of his financers and a lot of his liberals, he still has a few believers covering their cars with his daisies. But while it may be nostalgic, it's not enough. The ranks of his faithful have been depleted. Most would rather live in the present.