They had a dream. Democrats longed for Hillary Clinton to run against Donald Trump as the genetic Republican, from now until the November election, looking to make him the face and the voice of the party, no matter who the nominee turned out to be. No matter who won, Trump would be the heart and the soul and the id of the party, the only one in the world who could make the party of Clinton and Sanders seem rational.

The Republicans had a nightmare, and it turned out to be the same thing: Trump screaming, Trump shouting, Trump kicking the furniture, Trump wetting the bed. For Republicans, having Trump in the race was like finding a rabid bat in the house; the problem is trying to coax it out of the building without being bitten. The concerns were the fear of getting down to his level, of looking too petty, of feeding his always large conviction of grievance or of seeming to diss those of his followers who had real concerns.