When Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton were together, she saw in him two starkly different people. The one she knew best was his "Saturday night personality" -- the teasing, racy man who concocted cover stories to sneak his young mistress into the White House. But she also witnessed what she called the president's "Sunday personality" -- the religious, remorseful man who fought to quash his adulterous impulses.

Clinton, too, had long recognized his competing sides, she told Ken Starr's lawyers. In the third or fourth grade, the president told her, he began to split into two people. There was the good son who tried to please his mother, and there was the boy who lied.

Lewinsky didn't seem troubled by the paradox. An explanation may lie in documents released by Congress last week: In her own personal letters and grand jury testimony, Lewinsky paints a self-portrait full of contradiction.

There is Sleazy Monica, who flashed the president her underwear. Jealous Monica, who got huffy when she saw a photograph of the president and his wife acting romantic. And Manipulative Monica, who demanded help with a job search in exchange for her silence.

But other personalities have been less visible until now: Sweet Monica, who became protective of a White House steward she felt was mistreated by others. Yearning Monica, who sensed Clinton was pushing her away and wrote a friend that she "want [s] to hug him so bad right now I could cry." And Childish Monica, who scrawled hearts on cards to friends and was squeamish when testifying about the steamier details of the affair.

The picture grows muddier as those who know her weigh in:

To the president, she would become "that woman." To his staff, she was "the stalker." To her friend, she was a "lovebug." To her ex-lawyer, she was a "little girl."

So who is Monica Samille Lewinsky?

As we await the release of more evidence, here are the clues so far.

About Linda Tripp

There is something Monica wanted the grand jurors to know; something that was important to her.

She didn't keep the blue Gap dress as a souvenir.

She was going to get it cleaned and wear it on Thanksgiving, in front of her skinny cousins, the ones Monica always tried to look skinny around. But Linda Tripp told her she looked fat in the dress, and lent Monica one of her jackets instead.

Linda Tripp -- now that's someone Monica can barely stand to talk about.

They were close, once. Just read their e-mail to each other: "Boy, I look scary today," Monica typed on March 5 of last year. "People might think it was Halloween. Oh, well, [Clinton] should ... get my tie today. I sure hope he likes it. Make me feel better and tell me it's really pretty, o.k.?"

Tripp's response: "I am knot (ha!) particularly into ties but ... yours was stupendous ... a total hit."

Monica worried about the tie, worried about her weight and worried most of all about her relationship with the president. When he suggested she bring him pizza as a cover for an illicit meeting, her first instinct was to make sure she got the kind he liked. Vegetable or meat? she asked.

And yet, for all of her insecurity, she acted in a breathtakingly bodacious fashion: The thong flash; the grab at the president's crotch as he worked a crowd; the nine courier packages she sent him during a two-month period after he had broken off the affair.

She wanted to get Clinton's attention, but she also got his staff's.

They called her "the stalker." They said she wore provocative clothes. And when Monica moved from her intern job into a

paying one in the Office of Legislative Affairs, one of Clinton's top aides asked derisively, "They hired you?"

This fed her insecurity, but hardly slowed her pursuit. She scoured Clinton's schedule and showed up hours early at public appearances to nab a spot near the front, where he could see her. Once, after he mentioned he was out of zinc lozenges, she bought a new supply and stood in the rain for half an hour, waiting for his secretary. And on a Sunday afternoon in 1996, she paced 16th Street, hoping Clinton had gone to church that day and would drive by her on his way home.

When questions arose about their relationship and Clinton went on television to deny an affair with "that woman," Monica was glad: "That was the best thing to do," she told the jurors. After all, they both wanted to keep the affair hidden.

And yet, she felt conflicted about this, too. A part of her longed for him to stand up for her.

"... By saying something nice, he would have taken back every disgusting, horrible thing that anyone has said about me from the White House," she said. "And that was what I wanted."

Different images

By now, Monica's introductory gesture to the president is infamous: She lifted her jacket and showed him her underwear.

It's hard to reconcile that image with this one: A juror asks Monica to detail one of the White House trysts.

Monica: "Uh ---"

Juror: "I understand ---"

Monica: "Oh, my gosh. This is so embarrassing."

Juror: "You could close your eyes and talk."

Another Juror: "We won't look at you."

Monica: "Can I hide under the table? Uh -- I had -- I had wanted -- I tried to -- I (she starts to describe the encounter) -- oh -- this is just too embarrassing. I don't --"

She is humiliated by the thought that her dad might read her testimony.

Sometimes sexual aggressor, sometimes little girl -- she flits in and out of roles even in the same paragraph, as in this November 1997 e-mail to a friend: "It is an overcast, Portland-like day today and I just want to crawl into my beddy-bye and read, nap and relax. (Of course, having a boy there too wouldn't be so bad!!!)"

She buys her friends cards with cartoons on them, and scrawls X's and O's by her signature. She chronicles her flirtations, but her letters and e-mail messages reveal her longing to settle down: "... I have developed this interesting e-mail friendship with one of the Australians I met in Princeton," she writes a friend in October 1997. "His name is ... Chris! Wouldn't that be funny if I married a Chris, too!"

And, a few weeks later:

"It sounds like such a wonderful fantasy to me. To be with your husband -- as part of a couple with other couples doing couple-y kinds of things and having fun."

She doesn't lack for male attention, but she feels something is missing.

"It might sound silly, but sometimes I just really want somebody (a male) in my life to just physically be with -- you know, hugs and stuff (I don't only think about sex)," she wrote a male friend.

His response so angered her that she forwarded it to a mutual friend.

"... The bottom line," he wrote, "is you need to be happy with yourself FIRST (whatever town you're in) before you can be happy with you and someone else together... You're too consumed with chasing others rather than improving yourself and having that attract others naturally."

Monica was furious: "CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS CRAP!"

Then she added: "(ok. I know what he said is true but ...)"

Everything means something

Wherever Monica went, she saw reminders of her relationship with the president. Everything seemed to carry special meaning: The movie "Titanic," the musical "Rent," the Sarah McLachlan song lyrics that went, "I know I can't be with you... I don't know how to let you go."

Monica also read messages in Clinton's ties -- was he saying something by wearing one she had given him twice in a week? When she decided to hide some gifts he had given her, she handed them to his secretary because that was a signal, too: "... turning over some of these things was a little bit of an assurance to the president or reassurance that, you know, that everything was O.K.," she testified.

She relied on such intricate codes more and more in the months after Clinton broke off their relationship, when their face-to-face contact was limited. But she also employed one other method of communication. She wrote to the president often, although she didn't send every letter. Some hint at sexual secrets:

When thanking him for a book of poetry, she wrote: "Whitman is so rich that one must read him like one tastes a fine wine or good cigar -- take it in, roll it in your mouth, and savor it!"

Some threaten:

"Dear Sir... [If I am not returning to work at the White House, I will] need to explain to my parents exactly why that wasn't happening."

Some are giddy:

"Dear Mr. P, I must admit it ... I am a compulsive shopper! I saw this tie and thought it would look fabulous on you. ... I just love the hat pin. It is vibrant, unique, and a beautiful piece of art. My only hope is that I have a hat fit to adorn it (ahhh, I see another excuse to go shopping)!"

Some lay on guilt:

"I will never forget what you said that night we fought on the phone -- if you had known what I was really like you never would have gotten involved with me. I'm sure you're not the first person to have felt that way about me."

Some are desperate:

"Please do not do this to me. I feel disposable, used and insignificant. I understand your hands are tied, but I want to talk to you and look at some options. I am begging you one last time to please let me visit briefly Tuesday evening."

And yet, for all her desire to see the president, when he finally suggested a meeting in late 1997, she turned him down. Their conversation is telling.

On Dec. 17, 1997, her phone rang in the middle of the night. The president wanted her to come to the White House so he could give her Christmas gifts, he said. He had many gifts waiting for her -- in fact, it would be the largest collection of presents he'd ever given her at one time.

During the conversation, she testified, the president also mentioned he had seen the witness list for the Paula Jones case and Monica's name was on it.

Could she come to the White House that weekend? he asked. He would call his secretary, Betty Currie, and ask her to come to work to let Monica in.

Monica was always more than eager to see him, but this time, she turned him down. She did so because of something the president didn't seem to take into consideration: Currie's brother had just been killed in a car accident. "I told him that was out of the question, to -- you know, let Betty be," she testified.

An unfinished picture

So who is she?

Maybe she doesn't know yet. After all, as she reminds the grand jurors, she is still young.

"Can you guys call me Monica?" she asks. "I'm just 25. Please."

A juror responds, "But you'll always be Ms. Lewinsky, whether you're 25 or 28 or --"

L Monica cuts the juror off: "Not if I get married," she says.

She is looking into the future, and she can see one more identity ahead.

Pub Date: 9/30/98