I
TO the great majority who knew Senator Kern as he appeared in court, in social circles, in the free and easy environment of convention and campaign, his geniality created the impression that he always preferred company to solitude. To the comparative few who knew him in the routine intercourse of daily contact he was exactly the opposite—one of the most reticent of men, given to the keeping of his own councils. Few men have disclosed their mental processes to a less degree. Throughout the greater portion of his life, when confronted with a problem, personal, political, or professional, he retired within himself and in solitude worked it out. At one period of his life when called upon to reach a decision on any matter of moment it was his practice to shut himself in a room alone and for hours debate the pros and cons over a game of solitaire. As his problems multiplied in numbers and grew in importance after his election to the senate this reticence intensified, and his tendency to withdraw within himself became more pronounced. At times when he was grappling with one of his numerous problems he would relax into sociability in moments of his own choosing, but he was passionately intolerant of intrusion at other times. He would often lock himself up in his committee room at the capitol, but more frequently he would hide himself in his private room in the Senate Office building, which was not connected with his public offices and inaccessible to the uninitiated by telephone. He alone carried the key and even those occupying the most confidential relations with him dared not intrude upon him there. Here he would sometimes shut himself in for hours at a time.
In this connection it is proper to emphasize a mental trait with which he was probably not popularly credited—an extraordinary power of concentration. Engaged in working out a problem he was able to bring all his mental powers to bear upon just that, and put all else beyond his consciousness. At such times he was utterly oblivious to anything that might be transpiring about him, and nothing could divert him.
It was not his habit to rush speedily to conclusions. He viewed the problem, always a political one after he entered the senate, from every possible angle. He weighed all reasons, for and against, with scrupulous care, brushing aside all prejudices, and coldly analyzing all possibilities. And he seldom acted at once on his first conclusion. Time and again he would return to this debate within his own mind, in the meanwhile guarding his mental processes from all others.
This called for another trait which he possessed to an infinite degree—an untiring patience. Others might act on prejudice or impulse—he never did. And while others were often confusing the issue he was seeking the solution. And this quality was quite as prominent where his own personal interests were involved. Nothing could startle him into inconsidered action. He took his time. He was in the habit of permitting his political enemies to exhaust their ammunition while he, unmoved, apparently indifferent, almost oblivious to the attack, withheld his fire. And very often the result was that he did not think it worth while to fire. Frequently he struck, when forced to fight, with such subtlety that the wounded adversary did not know whence the blow had come. He could hear of these attacks with scarcely any show of curiosity, and almost invariably without comment, unless it be in the nature of a witticism. He first gauged his foe and planned his battle accordingly—aiming unerringly at the vulnerable heel.
There was something almost uncanny in his ability to ignore an attack and appear to be in ignorance of an affront.