The man himself—­I find that nobody quite knows him now.  Alas!  I wonder if he quite knows himself.  Temperamentally very shy, having lived too much alone and far too much with women (how I wish two of his daughters were sons!) this Big Thing having descended on him before he knew or was quite prepared for it, thrust into a whirl of self-seeking men even while he is trying to think out the theory of the duties that press, knowing the necessity of silence, surrounded by small people—­well, I made up my mind that his real friends owed it to him and to what we all hope for, to break over his reserve and to volunteer help.  He asks for conferences with official folk—­only, I think.  So I began to write memoranda about those subjects of government about which I know something and have opinions and about men who are or who may be related to them.  It has been great sport to set down in words without any reserve precisely what you think.  It is imprudent, of course, as most things worth doing are.  But what have I to lose, I who have my life now planned and laid out and have got far beyond the reach of gratitude or hatred or praise or blame or fear of any man?  I sent him some such memoranda.  Here came forthwith a note of almost abject thanks.  I sent more.  Again, such a note—­written in his own hand.  Yet not a word of what he thinks.  The Sphinx was garrulous in comparison.  Then here comes a mob of my good friends crying for office for me.  So I sent a ten-line note, by the hand of my secretary, saying that this should not disturb my perfect frankness nor (I knew it would not) his confidence.  Again, a note in his own hand, of perfect understanding and with the very glow of gratitude.  And he talks—­generalities to the public.  Perhaps that’s all he can talk now.  Wise?  Yes.  But does he know the men about him?  Does he really know men?  Nobody knows.  Thus ’twixt fear and hope I see—­suspense.  I’ll swear I can’t doubt, I can’t believe.  Whether it is going to work out or not—­whether he or anybody can work it out of the haze of theory—­nobody knows; and nobody’s speculation is better than mine and mine is worthless.

This is the game, this is the excitement, this is the doubthope and the hopedoubt.  I send this word about it to you (I could and would to nobody else:  you’re snowbound, you see, and don’t write much and don’t see many people:  restrain your natural loquacity!) But for the love of heaven tell me if you see any way very clearly.  It’s a kind of misty dream to me.

I ask myself why should I concern myself about it?  Of course the answer’s easy and I think creditable:  I do profoundly hold this democratic faith and believe that it can be worked into action among men; and it may be I shall yet see it done.  That’s the secret of my interest.  But when this awful office descends on a man, it oppresses him, changes him, you are not quite so sure of him, you doubt whether