History is a stern judge, and stingy, too. As Ronald Reagan once observed (quoting Clare Booth Luce), "no matter how exalted or great a man may be, history will have time to give him no more than one sentence. George Washington - he founded our country. Abraham Lincoln - he freed the slaves and preserved the Union. Winston Churchill - he saved Europe."

What will George W. Bush's single sentence be?

The answer is scarcely obvious. History often shows little respect for the most cherished opinions of contemporaries. Washington, to be sure, was first in the hearts of his countrymen and still sits near the top in most historians' presidential rankings. But Abraham Lincoln, while mocked in his day as an inept rube, and so divisive a figure that his election triggered a civil war, is now all but unanimously acknowledged as the greatest American president. Churchill's colleagues long thought him a dangerously errant dreamer, and British voters in 1945 unceremoniously turfed him out of No.10 Downing Street as a thank-you for winning World War II - but he is today universally regarded as one of the towering world-historical figures of the 20th century.

Examples abound of history's nasty habit of undoing real-time opinions: Herbert Hoover, a famed humanitarian huzzahed into the White House in 1929 as the most competent man of his era, but ever after loathed (not altogether justifiably) as a heartless bungler in the face of the Great Depression; Harry Truman, scorned as a pipsqueak so befuddled that "to err is Truman" became a common taunt, but later elevated to the higher levels of the presidential pantheon as the original architect of America's ultimate victory in the cold war. Such examples warn of the perils of predicting history's final judgments, especially before all the facts are in.

Yet the urge to anticipate history's verdict is nearly irresistible. And the history that President Bush has already made provides some basis for at least a provisional assessment.

Begin with Bush's exceptional life path. How did a fun-loving party animal and amiable but unremarkable governor bulk himself up to become a heavyweight presidential contender? How did a pampered scion of Northeastern citadels of privilege like Andover, Yale, and Harvard successfully repackage himself as an earthy Texas populist? How did such a famously inarticulate man so magnificently find the words to bind up the nation's wounds after the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001? All these wondrous transformations suggest that Bush's biographers may well adopt a story line reminiscent of Shakespeare: the morphing of callow Prince Hal into the legendary monarch, Henry V.

Just as the mutations in Bush's personality will pose a challenge to his biographers, so will transformation be a theme that future historians may well put at the center of their appraisals of his presidency.

Bush ran for office as a conciliator, but has governed as a polarizer. (He even threatens to divide his own house, catering to his conservative base on social issues like abortion and gay marriage while outraging the traditional right with big-spending programs like prescription-drug coverage.) He heads the party traditionally associated with strict fiscal discipline, but (like Ronald Reagan), has persuaded a Republican Congress to pass budgets that hemorrhage red ink.

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