Nightmare's End

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arents took no joy in trying to explain to children how the President got in so much trouble, unless they could get away with saying that oral sex means that it's not written down. But it was a unique chance to explain plenty of other things. If the year of O.J. made us forensics experts, this year was a civics lesson. We're constitutional scholars now. The irony of this seamy scandal is that it forced us to return to First Principles, to passages of a dusty Constitution we rarely have occasion to consult in the normal course of events. We came to understand the concrete value of abstract concepts like majority rule, the workings of justice, the difference between fact and speculation, and the peaceful mechanisms the framers devised for settling mortal arguments that drive other countries' armies into the streets.

The presidency feels different to us now, less a solid than a liquid, too vast for any one man to poison permanently, yet so fluid it molds to the shape of the vessel it's poured into. For much of this century, particularly from Franklin Roosevelt on, the men wore the office, borrowed its majesty to wage war or make peace. Modern Presidents cannot count on that mystique. Now the office wears the man. In the age of 24-hour news channels, it is the man we recognize and judge, which is why Reagan's power was utterly different from Carter's, Clinton's from Bush's.

Some have argued that because Clinton has survived with so few Americans approving of his character and so many approving of his performance, it shows that it is possible to govern without moral authority. The logical response is to question not whether Clinton has moral authority but whether he has governed. Over the past six years there have been triumphs he can legitimately claim--his partnership with Congress on welfare reform, balancing the budget, raising the minimum wage, promoting peace in Ireland and elsewhere. But this year, when his moral authority was systematically stripped, we could not help being aware of the governing he didn't do despite spectacular opportunities. He could dispatch planes to Iraq but not troops, nothing requiring broad debate and consent. He could not trade pet projects with Republicans in Congress--I'll give you school vouchers if you give me the patients' bill of rights--because he could not afford to annoy any Democrats. And so, in the end, there was no tobacco deal.

Yet when you talk to the people who in recent weeks turned out for the President's enormous rallies, they express awe and gratitude for his mastery of the material. Someone, for whatever selfish reason, at least appears to care about their life and truly loves the game, knows the numbers, enjoys the ideas and proposals so much he soaks and wallows in them--even if they only affect life at the margins. It may be that the scandal forced him to focus as never before, to justify the White House motto, "Just going about the work of the American people."

In the weeks ahead, we'll get to see how serious Clinton is about forgiveness and reconciliation. He's always best when he's in a fight, which left people wondering whether he'd have to go find himself one. By the time he had finished his Rose Garden remarks, the storm clouds were rolling in. It was raining by 4, drenching the false spring. Already there was no shortage of people in front of microphones arguing over who should be most ashamed of his or her performance. But if the President had any hope of getting all parties to the peace table to save what's left of their reputation, he at least had to appear generous in victory.